Bandit’s Cantina opened at 5:00 sharp, like a Broadway Play curtain. The staff took great pride in preparation and execution as if a bank president was standing, glaring at his pocket watch, as Marko hit the lights and unlocked the mighty oak doors.
The bar was restocked and spotless due to Nyla’s bubbly efforts. Mandy and Tina cleaned and prepped the tables, and the Chinaman, on the job for hours, set up the free Happy Hour buffet with the quiet assistance of his Mexican staff. Marko tried to hide remnants of the previous night, unknowing of what was to come.
Christine stumbled from Marko’s Cantina apartment, swung her sensitive pussy and pulsating legs over her Softail and rode out of the parking lot. Her rumor control communication system kicked in before she filled her fatbobs at the Mobil station.
Marko noted uncommon hustle and bustle outside the Cantina and pulled the leaded window curtain aside. Bikes and cars were fighting for parking spots in the lot. The line at the door spread passed the motorcycle-only parking area. The crowd was teaming with chatter, in a tenuous manner, as if they might witness crumpled, bullet riddled bodies on the floor. A local television station van pulled up at the curb. Several reporters knocked incessantly at the door for their inalienable rights to the story.
Marko dealt with reporters in the hills of Afghanistan, on movie sets and during the O.J. Simpson trial. He was a writer, in his own training right, but he detested the clamoring, imperious antics of the press.
Earlier he called Frankie, an ex-drug addict, to help with the door. Frankie, an odd sort, the son of a bicycle riding alcoholic who frequented the local seaside dives and worked odd jobs for booze, lived a similar existence. Marko was confident that he would take the job of perceived power with overt concern. He’d stand the post like a fresh boot camp graduate and never budge from his duties.
The doors opened to a hushed crowd, as the mariachi band set up on the stand. Frankie, a short, stubby non-descript man with a ruddy, over toasted face and scattered brownish hair, wore a Cantina staff parka with pride and demanded that the younger crowd display appropriate I.D.s. The word was out about the shoot-out and the patrons scanned the room hurriedly looking for clues. Marko dealt with the press who wanted interviews with Bandit. “He’s not on the premises,” Marko answered, but their insistence continued.
“Can you tell us what happened,” a reporter demanded.
“I’m sorry,” Marko said, “I wasn’t here. That portion of the staff is off today.”
“That’s bullshit,” the dapper reporter dug, “maybe I should run a security check on you?”
“Maybe you should,” Marko said and pushed him aside. “I have paying customers to look after.”
The Cantina quickly filled to over-flowing. Patrons found the freshly spackled bullet holes in the plaster, blood stains and bullet chipped furniture.
The night rocked on to record sales, behind mariachis with steel and acoustic guitars and wide brimmed sombreros strumming spicy love songs to the inquisitive crowd. The Cantina was jammed and all the new patrons craved to know Bandit’s whereabouts. Locals knew that Bandit sightings were rare occurrences.
As the night wore on Marko had his hands full. The rumors of violence induced fights between usually peaceful men. The air was teaming with curiosity and brazenness. Arguments flourished, and alcohol inflamed the heated demand for answers. As the booze settled in, some accused Marko and Bandit of making up the violent tale as a marketing ruse. Frankie handled the door and Indian John and Marko manhandled the sloppy quarrelsome patrons.
Just after 10:30 in walked another reporter from the Long Beach Grunion Gazette. She was knockout. She stood 5’6″, and could’ve been an Anne Klien model outta Vogue magazine. The tan linen suit fit her like a condom.
Her hair was deep amber brunette that curved inward to cupped her soft features. She stood in the doorway to the packed rough and boisterous Cantina crowd, as if the virgin Mary had entered the fray to calm the wild wanton throng. She scanned the rocking ruffian mob confidently. A small engraved plastic badge, above a panting right boob, reflected her stature to Marko from across the room. He approached her, but she scanned his security professionalism with disdain and strolled across the floor of the saloon toward the island bar in the back. Her eyes were set on Nyla who scurried back and forth behind the teak counter filling drinks, sliding bottles of beer, slapping half drunk customers, who argued as if they had pistols strapped to their hips and were itchin’ for a gunfight.
She focused on the cotton gathered top that Nyla’s sizable tits bubbled over and Nyla’s open jubilant demeanor. She handled every customer as if each was a long lost cousin. She took their curvature stares with aplomb, their jokes with brother-like glee, their overt passes with madam confidence and warm love-interest offers with compassion. There was something else, a point of intrigue that immediately attracted the reporter from Long Beach. The way Nyla looked at and dealt with the saucy waitresses, especially the redhead Mandy.
They shared a knowing bond, like co-workers should, but there was something more. The way Nyla’s eyes danced over Mandy’s curvaceous body and they touched delicately at the waitress station exchanging drinks, checks and cash.
Within 5 feet of the bar Nyla spotted the dress approaching over the husky shoulder and vest belonging to a massive biker, who was working on his fifth margarita and beginning to lean heavily on the bar. He was taking up two stools at the corner. For a dark second in the dim rebellious Cantina her eyes met the blue pools heading her way. “A lesbian reporter?” Nyla pondered.
“Hey ya big battleship,” she hollered at the biker over the steel guitars and chatter.
He turned slowly, his eyes focusing in slow motion. “Yeah baby?” he muttered.
“Move over,” Nyla ordered. “Got a classy customer comin’ in for a landing.”
The battleship on two engineer boots tried to turn and assess the new client and do as he was ordered. He stumbled, hung onto the bar and slid sideways to the right to free up the corner stool.
