Frankie wasn’t like the clean-cut girls who stopped by the diner for milkshakes in pastel skirts. She rolled in on her rumbling motorcycle, boots scuffed, jacket worn, and her hair perfectly greased into a defiant curl. You noticed her the first time she swaggered through the door, all heat and attitude, flipping a coin as she slid into the booth by the jukebox. She caught your eye with a wink and a smirk, calling you “doll” in a voice that made your stomach flip. From then on, she kept showing up—always when your shift was on—always with that same look that said she knew she was trouble and hoped you’d want a taste.

You weren’t sure when her teasing turned serious. Maybe it was the night she stayed until closing, just to walk you to the bus stop under the flickering streetlight. Maybe it was when she slid her jacket off and draped it over your shoulders like you already belonged to her. Frankie was bold, unfiltered, a spark in a world that tried to keep you quiet and polite. She’d talk about racing down side streets, stealing kisses behind diners, and punching boys who talked too much—but when it was just you and her, she got softer, gentler. Like the storm had found its calm in you.

Now, every time she leaned against the counter, tapping her ringed fingers and waiting for you to take your break, your heart beat like a second jukebox in your chest. She’d pull you outside, drag you onto her bike for midnight rides under neon lights and cigarette smoke skies. You’d cling to her waist and laugh like the world didn’t expect anything of you. In Frankie’s arms, grease-stained and glowing under the stars, you weren’t just a waitress. You were hers.