I didn’t realize I was doing it, but it wasn’t a surprise. “I grew up listening to this stuff,” I admitted. “We had a record player and played music like this all the time.”
“Same thing with me,” she said. “I grew up listening to old school rock music. My dad loved listening to a good part of what’s in that jukebox. The songs got stuck in my head before I was old enough to know who sang them. The rest of what’s in there are my personal favorites, they’re just from the same era.”
“He must be proud of you,” I said. “Having this bar and loading that jukebox with all his favorites.”
“Wouldn’t know,” she spat.
Her demeanor did a 180-degree turn in an instant. Obviously, she and her father didn’t have a good relationship with one another. I couldn’t believe she didn’t speak to him about the bar or mention the jukebox. “You haven’t told him about—”
“I haven’t talked to him in almost ten years,” she said as if it were no big deal.
A wave of relief washed over me. I hated to think she had parents and didn’t have a healthy relationship with them, but I was relieved that her father wouldn’t simply show up in the bar one day out of the blue.
“Too bad you two don’t get along,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed in opposition. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “A child ought to have a relationship with their parents, if at all possible.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “Unless those parents are lying, stealing, unreliable, unfaithful pieces of shit.”
It was time for me to change the subject back to music. “The other night I heard the Rolling Stones. 100 Years Ago, and Heartbreaker. Goat’s Head Soup has got to be one of my favorite albums.”
“Mine, too,” she said with a smile. “Mick looks like Katharine Hepburn on the cover.”
I tilted my head toward the jukebox. “That song a minute ago? Can’t You See? That’s another one. I love that song.”
She laughed. “My dad hated it. I love it. Not because he hated it, but because I love the lyrics. The flute in the beginning and the end are awesome, too.”
“What about 30 Days in the Hole?” I asked.
“Pfft.” She waved her hand in my direction. “One of the best songs ever written or performed. Steve Marriott’s voice is incredible. The best thing about it is that the rhythm is different in each of the three verses. In the first verse, there’s 16th notes on the hi-hat, and a standard boom-chick rock beat between bass and snare. In the second verse? Swung 8th notes on the shaker, with a jungle type beat on the toms, and cymbal splashes. Then, the third verse has quarter notes on the hi-hat and a boom-boom-chick rock beat on the bass and snare. Who does that? Humble Pie, that’s who. The second-best thing about it is that it’s about getting busted for having the equivalent of a joint and spending 30 days in jail for it. Marriott thought that was ridiculous. One of his friends got thrown in jail, and he wrote that song in protest. Here we are fifty years later and nothing’s changed. Law enforcement is still overzealous, and the punishment rarely fits the crime.”
I studied her for a moment. I pushed myself away from the bar and faced the crowd. “Bar’s closed, fellas,” I shouted. “Tonight’s drinks are on me.”
“There’s almost two hours before closing time,” Gray said. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t need everyone hovering over me while I’m trying to talk,” I said. “Drives me fucking nuts.”
She gave me a funny look. “Nobody’s hovering over you.”
“They damned sure won’t be now, will they?”
She rolled her eyes and walked away. After taking a few minutes to thank each person before they left, she began cleaning the tables of clutter.
Without thinking, I stood up and helped her. As I tossed an armload of trash in the garbage can, she threw me a rag soaked in disinfectant.
“One food you can’t live without?” I asked while wiping a table.
“Easy.” She looked up. “Tacos.”
I was so hungry I could eat a horse. “Tacos sound good. I haven’t eaten since noon.”
“Why not?”
“We rushed to the airport, thinking security was going to take a few hours and it didn’t. We sat in the fucking terminal for two hours.”
“Why didn’t you get something to eat when you were in the terminal?”
“I don’t eat food that sits under a lightbulb.”
She laughed. “Neither do I.”
I thought I was the only one with such idiosyncrasies. “Oh, really?”
She crossed her heart with her index finger. “I swear.”
