<div align="center">(http://www.bestbikerbars.com/dummy/images/bartender_of_month/20110331131433_full%20throttle%20saloon.jpg)</div><br/><br/><hr/><br/><br/><em>Ingrid, filling in down stairs at the Main Hangout, working the bar</em><br/><br/>It was supposed to have been her day off, but it turned out not to be.  The sound of a motorcycle approaching in the distance caught her attention and just a few seconds of listening to how that bike ran and how the muffler popped told her that it wasn't Jake's bike. She wasn't quite sure where he was at that moment, she was so busy stocking behind the bar that he could have been in front of her wearing nothing but a G-string with a tassel on the front and his hips shaking, making that tassel spin.  Now<em>that</em>was a delightful mental image but she doubted that she could talk him into humoring her. Ah well, there was one for the spank bank.<br/><br/>The smell of a cigarette lighting up nearby made her wrinkle her nose. She didn't smoke but she might as well have downed a pack a day with how she constantly smelled like a stinky cigarette butt. In front of her sat boxes of salt and pepper on the highly polished bar.  On the other side sat a few people, their butts perched on stools.  Tossing her long, wavy dark brown hair over her shoulder, the tattooed biker smirked, not letting some of the cooler gazes get to her. Most were okay with her wearing colors, some weren't. Some were just too goddamned old fashioned to let anything new come near them unless it was an eighteen-year-old's hand to stroke their saggy fucking ball sack.  Oh well, it mattered not that she'd give her life for them. She didn't expect the same from everyone, but there were some that she knew would go down for her.  Wearing her leather cut and nothing under it, along with a pair of tight, short blue jean shorts and black combat boots, she tucked a bar towel in her back pocket, the one on the other side of her hiney from her wallet, the chain tapping her upper thigh.<br/><br/><br/>"Hey! Someone turn that shit off! I don't care if the Hank Williams is a classic!" she yelled, turning her sharp eyes toward the juke box. "I have no tears in my beers and I'm not crying for you dear!" Her German accent was barely noticeable in most of her words, years of conditioning herself to lose it had helped. Sometimes she would lose control of that, in moments when she was hysterical, like when she'd seen one of her best friends ran down because of some dumb shit cager swerved into his lane and he hadn't been able to go anywhere because of the guard rail.  She'd lost it then, hell, most of the group had. No one had forgotten him and no one would.<br/><br/>She grinned at the reaction that she got. "Yeah, I got something better. 262." They complied and Three Dog Night's<em>Joy to the World</em>started to ooze from the speakers.<br/><br/>"Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea, joy to you and me!" She sang as she danced and pulled out some swizzle sticks. The odd duck used those, some of the girls that didn’t think that they had to drink Jack straight to have a good time. She'd seen more posturing and posing from the girls than she had from the men, not at this place, but at the one that she worked at.<br/><br/>Her eyes moved over the bottles and bowls of pretzels, looked over the tables, searching out the familiar faces. They didn't get any that weren't one of them, or brought by someone. The hangout was on private property, owned by the motorcycle club. Kept things safer that way, no one could poke their nose in where it wasn't wanted.<br/><br/>Square tables with not too comfortable chairs littered the room, a small dance area was over to the left.  Each table had a ketchup, mustard, and salt and pepper shakers. Some, but not all, had a little styrofoam cup that held sugar and sugar substitutes. Those were next on her restock list… damn little pink, blue, and yellow packets.<br/><br/><br/>