Pump Two: An Erotic Romance Novella
Pump Two: Chapter 2

For the next week, my shifts go by smoothly. Aside from the odd seedy comment from creepy guys and rowdy drunks, the job itself is laid back, and it gives me time to draw.

Freya’s uncle has given me permission to create artwork on the gas station walls. Unfortunately, my creative streak can only focus on drawing one thing: a self-portrait of myself in the reflection of a biker’s helmet. The same biker that I served last week. Dramatic, I know.

He had casually mentioned buying a coffee the next time he visited, and I am still clinging to those words as if they’re a sacred promise.

My peace is disrupted by the bell, which rings when an angry-looking man who just paid for gas marches back into the store. I quickly put my sketchbook away and watch as the customer slams his meaty hands on the counter. My eyes trail up his hairy arms, landing on his face that’s wrinkled in disdain.

This is not going to be good.

“Your pump’s fucking broken! You trying to scam me or something, girl?” His voice raises, and I feel my body begin to fill with panic. Being shouted at is one of the worst feelings.

“The pump is broken?” I ask weakly, slowly placing my pencil on the counter.

“Didn’t you hear me the first time, sweetheart?” The nickname should be comforting, yet it has the opposite effect when laced with the hostility in this man’s tone.

“I can come and have a look, or you can go to a different pump. You paid in cash, so I can refund you if you would like?” I suggest, silently hoping that he’ll opt for the refund.

“I want to use the pump I’m parked at. I’m not moving my truck until it’s working!” he yells, leaning forward and pointing his finger at where his truck sits idly next to the pump. Is this really the hill this guy wants to die on?

I suck in a deep breath and idiotically step around the counter. I’m not one for confrontation, but in this situation, I’d rather just try to solve the issue and get this asshole to leave. His gaze drops to my outfit, and he rolls his eyes.

“Fucking women,” he mumbles.

I’m literally wearing a crop top and low-rise jeans. I itch to make a comment about me being the closest he’s ever been to a woman and instead, choose to ignore his words to go outside and look at the pump. When I test it, it’s obviously broken because the handle is stuck. Still, no reason for this guy to be mad, though. It’s hardly the end of the world.

“I can try to call for help, but it’s three a.m., and I don’t know how long it’ll take for someone to come out. I highly suggest using one of our many other pumps,” I explain, my tone laced with artificial kindness.

He steps closer, no doubt to intimidate me. It’s obvious that he dislikes my answer and will probably continue to refuse any of the well-working pumps around us.

“I don’t want to use the other pumps,” he hisses, specs of saliva flying under the gas station lights. Blood is roaring in my ears, and I feel a little uneasy now that it’s just me with this increasingly aggressive guy in the middle of an empty gas station.

The nearest place is a closed mechanic store about a mile down the road. With no sign of nearby help, I stand my ground as I feel myself gradually losing patience with the customer’s stubborn, misogynistic attitude.

“Well, you’re going to have to,” I grit back. Go me.

We go back and forth for a while until I hear a distant roar of a motorcycle. I silently pray that it’s the hot biker from last week showing up to conveniently come and save me from this unwinnable battle that I’m having. I’ve been constantly snapping my head to look out of the gas station window whenever a bike passes—a humble reminder that I need to get a grip.

“You’re fucking useless!” the angry guy shouts, yanking me out of my thoughts. His shining, bald head turns red, and he looks almost cartoonish. I expect steam to start blowing from his ears any second now.

He continues to back me up across the parking lot until I’m nearly in front of the gas station door. I refuse to react to his words and feed into his disrespect, so I stay silent.

This makes him furious.

He storms toward me, and I step back. I keep stepping back until my heel knocks against the ground, causing me to lose my footing and topple backward.

The loud, high-pitch sound of tires screeching echoes through the station lot, just as my backside hits the ground. My breath is knocked out of my lungs, and I squeeze my eyes shut upon impact.

I take a few seconds to gather myself. When I open my eyes again, the angry guy is now standing over me. He’s still rambling about the one pump he’s set his heart on, his wretched voice continuing to invade my ears.

