I tried to stop him by putting a hand on his hand at my cheek, but he continued, “We ate breakfast together this morning, and you were too freaked out about the break-in to let me into that pretty little head of yours. I spent last night sleeping next to you because you had a hole in your house. The cops may have classified this as teenage vandalism or gang initiation tactics, but it’s damn suspicious to me. Don’t let your guard down. Now that you have a slightly safer house, and a little less on your mind, we’re goin’ out. You copy?”
I snorted. Mainly because I found the CB radio speak a little incongruous with the rest of his tirade, but also because I had no intention of seeing Cal again today. “No. I don’t ‘copy’ good buddy. Like I said, I really appreciate all the help, and I don’t know how you managed to get me a brand new door for free, but I’m intelligent enough to know I don’t want to know. You helped me out. I’m very grateful. Really, I am. But I will not pay you back with dates or putting out. Now, you can go, and maybe I’ll see you at trivia again this Thursday.”
Cal’s golden skin couldn’t hide the rise of pinkish color coming up from his neck. His eyes were not mad; they were nuclear level pissed-off. I wasn’t real sure what I said to offend him, but Cal alleviated my confusion in short order. “Do. Not. Put. Words. In. My. Mouth. For fuck’s sake, I do not expect repayment for the door or the fence. And even if I did, your repayment would not be in the form of you on your back. Has it occurred to you that I’m a nice guy? Has it occurred to you that my club runs legitimate business? And that legit business just might be a door company? Based on the deer-in-the-headlights look, I’m guessin’ it didn’t, babe. So, get with it, and with a quickness. I told you straight last night. I want to get to know you. I think you want to get to know me. We’re doin’ it, and we’re doin’ it tonight because unlike this morning at Grumpy’s you won’t be preoccupied about your fuckin’ house that was broken into last night. Comprende?”
I was fighting to keep my jaw from going slack, so I whispered, “Sure. Yo comprende.”
He smiled the mega-watt smile he gave Natasha. My knees went a little bit weak, and to hide this I bit my bottom lip. He nodded, “Good. Four forty-five. You’re on my bike. See ya, sweet cheeks.” He bent and kissed my cheek, then turned on his heel and left my house.
Chapter 6
Between the break-in, the abbreviated lecture from my dad, and Cal’s dominant insistence that he was taking me out tonight, I decided some retail therapy was in order. Since Cal and his motorcycle brothers had left at two o’clock, I was dying to take a nap but I didn’t have any motorcycle-friendly clothing. I would have to sacrifice the nap. There were only so many shops that made me feel good without fail. Barnes & Nobel was one, until they took out the music listening stations, CostPlus World Market was another, and SteinMart was also a decent go-to department store to make me feel better about the world in general. This meant I was sitting at a red light in Mandarin by two thirty in the afternoon. World Market here I was. It was nearly the end all be all of specialty shops. They had cool wall art, they had a variety of furniture from contemporary to traditional, and there was a wide selection of funky scarves and earrings. Best of all though, they had wines by the case or the bottle, craft beers also by the bottle, and a variety of ethnic and not so ethnic food. This meant I could go there to pick up more beer and wine, as well as restock my coffee, tea and cookies. I hated to admit it, but Vamp was almost right. Cal had nearly brought the bikers into a tea party; because God knew if I could throw a tea party and actually have anyone show up, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
I spent far more time and money than I should have at World Market, but I justified it because it isn’t every day a girl’s home is broken into and vandalized. One of the best things about the World Market in Mandarin was that the shopping plaza housed four other good anchor stores. I wandered into TJ Maxx and instinctively bee-lined it to the shoe section. I found some black flat-soled boots that looked like knock off Doc Martens. Steel-toe or not, I figured these would be acceptable to Cal’s discerning eye for biker footwear. I didn’t manage to find any motorcycle date ensemble items, so I moved on from TJ Maxx to SteinMart.
It was late February, and weather in Northeast Florida could be unpredictable at best. While we rarely if ever got snow, we could feasibly have a low of 41 only to reach a high of 49 with winds and humidity that made it feel like 39. Crazy, but true. My phone informed me that tonight the low would be 48, but then I remembered how chilly I was on the back of Cal’s bike for the brief ten minute ride I had a week or so ago. I’m a native to Jacksonville, so I knew I needed to play it safe and get something uber-warm for riding on the back of a bike. Part of me wanted to be sexy though. Why was I thinking such things? I really didn’t want to go anywhere tonight, but God knew Cal wasn’t going to take no for an answer from me. Yet, the notion of riding on the back of his bike again for more than just a leisurely ride around a neighborhood had my skin tingling and excitement building in my spine.
I must have ambled around the entire women’s department three times before an employee approached me and asked if I was looking for something in particular. The notion of asking if they had biker-chic winter-wear fleeted through my mind, but I knew that was a bad idea and I had to hold back a giggle. Instead my mind went into rapid-fire mode. I had boots. I had jeans. No way in hell was I riding a bike wearing anything but jeans. So, basically, I needed a sexy-but-very-warm top.
I smiled at the petite blonde associate, “Yes. You can help me. I hope. I need a very warm, but very sexy top for this evening. I’m supposed to ride on the back of a motorcycle, so while you and I know it’s not going to be that cold tonight, fifty-mile-an-hour winds on a bike are an entirely different story. And I really don’t want to do fleece or something with a Columbia sportswear logo on it, if you know what I mean.”
