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shook her. Only, Mama’s tumble drier did that because it was a cheap appliance.  
    It shook because it wasn’t made well enough not to. This thing, this bike, it vibrated with a precision, speeding up, slowing down. Always with a force. And a beat.  
    This machine rocked her clit and her pussy and her insides, it even made her breasts shake. And it did it like it meant it. The feeling of his ass, like steel balls between her shaking thighs did nothing to lower the effect.  
    That whole journey Angelica was freezing and almost edging at the same time. Most uncomfortable ride she ever had.
    Eventually, they came to a big roadhouse in a blasted crater of dry scrub. The red neon over the entrance said, HELL’S KITCHEN, BAR & GRILL . A heavy metal thud oozed out through the walls. Several bikes leaned outside, plus a number of pickups and a big container rig.  
    Probably like the truck the girls had been brought in from the Mexican border. They had been loaded in and out in pitch dark so it could be the same one for all she would ever know.  
    She saw Bogart look over a couple of the big, shining bikes, listen to them crackling as their engines were still cooling. Rocked one on its stand. He felt them, for the temperature she guessed, patted them like they were faithful horses, not just hunks of metal bolted together.  
    Bogart unlocked the cuffs and led her in through the bar doors. What lights there were behind the bar, on the stage or from the gambling machines around the walls. Red, blue or amber lights and logos flashed and flickered through the dark press of leather, denim, metal and hair.
    Still shivering from the ride, Angelica had to stop a while to warm up. Bogart waited with no sign of impatience. Through the shadows and the mostly male bodies, she saw two or three girls gyrate around the stage.  
    They wore sparkly heels. That was about all. Maybe some glitter and rhinestones. They slithered and writhed in easy reach of the customers.
    Sliding after Bogart through the crowd in the tiny cut-off denims with flaps of the tee hanging from her shoulders, she felt more naked than the dancers, and none of the bikers failed to notice.
    When they saw who she was with, they kept their observations to themselves and they all greeted Bogart like some emperor returning from a conquest.
    A cute, black-haired dancer crouched at the edge of the stage in front of a customer. Her big, round breasts pressed against him. Looking closer, Angelica saw that his cock was standing out and the girl had it wedged between her breasts.  
    She slid up and down, reaching under his balls. Some bikers were clapping time and stamped until the guy’s cock went off in the girl’s face.  
    She pulled on it and sucked on it to drain it dry, then she wiped all the cum from between her breasts and on her face into her mouth and licked her lips theatrically.  
    She showed her tongue to the crowd with a drooling hunk of spunk on it. She swallowed, licked her lips again and grinned. Her eyes shone and she shouted, “Who’s next?” and reached for the belts of the two nearest bikers.

Bogart steered Angelica to a room out back. Inside was a large empty desk with a wood swivel chair behind it, a black safe by the side, and two more chairs in front. A picture hung behind the desk of some men in another desert, in combat uniform. A tattered flag hung in a corner, and a big tapestry of the Savage MC colors hung on the wall opposite the desk.
    Bogart offered her a chair. Wouldn’t seem like much normally, would it. “Sit. Relax.” But it was the first straightforward act of kindness that Angelica had been shown since she was taken from her family’s village two days before. Or was it three days, she couldn’t tell any more. Now was the first time that she felt truly tired, too. He poured bourbon into two shot gasses. Handed her one of them.  
    Not something she would usually drink, but these weren’t usual times. It was sinking in that usual