True North: A Wordsmith Chronicles MC Standalone

by Harlan, Christopher

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m paying. No argument. Dinner is on me.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks.

  “I’m sure,” I answer. “Anyhow, I’ll have a little extra money as soon as I take a walk to the Bursar and get a full refund for this bullshit class.” We both laugh. “You like Mexican?” I ask. This is a test. Mexican might be my favorite type of cuisine in the whole world. It’s not important that she loves the same food that I love, but it sure as hell doesn’t hurt.

  “I love it,” she says. “The spicier the better.”

  I think I’m in love.

  I’ll wait to buy the ring and ask her the question that I know I’m going to ask her one day, but there’s no doubt in my mind that I just met my future wife.

  Five—Delilah—Now

  “. . .much worse than I thought.”

  “What do mean he’s missing?” My heart starts racing. The person on the other end of the line is Colton Chase, a romance author who is friends with James, and he just strung together a series of words that frighten and confuse me to my core. “How can he be missing? Weren’t you with him at the wedding?”

  I’m practically yelling. I don’t mean to sound angry towards Colton—he’s just the messenger, but everything becomes a little blurry after hearing ‘your husband is missing’. I couldn’t make it to Knight’s wedding because I was feeling really under the weather, so James went without me. Had I known what was going to happen, I never would have left his side, even if I was vomiting my whole inside out. When I saw Colton on my caller ID I expected that maybe James had drank too much or partied a little too hard—that would have been more his style—but I never expected a call telling me that he’s gone.

  Colton tries to calm me down, but that’s not happening right now. There’s just no way. “Tell me what happened? What do you mean other guys?”

  I listen to what he has to say, and the more he talks the more I get chills. North’s not in an MC any more—not officially. He left that life behind when we got serious, but he still has connections to a lot of the guys he used to ride with. But that’s not what I’m hearing on the phone. It doesn’t sound like his guys picked him up for some after wedding partying, it sounds like. . .

  “Wait,” I say, interrupting Colton. “What did you say the man looked like? The one who James rode off with? Describe him again, and please don’t leave any details out.”

  Colton does what I ask, but I regret asking with every word he speaks.

  As much as it doesn’t make sense, I know exactly who he’s describing.

  Oh my God. If he has James, then this is much worse than I thought.

  Six—North—Way Back When

  “I don’t fuck with the ordinary.”

  My favorite Mexican spot is like no other, because it really isn’t a spot at all, it’s a food truck.

  I don’t fuck with the ordinary—not ordinary people, and sure as shit not ordinary food. Way I see it, life’s too damn short to spend my time consuming common things. I need the food that hits my palate to be exceptional—the best—and what we’re about to eat will be just that. I hope Delilah likes it.

  “Wait, we’re going where?” She has to yell over the roar of my engine. I bring my bike everywhere, and right now she’s on the back of it, her hands wrapped around my waist as tight as I’d hoped they’d be. We’re stopped at a light, so I take a second to tell her what the plan is.

  “Joaquin’s place. A taco truck, actually.”

  “Who the hell is Joaquin?” It’s a reasonable thing she’s asking. I hope I’m not scaring her away.

  “Probably my best friend in this world. Known each other since high school. He’s the co-founder of our MC, the Mescaleros.”

  “MC?”

  I forget sometimes that people outside of my life experience exist. It’s been so long since I’ve dated a woman who’s not from this world of mine. “I’m sorry. MC stands for motorcycle club.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” I tell her.

  “Are you in a gang? Is MC code for outlaw biker?”

  From anyone else I wouldn’t even entertain this question, even though it’s one I get all the time. I suppose there’s some logic to the question. After all, when you see someone who looks, sounds, and rides like me, it’s plain enough that I’m not an accountant or banker. Once I tell people that I’m in a club their minds go to whatever movie or TV reference is the most convenient, and in most cases that involves an outlaw biker gang.

  “Not at all,” I answer, making a point to not sound annoyed or condescending. “That’s not the life I lead. Although there are many that do.”

  “That’s good to know,” she says. And that’s the last we speak about that topic. “So, you’re taking me on a date to your friend’s house, then? The non-criminal friend who’s in your MC?”

  “You got it.”

  “Cool, I’m down,” she says, giving me the look that she trusts my judgement. “But if I get kidnapped and killed it’s totally your fault. For all I know Joaquin is like, Ted Bundy, or something.”

  I laugh hysterically. I can’t seem to keep my face from smiling around this woman. “Two things wrong with that particular statement. First, Joaquin is about as far from Ted Bundy as a man can get.”

  “I’ll take your word on that one. And second?”

  “Second, I’d sooner die before I let anyone hurt you.”

  I know it’s a bold statement. I just met this woman, after all. Yelling at some prick English professor for being rude is hardly the same as defending her physically, but I’m not a man who minces words. That’s how I feel, and I’m not afraid to let her know. She doesn’t say anything, and I don’t know if I just scared the shit out of her, or impressed her more than she’s ever been impressed before. I guess we’ll find out which.

