Wrote this little piece in response to this prompt:
The mariachis fell silent when she strode into the cantina. Voices trickled toward silence, but T-Bone, Big Dog, and Wolf shouted at the camarero and at once he brought them their cervezas.
She drew alongside the three burly men, their steel-studded black jackets still caked in dirt, their beards like steel wool. She spoke in decent English. “Outside. They are your motorcycles?”
“Yeah, baby,” said Wolf. “Why don’t ya saddle up alongside us? The night’s on Big Dog here.”
She tucked her hair behind her ears and blushed.
“How much?” asked Wolf loud enough that, when he saw the old man across the bar lower and shake his head, yelled, “What the fuck’s it to you?”
Hurrying toward the three, the camarero gave each a shot and a chaser on the house. He raised his arms. The mariachis continued and the drinking resumed.
She didn’t give a price when she sat down; T-Bone leaned back in his chair and adjusted his sunglasses.
She got them talking and got them drinking and in getting them drinking she got them bragging.
Big Dog’s the one who spilled the beans first and T-Bone, propping his elbows on the table, leaned forward and grinned. “But it was my idea.”
She reached out and stroked his arm. “You are a bad, bad man.”
“Bad to the bone, baby, bad to the bone.” He looked first to Wolf. “There ain’t nobody badder.” He lifted his sleeveless leather jacket and showed her his gun.
They drank into the night and she danced with all three in turn and before they left together, Big Dog tossed the mariachis a wad of cash and took their hats.
T-Bone, Big Dog, and Wolf laughed and stumbled down the street and she, running silent through the night, turned a corner, and beckoned them forth: “Come get it you big bad men.”
And come and get it they did; their hands already at their flies when they saw emerge from the dark alley a tall, old woman, her hair long and grey, eyes ghost white grinning before them. She said something in Spanish and turned them into the dogs they were.