<strong> Francesca "Frankie" Satriale</strong><br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/b/b0/HollyJames.jpeg)</div>The moment I saw that prissy cunt walk into the bar, I hated her.<br/><br/>She was young, blonde, and pretty … and instantly reminded me of all the spoiled young, blonde, pretty girls who’d ever treated me like shit in my life. And I could tell she was spoiled and rich because of her pink leathers, and her nails.<br/><br/>The leathers were fucking<em>awful</em>– they were ridiculously cutesy, probably something she’d bought in some upscale boutique somewhere … just looking at them made me want to hurl. Her nails were perfect – impeccably manicured, smooth, pristine … and I would’ve bet anything those nails never did a day’s worth of hard work in her whole life. I looked idly down at my nails – ragged, torn, always a hint of motor grease under them than I could never get rid of, no matter how much I scrubbed my hands – and knew I could never, ever be like her.<br/><br/>It was her smile that pissed me off the most, though. She wandered happily up to the bar with this earnest, happy smile on her face, like she was about to go on some grand fucking adventure or something. Like<em>ooh, what excitement! I’m going to slum it with the bikers!</em>And then she’d have a nice glass of wine, tell everyone how rich  she was, listen to anything we had to say with a sad, solemn nod and a look of pity … and then ride off to her expensive hotel suite that mummy and daddy had paid for, and have a good laugh with her friends about the fun time she’d had with those dirty peasants in the biker bar.<br/><br/>Fuck that noise.<br/><br/>I’d been sitting in the back of the bar, just watching the stupid cow sit down at the bar and start talking to Shannon. I didn’t say anything at first … I just sat in a busted chair with ripped leather upholstery, smoking a cigarette and thinking about how much I hated rich fucking blondes who thought they were better than me.<br/><br/>Finally, I got up. I only wore a dirty pair of jeans and a grease-stained guinea tee-shirt – I’d been working on my Ducati all morning, reworking the exhaust timing of the engine, and I hadn’t bothered showering yet. I walked over to the bar, and took a seat on a barstool next to the bitch. I grabbed a bottle of Scotch from behind the bar, poured myself a glass, and turned my attention to her.<br/><br/>“Nice leathers,” I said to her. “Did Daddy buy them for you, rich girl?” I took a drag from the cigarette, and grinned at her as I blew a nice cloud of smoke right in her face.