5 Bikers for Valentines

Neither scent was particularly pleasant. But, that was Raya. Take her or leave her.

“What in the hell is that?” I asked, scrunching up my face.

She pushed the container over to me, and I pushed it right back.

“It's hummus,” she said with a laugh, and when that explanation didn't help, she continued, “Chickpeas with some garlic and tahini.”

I looked at her blankly. She might as well have been speaking Chinese to me. She scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“You've seriously never had hummus?” she asked as if I'd just told her I'd never seen a car before.

“Sorry, I'm not familiar with vegan foods,” I said. “I mean, if that actually qualifies as food.”

“It's not just for vegans, silly,” she said, dipping a piece of celery into the mush and holding it in front of me, making pretend airplane sounds like parents do with a toddler. “Try it. You know you want to.”

I shook my head. “No thanks, it's a hard pass,” I said. “I think I'm allergic to chickbeans.”

“Chickpeas, silly. Not chickbeans – oh, whatever, more for me,” she said, munching on the celery loudly, a wide, goofy smile on her face.

“Working in the back again tonight, eh?” I asked.

“How can you tell?”

I motioned to her attire. Instead of the typical waitress uniform – which consisted of a short black skirt and a white crop top – Raya was wearing a maxi skirt and a sleeveless shirt. Which meant there was no way she was working the front of the house.

“Yeah, after I protested about the uniform, they shoved me to the back,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Typical patriarchal bullshit. But at least I still have a job, so there's that.”

“You'd prefer to wash dishes over wearing this uniform?”

“Hell yeah,” she said with a laugh. “I don't need to be eye candy for thirsty, handsy men to pay my bills.”

“If only all of us had that option,” I muttered.

Dishwashing might pay Raya's bills, who like Tommy, had parents who could help her out – and often did. The real money in this place, however, came from tips – which you only made if you were working out here on the floor.

Raya's newfound distaste for skimpy clothing came only recently, when the owners decided the wait staff needed to show even more skin than we had before. They'd switched out our regular tops, which weren't exactly conservative to begin with, for crop tops and shortened the skirts by several inches, making it impossible to bend down without showing off your panties. Which, was probably the idea. Gotta keep the men drinking and gawking at us.

That was when Raya moved to the back of the house and got stuck washing dishes. I couldn't say that I blamed her some nights. I often felt like a piece of meat by the end of my shift. Not to mention the fact that some of the damn grope-monkeys who came through the door thought the price of a beer entitled them to a little squeeze of my ass. Yeah, no thank you.

The trouble was, I needed the tip money. It was the only way I was going to keep things afloat on my end. So, as much as I would have loved to have told the owner to take his crop tops and micro-skirts, and shove them, I didn't have that luxury.

“So, did Mr. Handsome come in last night?” Raya cooed, munching on another piece of celery.

“That rich guy, you mean?”

“Uh yeah, the one who only has eyes for you, girly.”

“He doesn't have eyes for me.” I rolled my eyes. “He has a girlfriend. She's even come in with him a few times.”

“Doesn't mean he's not into you.”

“Sorry, not into that free love, polyamory thing,” I said. “And I highly doubt his girlfriend is either. She seemed like the possessive, bunny-boiling type to me.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug. “Free love is a beautiful thing. You don't know what you're missing, babe.”

We both looked at our phones at the same time.

“Shit,” I grumbled. “It's time to clock in.”