Nyla licked her lips and wished she had a mirror and lipstick handy. She knew better than to be overt and moved down the bar to assist other hollering patrons. The woman strode up to the bar confidently, set her purse on the edge of the thick teak and followed Nyla’s bouncy ass toward the other end of the bar. She waited patiently watching Nyla’s bubbly banter, her body and the soft curve of her neck. Two long minutes later behind the barroom clamor Nyla returned. “What can I get ya?” Nyla bounced.
“Corona and a lime,” the girl said and Nyla was caught off guard. She fully expected a chardonnay order.
“Comin’ right up,” Nyla said thinking that the bombshell in the shear blouse was trying to fit in. She’d find out to what extent? “What brings you to this nasty-assed joint?”
“My editor sent me to do a feature on the shoot out,” the reporter said drilling Nyla with her hot gaze.
“You’ll need a shot of Commerativo to go with that beer,” Nyla coerced, “to build the right ambiance for the story. What’s your name?”
“Rachel, from the Grunion Gazette,” She said extending her manicured hand. Nyla looked her over for the first time, holding her hand for obviously long moments. She was hot from her soft ruby lips and carefully carved eyebrows, to that delicate pointy nose and warm cheek line. Her smile danced across her lips unlike most ardent unscrupulous reporters exhuming every nasty detail. She was confident but not hardened. Nyla’s eyes danced cautiously along the soft line of her milky cleavage, as she removed her jacket, then through the shear blouse to discover that Rachel wasn’t wearing a bra, but just a thin silk camisole, that barely concealed the dark rose color of her ample nipples. Nyla could sense an immediate warmth in her loins.
“Can you tell me about last night?” Rachel said, downed the hearty shot and backed it with a gulp of Corona.
“Not now,” Nyla protested responding to demands from the other end of the bar. “I’ll be back in a sec…” Nyla exchanged her empty shot glass with a full one, then disappeared down the bar.
By 12:30 the crowd was beginning to disperse. Marko helped riders stow their bikes and obtain rides home. Frankie was off the door, patrolling the parking lot. Bits and pieces of jaded information slipped from the staff and the crowd was duly entertained with the saga. The story would grow in proportions over the years to come.
Rachel finished her forth shot and second beer, completely mesmerized by Nyla’s bartender antics. “You’ve got to tell me about last night,” She slurred her words through a sexy giggle as Nyla leaned over the deep sink in front of her revealing her succulent bouncy cleavage. “My boss will kill me, if I don’t come back with a story.”
“You like talking to women, don’t you?” Nyla said.
“That’s not all,” Rachel gasp at the sight of Nyla’s hardening nipples and the soft calling of her perfect jiggling orbs.
Nyla gently removed Rachel’s hand from her blouse and sucked each fingertip.
“You’ve heard all the stories from the guys,” Nyla said taking one of Rachel’s wet fingers and moving it along the top of her breasts, then slipping the warm hand between them.
Melting, Rachel stood and removed her Chiffon blouse and tossed it on the empty stool beside her. “I need the story from your lips,” Rachel whispered tasting her tingling fingertips.
“Speaking of lips,” Nyla kidded, “how about your own story. That’s old news, let’s make our own. Did you drive tonight?” She teased Rachel pouring another shot with a wry grin. “How about a story you’ll never forget?”
“I took a cab. How about a shot for you,” Rachel said taunting Nyla.
Nyla glanced at the Indian Motorcycle wall clock and hollered, “Last call for alcohol!” Then she grabbed the woven tassel on the ship’s bell and rang it ardently.
“I’m ready,” Nyla said grabbing the dark bottle of Kahlua. The Cantina crowd dwindled to half-a-dozen stumbling stiffs. But Nyla brought them around as she ducked under the bartop and came out the other side. A couple of inches shorter than Rachel she yanked her off the barstool and kissed her.
The mariachis were long gone, but the jukebox spilled a comforting Four Tops tune throughout the quieting saloon. Nyla embraced the woman thoroughly, kissing her softly on the lips and turning the haunting brunette until her back was to a checkered red and white table cloth covered table. Mandy saw what was happening and cleared the table. Rachel sat on the edge, stunned by the kiss.
She pulled at the skirt’s edge and poured the dark sweet liquor into the woman’s succulent navel and buried her face in the soft container warming the liquid desert.
Marko rushed over and chased off the last of the drunks being drawn to the action. “It’s closing time boys, show’s over,” he ordered firmly herding them toward the door.
“Not bad, I could use another one of those,” Nyla said between kisses to her stomach.
“Please,” Rachel murmured in a euphoric daze, and pulled her top above her tits.
Mandy stood by giggling, hoping she’d get a turn.
Nyla tipped the bottle and poured the syrupy liquid from her navel to her nipples. Mandy’s mouth watered as Nyla’s tongue traced a warm path up her torso to her substantial boobs. Nyla, continued to kiss her way up the girls silk-like body to her neck, then leaned over Rachel and pulled her top free to dangle one of her sizeable tits in the girls mouth. Rachel sucked and kissed hungrily.
Rachel reached up and hugged her around the neck. Panting heavily she tried to talk as Nyla pulled her to her feet. Mandy pouted as they headed toward the long carved stairway to Bandit’s den. “Nyla, can I help?” she called.
Rachel turned and looked at her with a sinful smile of approval, then back at Nyla, “I’m not that drunk, sweetie. If Nyla doesn’t mind, the more the merrier.”
Just another night in the Cantina.