“Want to go grab some tacos?” I asked. “There’s a great place by the clubhouse. They’re open until two am.”
She smiled. “I’d love to.”
We finished cleaning the seating area and met behind the bar at the same time. I raised my cleaning rag. “Where do you want this?”
She extended her hand. “I’ll take it.”
“Want to follow me?” I asked.
“Where?”
“I thought we were getting tacos?”
“Actually.” She draped the rags over the side of the sink. “I’d like to ride on the back of your bike.”
I laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “Go ahead. I’ll just make something when I get home. I’ve got plenty of time.”
I gave her a shitty look. “You’re not going to go?”
“Not unless you let me ride on the back of your bike,” she said. “I know it’s a hardtail, but it’s got a one-up seat.”
“Fuck it,” I said. “I’ll go alone.”
I cleared the edge of the bar and was two steps toward the door when she gave protest.
“Seriously?” she asked, her tone laced with aggravation. “You’re just going to go? Without me?”
I shrugged. “I’m hungry.”
“You’re not going to let me ride on your bike?”
“Nobody rides on my bike.”
Right, wrong, or otherwise, I’d never had a woman on the back of my bike. It wasn’t an “etched in stone” rule, I’d just never met a woman that I felt had any business on the back of my bike. It was an ongoing joke with the club.
She walked in my direction. “Okay. Fine Have it your way with the bike.” She stepped within inches of me. She folded her arms over her chest. “You can ride with me.”
I spit out a laugh. “I don’t ride in cars.”
Her face contorted. “Ever?”
“Ever.”
“So, it’s follow you, or nothing?”
“Yep.”
“If I’m going to follow you, I need you to do something for me,” she said flatly.
Her coercive tactics were back in full force. I smirked. “What’s that?”
She looked me dead in the eyes. “Kiss me.”
No different than allowing a woman on the back of my bike, I considered kissing to be taboo. Short of kissing my aunt on the cheek and a few drunken kisses in high school, I hadn’t kissed a woman. I damn sure hadn’t kissed one in the fifteen years that I’d been in the MC.
I was exhausted, hungry, and didn’t feel like arguing.
“C’mon, I’m starving,” she said, closing her eyes as she spoke. “Kiss me, already.”
She did have fantastic lips.
So, I did the unthinkable.
I kissed her like doing so was going to save me from myself.
13
Gray
Our night together was short, simple, and satisfying. I wouldn’t have guessed something like that would have ever happened. Not with Price McNealy. Then again, I wouldn’t have predicted the kiss, either.
I’ve never placed a tremendous amount of value in kisses. People claim the quality of a kiss can predict what a relationship might hold, or that a good kisser is sure to be fabulous in bed. The world I lived in was filled with men who could curl my toes with a kiss yet could
n’t keep my interest in bed long enough to perform the act. Conversely, there were a few men who left me speechless in bed and kissed with the precision of a Saint Bernard puppy.
Price’s kiss was difficult to categorize. It had been twelve hours since our embrace, yet the kiss remained in the forefront of my thoughts. How it earned that top spot was somewhat of a mystery.
It was aggressive, but not overly so. Although I would categorize it as a sensual kiss, it wasn’t one that filled me with the irresistible desire to proceed with sex. In the end, it left me confused and wanting more. I knew better than to ask. When—and if—the time was right, he’d kiss me again.
We talked over street tacos that were small in size and big on flavor. Surprisingly, Price’s drink of choice to accompany the food was Coca-Cola. He swore the restaurant’s product—which was bottled in Mexico—was different than American Coke. Eventually, I succumbed to his desire to have me try it. Just as he claimed, the drink was the perfect match for the restaurant’s specialty, tacos al pastor.
I let Price decide the topic of our discussions. Food and music appeared to be his limitations. He was a private person, so I didn’t pry with questions regarding his life’s accomplishments, desires, or goals. At least not yet.