  Joaquin lives in a little house in a cul-de-sac not far from where we are now. His lovely wife, Ana, is a Mexican immigrant who cooks just about the best Mexican food this side of Sinaloa. Her food is real—not that fake bullshit you get in Tex-Mex restaurants, or the Americanized version of what Mexican food is supposed to be. The kind of cooking Ana does takes all day—it’s a cuisine that, when done right, requires you wake up when the rest of normal society is still sleeping, and it demands that you spend hours of chopping onions, chilis and garlic before you even begin the actual cooking. It’s my favorite food in the world, and tonight I’m happy to share it with Delilah.

  “Is this the place?”

  “Yup. This is it.”

  At first, I’m worried that she won’t like my idea of a first date. Or the company. Or the food. Or, maybe I’m afraid she won’t really like me. I did just meet this woman a few hours ago, and the fact that we’re about to break bread with one of my best friends seems a little far fetched, even for my craziness. But me and convention never got along—I’m not just a free spirit, I’m my own man in every sense of the word. I keep my own company on how things should be done, and tonight this is how I want to do things.

  Big Little Taco is the name of Ana and Joaquin’s food truck. It’s a taco truck, really, and it’s damn near the best I’ve ever tasted. This little food truck is their main source of income now that the auto shop of the Mescaleros has all but dried up. Ana’s cooking is second to none, and if this Delilah girl is going to hang around bikers, she might as well meet one of the best ones.

  She jumps off the back of the bike like a pro, never stumbling or asking to be helped off, and when she does I miss the feeling of her arms around my waist. I spot Joaquin outside having a smoke and head over. “You lazy motherfucker,” I yell. “Letting your wife do all the heavy lifting in that sweat box while you sit out here fucking your lungs up.”

  “Blanco!” he yells, dropping his smoke on the ground and giving me a hug. “She loves it in there, are you kidding me, I can barely pull her away at night. I swear she’s married to that fucking truck and not me.”

  “He
y, hey, don’t speak ill of the truck, my friend, it’s paying your mortgage.”

  “That it is, Blanco, that it is.” He looks behind me, where Delilah is standing. I see his head move up and down. “And who’s this?” he asks.

  “This is. . .”

  “Delilah,” she says, jumping in. “A girl who can introduce herself.”

  Joaquin smiles. “I like this chick already.” Delilah goes for a handshake, but he’s all hugs. He squeezes her and I see the look of strain on her face when she feels how strong he is.

  “That’s a hell of a hug you’ve got there.”

  “Thanks,” he says back. “I like that compliment.”

  “I’m not sure it was,” she jokes. “I think you broke my ribs.”

  We all laugh and head to the back of the truck. It’s a slow day for them, and still light out, so I knew there wouldn’t be too many customers if we wanted to hang out and talk a little. Ana serves her last customer and heads out the back of the truck with some cold beers in hand. “North!” she yells.

  “For me?” I joke, taking one of the already sweating beers out of her hand. “You shouldn’t have. Ana, this is Delilah.”

  “Delilah!” she yells, throwing her arms around her like she’s known her forever. “So nice to meet you.”

  Ana has the faintest hint of a Mexican accent, but she speaks perfect English. She’s the immigrants dream realized—a child raised in America who works hard, has her own business, and is thriving more than her parents ever did. She’s also about the nicest woman that you’ll ever want to meet, and a mean cook.

  “So, what’s on the menu tonight, Ana?” I ask.

  “We’re going traditional tonight.”

  “You mean?”

  “That’s right,” Joaquin says. “Barbacoa. Delilah, you chose the right day to follow this degenerate.”

  Ana’s Barbacoa tacos are some of the most delicious tacos I’ve ever eaten. Knowing her, she started cooking it in the wee hours of the morning. She goes inside to whip up some tacos with the slow cooked meat, and Delilah follows, offering to help. When she comes back a few minutes later the smell of her cooking makes my mouth water—the combination of slow cooked meat, chilis, red onion, and tomatoes is overwhelming, and reminds you what real home cooking can taste like. Delilah takes the first bite.

  “Oh my God, Ana, this is incredible!”

  “My wife is the best cook around. One day her Big Little Taco is going to be famous all over the country.”

  “Que lindo,” Ana says, rubbing Joaquin’s head. “My husband is a real American. He wants to be rich and famous.”

  “I’d setting for just having the bills paid.”

  I watch this little exchange and feel the tension between them, even though its real subtle. They’re one of the most solid couples I know—a rare thing in this world of MC craziness, but our club is a shell of its former self, and I know they’re having financial issues. We all are. Ana changes the subject quickly.

  “So, anyway, Delilah, to what do we owe this honor of having dinner with you?”

  “The honor’s all mine,” Delilah says. “This food is beyond description. How would you describe it, James?”

  “James!” Joaquin yells, belly laughing. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone call you by your first name except your folks. James! Ha!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Delilah says, feeling a little uncomfortable. “I meant ‘North.’”

  “Darling, call me whatever you like. It’s true, no one calls me James, but I like the way it sounds when you say it. It’s been a long time since anyone’s called me that.” It’s true—the only people who’ve ever really called me James are my family. I’ve been either North or Blanco for so long that hearing my first name called sounds foreign to me. But when Delilah says it I don’t mind at all. “We met at a coffee shop,” I lie.