“Get away from her,” a deep, recognizable voice sounds from behind him. I crane my neck and see a familiar leather figure. Biker Guy. I release a deep sigh of relief.

“You don’t want to defend this cunt, man. She’s fucking useless, can’t even fix the pump I’m using.” I flinch a little at the name I’ve just been called. Cunt, seriously?

Biker Guy tips his head to the side as if inspecting the man like an ant under a magnifying glass. His helmeted head looks slowly around the station.

“I can see several other pumps that work.” The tone of his voice doesn’t shift, but I can sense some anger.

“That’s not the fucking point!” the customer spits.

“Use another pump or leave.” Biker Guy steps closer to the man, his helmet making him look like some sort of Gotham-esque vigilante. The customer clenches his fists and starts walking away to his truck, turning to glare at me after a few steps.

“Dumb whore,” he barks and spits on the ground in front of him.

He tries to use his shoulder to shove past the man I have now dubbed as ‘Biker Guy’, and a gloved hand reaches out, grabbing the customer’s throat. Biker Guy brings his helmeted head so close to the angry man, that his scared, rapid breathing causes a small part of the helmet’s front exterior to fog up.

“Call her a name other than the one on her name tag, and I will shove one of those gasoline pumps so far down your throat, you will bleed from the inside out,” Biker Guy snarls. All initial calmness has completely evaporated from his being. “You’ll never be able to look at a pump the same way again…or be physically capable of complaining about one.”

Holy fuck.

In one hard shove, he propels the customer so far forward that the momentum causes him to slam against his truck. Biker Guy doesn’t even watch the man drive off. Instead, he walks directly to me and crouches down to check my body for injuries. He uses a gloved finger to tap under my chin, forcing me to close my gawking mouth and look up at him.

“You good, Sweetness?” I nod in response, unbelieving that I might’ve actually manifested this. He helps me to my feet, and I inspect my hands which are cut up a little on the palms. “He hurt you?” Biker Guy says roughly whilst holding my wrists to inspect the grazes.

“The ground hurt me. I’m lucky the customer didn’t lay a finger on me.” I feel his lingering gaze on my body before he slowly guides me into the gas station.

With my stinging hands and bruised ass, I hobble alongside him until I’m behind the cash register. Quickly, I write an ‘out of order’ notice for the gas pump. I wince as the pen presses against my very minor injuries. Biker Guy places his hand over mine to stop me from writing. His gentle touches in the past few minutes make me realize that he has shown more tenderness toward me than my ex-boyfriend did in the entire year that we were together. The thought causes me to laugh softly. This seems to pique Biker Guy’s curiosity and he tilts his head at me.

“Go clean up,” he says firmly. I scurry away to the bathroom to do exactly that. When I return to the register, I see Biker Guy outside working on the pump. Not only has he saved me from a crazy customer, but he’s also trying to fix the pump for me. Who is this man?

I tear my gaze away from him and search behind the counter for a first aid kit. As I use an alcohol wipe to clean my small cuts, I continue to watch him through the window. He still has his helmet on, which strikes me as odd. I can’t imagine how impractical it must be. He faces my direction whilst he works, his head occasionally lifting up in my direction. I sit behind the counter as stiff as a board, trying not to react when his attention shifts to me.

“Fixed your pump,” he says when he finally enters the store after messing with broken machinery. His words are sharp as if he’s annoyed. Is he annoyed at me? I feel like I’ve inconvenienced him massively tonight. I fidget a little and clasp my hands together self-reassuringly.

“Thank you for your help and sorry about that customer. He was horrible. Thank god I only have three hours left.” I laugh nervously. Biker Guy still doesn’t take his helmet off, and I’m staring awkwardly at my reflection again. His hands clench, leather gloves fisted in what I can only assume is frustration. I stare at his helmet like my brain will just magically conjure the most accurate image of his face.

I’m so invested in this stranger that fawning over him almost feels dirty. The bar for men is clearly in hell because all it takes is a deep voice and basic human decency for me to form a crush.