The night was a brief glimpse into the life of a man who hid behind an expertly crafted mask. I wasn’t certain what lied beneath it, but I was willing to devote the time needed to find out.
Obsessed with the idea of eventually peeling away Price’s disguise, I stared blankly at the bar’s demolished kitchen.
“It’ll be easier if we do it this way,” Panzer assured me. “Believe me.”
The shocked look plastered on my face was impossible to hide. “I’m not doubting you,” I said, surveying the room with wide eyes. “It’s just…”
The kitchen had been stripped of everything. The floor was bare, the wall studs were exposed, and the false ceiling was in a pile outside the open back door. Two men were sweeping the floor. The airborne dust made it difficult to breathe.
“This isn’t going to be too expensive?” I asked. “More than you were thinking?”
He removed his gloves and shoved them in his back pocket. “It might look like hell, but it’s going to save time. Someone ‘donated’ the kitchen equipment,” he said, using air quotes when he said the word donate. He gestured toward the bare wall. “A few of those sheets of sheetrock were moldy—”
I arched an eyebrow. “Someone donated the kitchen equipment?”
“Sure did.”
“Do I need to be prepared for the cops to question me someday about where I got it?”
“Someone donated it,” he insisted. “It’s legit.”
“It’s been paid for?”
“It’s being paid for as we speak.”
I was impressed. “Oh. Wow. Sorry. Please continue. You were telling me about mold.”
“The sheetrock had to be removed, because it was moldy. They weren’t moisture resistant board, anyway. Whoever did this work didn’t know what they were doing.”
“I’m sorry it’s turned into such a mess.”
“I’m telling you, it’s easier this way.” He glanced around. “We’ll probably be done before next weekend.”
My heart lurched into my throat. “Are you…you’re serious? Next weekend? Seven days from now?”
Nodding his head in the affirmative, he gave the kitchen a once-over. “I’m thinking so.” He looked at me. “You planning on doing the cooking?”
“Absolutely.”
“What are you going to do about the bar?” He gave me a serious look. “You can’t wait tables and cook at the same time.”
“I can until I get someone to wait tables,” I said. “I don’t think I’ll trust anyone to do the cooking. I can’t decide.”
“I’d go the other route.”
“What do you mean?”
“Being a good waitress isn’t as simple as keeping cold beers on the tables,” he explained. “It’s more about personality than anything. You can teach a cook to follow a recipe, but you can’t teach someone to have a good personality.”
I hadn’t given it a tremendous amount of thought, but Panzer was right. A personality couldn’t be taught. I needed to find someone with good looks and a great personality. It was either that or hire a cook. The thought of having someone else cook made me itch.
“I suppose so,” I muttered. I took another look at the disaster before turning toward the swinging door that led to the bar. As excited as I was about the kitchen, I was more interested to learn who was hiding behind Price McNealy’s mask. “I’ll stay out of your way. Let me know if you need anything.”
Price had promised to come in but gave no idea when it might be. Eager to provide him unfettered access to me and to the bar, I unlocked the front door and programmed the jukebox to play a few of my favorite songs.
Thirty minutes later, while the Allman Brothers Band’s Melissa played, the sound of an approaching motorcycle caused my heart to race. A few seconds after the sound of the engine’s exhaust ceased to shake the walls, the front door swung open.
Price stepped inside. “Seen Brisco?”
I tried to hide my excitement. “Not yet.”
He glanced around. “Fucking place looks deserted.”
“I opened a little early.”
“Must be out dicking around with Carp,” he muttered on his way to the bar.
“Why don’t you call him?”
“Don’t know where my phone is. Thought maybe I left it here.”
“I haven’t found a phone. Did you lose it last night?”
He shrugged like it was no big deal. “Hard saying. Hate carrying that fucking thing, anyway. He’ll find me sooner or later.”
“Want something to drink?” I asked.
He shot me a look. “Well, I sure as fuck didn’t come in here to talk.”
I wanted to lure him out of his foul mood. I opened a bottle of Budweiser and pushed it across the bar. “I had fun last night.”