  Delilah gives me a look, but I give her one right back. She goes along with my lie as if we’d rehearsed this whole thing. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Starbucks run. I love my caffeine. This guy was in front of me in line and he told me I could cut him if I wanted to.”

  “Always the gentleman,” Ana says, smiling at me.

  “I could tell that. I told him ‘no’, but he insisted. And then I saw how he looked and I was into it. We started talking after that.”

  “Well, that’s great!” Ana says. “He’s a good one.”

  “I’m starting to see that.”

  “Can we shut the fuck up and eat now?” Joaquin says in his gruff, fake-angry way.

  “Sounds great to me.”

  We eat, drink, and talk, and it’s nice to see how naturally Delilah is interacting with people from my world. Everything I do is a test in some way—it’s how I’ve always been with people, especially women who I might be interested in for more than just a one-night stand. And Delilah is no one-night stand kind of woman.

  Afterwards we say our goodbyes and I take her back to her place. I offer to bring her back to campus to get her car but she says her friend will take her in the morning. Maybe that’s a sign of something. Once she steps off my bike I feel that emptiness again, and she looks so fucking hot that I want her right now. I’m giving her the look. The I wanna fuck you so bad right now look. Something in our society teaches that men aren’t supposed to tell a woman what they really want. It’s considered impolite, uncouth, rude. But that’s not the world I come from. I come from a culture where people are direct as fuck, and getting offended has a whole different standard to it than it does for regular people. I don’t know this woman yet, but I need to put out feelers to see if she accepts me the way that I am.

  “What?” she asks, catching my expression. I don’t think her question is real. I think she knows exactly what this look means, but she’s testing whether or not I’ll have the balls to actually say it.

  “I want to fuck you, Delilah. That’s what. In fact, I want to fuck you so bad that my brain is having trouble thinking of anything else but that.”

  “Is that so?” she asks. The tone in her voice is coy, playful even. So far, she hasn’t slapped me across the face, which tells me something about her. “Interesting.”

  “That’s not the response I was hoping for.”

  “What did you expect? For me to strip right here in the street, bend over on the hood of that parked car over there, and let you pound me out?”

  It’s totally involuntary, but her using the expression pound me out gets me so hard that I start to feel discomfort in the crotch of my pants. I’m imagining her hands plastered to the hood of the car—a fistful of her hair clenched tightly in my hands as I pull back, my cock buried inside of her as I watch her naked ass bounce against my body.

  I smile. “You misunderstood me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t say that I think you’re going to fuck me, or that I expect you to fuck me right here and now—although the visual you just gave me is much appreciated. What I said was that I wanted to fuck you, and I said it because I want to tell you the truth, no matter what. If you stripped naked and bent over I’d think less of you.”

  “Really?” she asks. I know that I’ve shocked her, and she almost seems a little offended, but I’m telling her the truth. “I call bullshit. You’re a man. All men want to do is fuck. I’ve never met one who could turn down sex when it’s offered.”

  “Are you offering, then?” I joke.

  “No. Absolutely not. But if I did, I’d have you.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  The look on her face is priceless, a blend of disbelief in what I’m saying, paired with a quiet fascination that I might actually be telling her the truth. “Alright, let’s test your hypothesis, then. Fuck me against that car right now.”

  “No,” I say. “That won’t be happening.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said I’m not fucking you right now, Delilah. Sorry.”

  “Then why say anything? Why tell me you wanted me?”

&nbs
p; “You’ve been with some assholes in your life, haven’t you?”

  “What?”

  “If a man tells you he wants to fuck you just so that you will, then he’s a weak man. I’m not trying to manipulate you. I don’t use words to change people’s behavior. If you wanted to fuck me you would have let me know. I realize that. I said what I said to let you know where I stand because you don’t deserve anything but the truth. So, to reiterate, I want to fuck you, Delilah, badly. You’re about the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen in my damn life. But I’m a patient man, and you’re worth waiting for. Tonight, isn’t the night.”

  My words completely disarm her, and she looks nothing short of stunned, like a bolt of electricity just took away her ability to formulate coherent sentences, so she just stands there with her mouth open, wanting to speak but lacking the vocabulary to capture her reaction to what I just said. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Are you angry?” I ask. “I didn’t mean to offend. . .”

  “You didn’t,” she interrupts. “I’m the opposite of offended, whatever that emotion is called. I just. . . I’m at a loss for words.”

  What I said seems to have resonated with her. I don’t really play games when it comes to women, and I sure don’t like them played with me, but I needed to know if this great meal we had was the beginning or the end of our time together. She goes from shock to a great big smile, and I know right then and there that I’m going to see her again.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” I tell her. “That wasn’t the point. I just wanted you to know where I was at.”

  “You certainly did that.”

  “Good.”

  I feel like I’ve done enough talking. If I hear too much of the sound of my own voice I get annoyed, so I just wait for her to say whatever she’s going to say next. She looks up at me, that huge smile still framing her entire expression. “What are you doing tomorrow?” she asks. I smile back.