"Steak pie. What the fuck is in your ears, Hen? I want a fucking steak pie." I said slowly. And controlled. And over again.
"I'm really sorry but could you just write it down?" the dumb waitress asked again. I once had dyed blonde hair, but at least I had the dignity to give some brains to the colour; this bitch was living up to Dumb American Blonde with her idiocy, long legs and perky tits.
"Maybe I can help," he said quietly and I watched and waited to be amazed he explained politely to her, "She's asking for the steak pie."
"Oh!" the waitress smiled dazzlingly, "Right. I'll just get that for you."
She wasn't looking at me, she was looking at him: with his blond hair tucked behind his ears and in need of a wash, broad shoulders sporting a blue tartan shirt and a black leather vest-jacket. I was finding 98% of all fucking Americans looked and acted ridiculous.
"Oi!" I barked at her. She stopped walking to the kitchen and turned without a smile at me, "And a drink wouldnae go amiss."
"What?"
"A coke, love." I abbreviated for her.
"She wants a coke." he provided.
"Wit a fuckin' tit." I commented, "And how the fuck do your ears work?" I asked him, a little on the aggressive side.
"I recognise the accent. Scottish, right?" he said.
"Aye." I smiled, at last someone with something akin to brains. "Have a seat, I'll buy you a pint: I'd love to actually have a conversation with someone."
He looked me up and down, out the window and back to me again. I've not much to say for my appearance: I'm a red head with long dread locks to my waist but for two chunks shaved out of either side of my head, one pierced lip, eyebrow, nose and two black pugs in my ears that really help define the paleness of my skin, I'm a little boney around the legs and wrists but no one calls me skinny with my natural (believe it) G's and gravity defying ass (not to the extreme I'll add). I wore a longsleeve black top that day with only feathers on the print at front and a pair of skinny jeans under my thigh high brown boots.
"If you're looking for sex," I added, "Don't count on it." I promised with a grin. What can I say, I can't keep a straight face at the idea people want to fuck me. Only in America did I let that happen, and that's only because I blew my every dollar and needed to convince people (yes, men and women) to give me a ride or somewhere to sleep and shower. He sat down with a grin and asked,
"What's your name?"
"I don't like they way you Americans pronounce it." I said instead.
"So what do I call you?"
"What do I call you?"
"Jax."
I reached my hand a across the table for him to shake which he did as I supplied, "Call me Bones."
"Bones?" he looked like he might chuckle. I didn't crack a smile.
"Get used to it."
The waitress returned, "What can I get you sir?"
He ordered beer, but that bottled shite everyone drinks in America. It's probably just as well, because the heads on the pints I had had were gash.
"What brings you to America?" He asked politely, watching her go.
"Family. Who do you know that's from my neck of the woods?"
"Just a friend. What about family brings you here?"
Curious bugger he was, "My mum handed me a stack of dollars and a one way ticket on a plane. I didn't argue: it's the most she's ever given me."
"So you're out here in a diner in the middle of nowhere?"
"Yeah well, I pissed the cash away having a good time for a couple of weeks... Party's over."
My food came.
"I'll leave you to your dinner." he excused himself and I waved, thanking him again for playing translator. As he walked, I studied the back of the leather jacket: son of a bitch was part of the same motorcycle club my goddamn uncle was. I ran out before he could get on his bike.
"You're SAMCRO." I said as I slowed behind him. He paused buckling his helmet, turned and pointed to a patch on the side of his jacket,
"That's what the patch says." he said derisively.
"I mean, er, my family is SAMCRO - the family I'm here for. In fact, your Scottish friend is probably who I'm looking for."
He swung his leg over his black beast of a bike, settled, and then slouched back on the bike and folded his arms. "Is that so?"
"We called him Chibs."
Recognition darkened his features, "Does he know you're looking for him?"
"Hell no," I scoffed, "Can I get I get a lift or not?"
"A lift?"
"You know, a 'ride'?" I impersonated the accent well.
"What about your dinner?"
"I need family not food, asshole."
He chewed his lip.
"I can offer sexual favours but I'm sort of tired of them. You'd be in for a half hearted experience."
That made him smirk as he held out a spare helmet. "Forget it. You can hop on, Bones."
I climbed on and managed not to be clumsy about it. I tightened the helmet.
"Hold on tight." he said and I could hear the grin. I leaned in, aware of my breasts pressed into his back and my legs spread wide behind him: I had been a slut of late but it's not how I liked to present myself. Still, I soon forgot about my insecurities as we tore up the highway.