After I spoke, I wished I would have said something like, I enjoyed last night. There was nothing I could do about it, but I had fun sounded juvenile. I mentally crossed my fingers and hoped he didn’t call me childish.
Price reached for the bottle of beer. “Had fun, huh?” He took a drink. “Don’t know that I’d call it fun. Enlightening is more like it.”
Relieved that I wasn’t attacked for having fun, I stuck to my guns. “I thought it was fun.” I reached for a bar rag because I didn’t know what else to do. “Do you ever have fun?”
“Fun?” An awkward period of silence followed before he responded. “I don’t think so. There’s a handful of things I enjoy, but I don’t know that anything I’m doing is fun.”
“You should try it,” I said.
“Having fun?”
“Yeah.”
“Little kids have fun. I’m not a little kid anymore.” He took a drink of his beer. “Haven’t been for a long time.”
Other than the stern look he often wore, Price didn’t show a tremendous amount of emotion. I wondered how much of his detached demeanor was due to losing his parents at such a young age.
“Entertaining,” I said. “I should have said it was entertaining, not fun.”
“Why?” he asked. “Was it fun? For you?”
I couldn’t lie. “It was,” I said, attaching a reassuring nod to my response.
“Call it fun. Don’t water it down to entertaining to suit me. If it was fun, call it fun.”
“Okay,” I said, relieved that he seemed to be okay with my description of the night. “It was fun.”
He took another drink of his beer, and then another. With the empty bottle dangling loosely from the web of his hand, he gazed blankly at a jar of pickled eggs.
I had no idea where his mind was, but I took the opportunity to admire him. His face was lean, but not to the point of being gaunt. A week-long beard of stubble covered his tanned jawline. His black hair was streaked wi
th gray that blended in so well it could pass for being a professional balayage.
“When I was seven, we took a trip to Texas,” he said, still staring at the jar of eggs. “It was summertime. May or June. Maybe July. It was hot, that’s the point.” He shifted his eyes from the eggs to me. “The air conditioner in the car wasn’t working at the time, and we almost didn’t go because of it. My mother bitched up a storm, saying if a man made a promise, it had to be kept.”
He almost smiled during his recollection of the events.
Almost.
He took a drink of beer and then continued with the tale. “So, we took off in the hundred-degree heat without air conditioning. They wouldn’t tell me where we were going, just that when we got there, it was going to be fun.” He shook his head. “The trip was awful. Las Cruces, El Paso, all the way through west fucking Texas, Odessa, Midland. Drove through every damned one of them on Highway 10, on our way to Fort Worth. Back then, all the banks had signs that displayed the time and temperature. Each time we drove by one, I’d stick my head out the window, waiting for it to flash the temperature. I was hoping for 85 or 90, but they were all something like 105, 108, 113.”
I exhaled an exaggerated breath. “I can’t imagine driving across the country without air conditioning in that heat.”
“It was so fucking hot I felt sick.” He sipped his beer as if doing so somehow provided him relief from his youthful cross-country trip. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, we pulled up to this ratty-ass little motel about midnight and my dad took me with him into the office or whatever it’s called. When we walked in, it felt like I’d walked into an igloo. There was an old-school thermometer on the wall at the end of the desk in one of those little metal displays that were used for advertisements. It said ‘Murphy’s Tires’ or something on it. You know, the long glass tube that has red shit inside of it?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, that fucker was sitting halfway between 70 and 80. So, I looked at the guy on the other side of the counter and asked, ‘are the rooms air-conditioned?’” He paused and raked the hair away from his face with his hands, making a production of doing so. “My hair was about twice this long at the time and matted to my head from sixteen hours of sweating like a Hebrew slave. I bet I looked like hot hammered shit. So, the guy laughs and nods his head. ‘Yep. They’re all air-conditioned,’ he said. ‘What do you think I’m runnin’? Some second-rate outfit?’”
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