“How can I help you today?” I ask, moving on from checking him out.

“Ten dollars on pump two…” he pauses as if unsure and partially turns to face the aisles. “And coffee.”

I nod slowly, confused about his hesitance.

“Sure, the machine is over there.” I point to the self-fill hot drink machine. I know a lot of people come in for coffee, but for some reason, deep down in my gut, I wish he had come here to see me again. This gas station is out of the way, located on a barely used road that spans the distance between two neighboring towns. I almost refuse to believe that he could end up here a second time unless by choice.

He strolls over to the coffee station like he has nothing better to do with his time and fills up the cheap, cardboard cup before walking back to pay.

“Eleven-fifty, please. For the gas and drink.” He pulls out a twenty. “Oh, and I’m not keeping the change this time,” I say in a light joke to ease the tension between us.

“Keep the change, Sweetness.” He’s called me that nickname again, and my stomach swarms with warmth. Definitely not mad at me. If he was, he wouldn’t have called me that, right? Unless I’m severely misjudging my social interactions.

“No—”

“I’ll make you keep the change whether you like it or not.” He makes a show of looking at my name tag by placing his hands on the counter and leaning forward. “Violet.”

“I’d like to see you try,” I respond, trying hard not to show any reaction to the way he says my name.

Are we arguing or flirting? Whatever it is, I like it.

Love it, actually.

I place the money on the counter and push it toward him. He grabs it and I step back, relieved that he’s willingly taken it. Then, he’s moving. Not to exit the station…but toward me.

Deliberate slowness guides his steps as he encircles the counter, his presence warming my back. I’m rendered motionless, seizing up when he shoves the money into my back pocket. I release a gasp as my already low jeans are pushed even further down. Then, just as fast as he came behind the counter, he’s back in front of it. The nerve of this guy! I can’t tell if he’s brooding, flirty, or just completely unhinged.

All I know is that I’m furiously turned on and surprisingly unafraid.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it!” I exclaim. Biker Guy lets out a laugh so deep, my body vibrates at the tone.

“I hate turning down challenges.”

“You’re not meant to come behind the counter. This is for my safety to protect me from customers like you,” I lecture, tapping my nail against the plastic separation screen.

“Okay, I promise I won’t come behind the counter again. Sorry for breaking your little rule, Violet,” he drawls.

“It’s a big rule and no, I wasn’t challenging you. I was just…” I don’t have an explanation because I know I was somewhat challenging him. I just didn’t think he’d follow through.

“I’m not one for following rules, but I’ll keep that in mind for next time if it keeps you satisfied.” Once again, he mentions a next time.

Just like that, the butterflies in my stomach have gone from a gentle flutter to a frantic beating of wings. The words I’m supposed to reply with don’t come, and I opt for nibbling at my bottom lip instead. For some odd and unknown reason, I’m attracted to everything about this guy; from his voice and helmet to the way he says certain words. I haven’t even seen his face yet.

“Oh, and thanks for keeping the change,” he says.

With that, he flicks up the visor on his helmet. Impenetrable green eyes look back at me. They’re framed with moderately thick, brown eyebrows, and the skin around them doesn’t look aged. I’d probably put him in his mid to late twenties. Thank god.

There’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze before he turns. I stare at his back as he walks out of the door, leaving his coffee behind. I continue to watch him fill up his bike until he rides off into the night, giving me a small salute through the window when he departs.

My back pocket burns my skin at the memory of his hand, my insides screaming and yearning for this man I don’t even know. It’s not a lot, but I know sex appeal when I see it—or in this case, feel it and hear it. Maybe it’s the biker getup with the leather jacket. Either way, I feel a bit out of sorts.

I immediately take out my sketchbook and start drawing his eyes out of fear that I’ll forget them. I sketch for the rest of my shift, trying to get his features as accurate as possible. It’s only when I clock out a few hours later that I’m convinced I can hear the low hum of a motorbike for my entire journey home.