Anita's Haven

books, thoughts, stories, poetry, interviews, writing


on 05/03/2015

Erica was sitting at the bar of a horribly notorious biker place, surrounded by about a dozen rough-edged metallic-loving ruffians who were ready to break the neck of just about any guy, or girl for that matter, who would as much as look at her the wrong way, let alone hurt her. She had just pulled the cheapest trick ever, but, hey – it’s not like she was getting paid big bucks for the job anyway. No bucks at all, to be precise. But no matter. She had managed to get in and had them on her side for now.



White T-shirt, black-lace bra, low-waist jeans and hard-soled black leather boots; dark-chocolate, wavy hair dishevelled and make-up slightly smeared, as if she’d just been kissing, and a rosy bruise just below her left eye (she would always swear by 24-hour red lipstick for all the amazing purposes it had)… and then let us get back in the story, just a bit into the past – she had spotted an unsuspecting, angry, buffed-up hunk on his Harley, just far enough from the bar windows and close enough to the bike-wash section – the perfect patsy for the introductory drama scene. He was one of those guys who sculpted themselves in out-of-town gyms, and then pretended it was all naturally grown in regular street or bar fights, or even doing some serious prison time. He was kinda good-looking himself, and if she hadn’t been working, she might even have taken the time to properly introduce herself (not for conversation, mind you, rather some more fun and mundane physical activity), but she’d have to pass this time… The poor guy had no idea who the crazy pms-ing chick was, but she sure as hell was ridiculous at first, suddenly beginning to wave her arms and hair all around him, and shouting something that made no sense to him. She may have been on the phone with a guy, but the language she was using would have made even his meanest, drunkest pal ashamed or infuriated. His initial laugh subsided though, as she started talking directly to him, dishing insults and cursing him for being a man in the first place, shoving her face and boobs into his face, he pushing her away, she crying and screaming… And he didn’t even know her, for Harley’s sakes! He was nowhere near sure what to do, till he saw the kids at the water pump smirk and decided it was time to cool her off…. Well, she’d actually given him the idea, screaming at him that he’d probably want to cool her off ’cause she was just too hot for him… The guy finally reached for the wash hose and began spurting water all over her clothes, then tossing the hose towards her and driving off… In the dust of his runaway ride, he started thinking he may just be better off taking the open offer from his gay gym pal than sticking with this hysterical female bunch just for the sake of sex.


Erica ventured a brief grin, more inside herself than for show, having gotten more than she was hoping for from her bulky patsy. She slouched a bit, covering her face in her hands and savage hair, and knelt desperately on the dirt-covered path, her clothes dripping into the ground… Pretending to be crying, she checked her boobs and realized her cool-off suggestion had worked just perfectly. The lace was on display through the cotton just enough to draw out the inevitable anatomic attributes she would be counting on soon enough… She promised to congratulate herself on her newfound sexuality and guts later, in case she survived this little adventure. True, she had always wanted to be a daring detective, but up until now, her mousy office uniform and dull office photocopying duty showed no signs of this promising potential…

‘Well, life’s full of surprises,’ she thought, puffing away a strayed lock of hair, getting up and wiping her hands on her thighs.

Looking the way she looked now, doing her little routine of a cheated, beaten and deserted chick, she entered the bar, sat and ordered a straight shot of whiskey. She lifted her wet T-shirt to wipe the tears from her face, letting in a sneak peek underneath the cotton, but very careful not to wipe the painted red-lipstick bruise below her eye… The sex-craving buzzards surrounded her in a second, their protective instincts settling on it with their primal instinct, and she was soon being comforted by all the rugged men in the joint, including the ancient bartender, who wore his heart on his shoulder tattoo, in his chest, on his sleeve and had just served it poured straight into her straight whiskey… Erica accepted their support, and kept waiting for more. Mentally, she was biting her nails and tapping the floor with her boot heel. Literally, she was casing the place, looking for someone particular, and pretending to be afraid her brutish ex-lover, who liked to hit her with the water hose, might come back at any time.

The back door eventually opened, and someone coughed, quite low but just loud enough to stiffle her occasional fake sobs. The buzz of the buzzards became quieter and they took a step back. Erica realized the floor boards were screeching in her direction, and she felt the hairs on her lower-arms electrify.
A wrinkle-gloved hand with long blood-red nails lifted Erica’s chin and she found herself face-to-face with the coldest blue pair of a woman’s eyes she had ever seen. The Madre was finally here. Another woman, a young one at that, was trying to get in on her turf and misguide her biking flock with a wet T-shirt and tight jeans?!? No way. She’d check the birdie herself before their drool flooded her bar.

Erica’s success smile hid itself deep beneath a thick layer of fear. She had managed to do what the police couldn’t. She had smoked the lioness out of her den, just as she had been hoping to all along.
And now what???


(I wrote this the other night, completely out of the blue. Just trying out a new genre, stepping out of my comfort zone. What do you think?)

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