She smiled at me, and I thought she was going to recommend I go to the Adamec Harley store in town forthwith, but instead, she thought a moment, then said, “I think we might have just the thing.”
A few minutes later, I was standing in the dressing room admiring the faux-leather-sleeve sweater from the Venus clothing line. Venus was founded in Jacksonville, originally with swimwear, but they had branched out to nearly all other areas of women’s clothing. Until the sales associate brought me this sweater, I was unaware the Venus clothing line was carried at SteinMart. Smart business. The sweater was predominantly heather grey, had a zip-up front and a cowl neck. I loved cowl necks. My cleavage was fairly new to me, which is to say that my boobs didn’t really become lush until after I had Landon and went through a year of breast feeding. This sweater accentuated my bust in a way I was unaccustomed to, but I figured a guy like Cal would approve. The sleeves were as advertised, faux leather, and I figured they would help keep me slightly warmer than a standard sweater would on a motorcycle.
I climbed into my car and the console read four o’clock. Cripes! Best-case scenario, I could get home by four thirty, but I still needed to change and evaluate whether I needed makeup and I had to put my hair up. Gah! Thankfully there were no State Troopers or local cops along I-295 on my way home and I set new land-speed records for my Toyota Camry. I sailed into my bathroom at four twenty-five, and got down to business.
I was pulling my hair into a pony-tail when my cell phone rang. Maybe Cal had to cancel. That would be a relief. Then again, I would be disappointed because my new sweater was the shit, and I was looking forward to wearing it. I quickly secured my hair, and found my phone on the nightstand. The display showed Gwendolyn Pierce. She could wait, especially since my alarm clock displayed the time as four thirty-nine. I went to my dresser and fished out some dangly beaded purple, grey and black earrings. Back in the bathroom, I put in the earrings and applied some light burgundy color-stay lipstick. The doorbell rang. I felt panic and excitement simultaneously. Here went nothing.
I checked the peephole and Cal was standing there. I opened the door. His hair was shiny, as if he
had gel in it. He looked at me and his eyes intensified. He stepped into my foyer, kicked my door closed, grabbed my neck, and slid his other hand to my ass. He was freshly shaved and smelled of spicy cologne. His lips hit mine and he pulled me to him forcibly. I gasped and his tongue softly slid into my mouth. The panic melted away and the excitement I felt earlier flooded my body. This kiss was nothing like any of the others from him. This kiss held a promise. A promise of more, and I was not ready for more. Just as the panic tried to make a comeback, Cal's hand at my neck moved to tug on my ponytail and I found my tongue plunging into his mouth.
Groaning, Cal pulled away from me. “Fuck, woman. You are hot. I did not expect this biker-babe attire.”
I blushed. Greg would often tell me I looked pretty or sometimes beautiful. I don’t think he ever said “hot.” I pressed my lips together to keep from beaming. Cal was eyeing my outfit and stopped when he got to my bare feet.
“Boots? Tell me you got some boots to wear, babe.”
I nodded, then moved into the living room, calling over my shoulder, “Let me go get my socks and put them on. You want anything to drink? Water, tea?”
Cal followed me into the living room and saw my four World Market bags. “What’s all this, Mal?”
I came back into the living room wearing socks and carrying my black leather jacket and new boots. I was foregoing carrying a purse since I didn’t want to try to keep track of it on the bike. I had my keys, ID and phone in my jacket. I had a small leather card carrier with a zipper side pouch, for money and my credit card, tucked in my back jeans pocket. I sat down to put on the boots and said, “That’s more necessities. Tea, coffee, wine, chocolate laceys, and rolled wafer cookies. All from one of my favorite stores ever, World Market.”
Cal rifled through the bags, and pulled out the box of laceys, “I’m beginning to think you relieve stress with food, woman.”
I looked up from tying one of my boots, “Yeah. Doesn’t everyone?”
He snorted, “No. I get stressed, I either get drunk or I get in a fight, maybe both. Sometimes I go work out, but fighting’s better.”
I tugged on the other boot. “Two out of three of those remedies are not very healthy by any means. I think I’ll stick to wine, tea, and sweets, thanks.”
I stood up to leave and Cal looked me over top-to-toe. I was going to ask him if he was “eye-fucking” me, but he spoke first. “Change of plans. Nice boots, sweet cheeks. Not biker boots, but definitely a damn sight better than those pseudo-stilts you wore before.”
I let that slide as I put on my leather jacket, “So what were the plans, and what are the new plans now?”
He stepped to me, and ran his rough finger from my ear and under my jaw. “I was gonna take you out to Huguenot memorial park, and then take you to a bar and grill not far from there. But now that I see you lookin’ so good and ready to get on the back of my bike, I think we’ll do something different. The brothers are havin’ a barbeque tonight with old ladies and families. I think you might dig it.”
Feeling panic rising up again, I grimaced. “By brothers, you mean Patch, Vamp, and the prospects will be there and then some?”
He nodded, and then added, “Yeah. Now that I think about it that might not be the best idea, either. There’s a shitload of catty bitches there, since it’s a Saturday night deal, and I’m not in the mood to share you just yet. Let’s get on my bike and see where the asphalt takes us.”
The last time I saw Cal’s bike, it was in a dim parking lot. In the light of day I could see it was a maroon Harley, and silver letters on the side of the front wheel well said “Road King.” The paint was very glossy-looking and the maroon glimmered as if glitter was under the clear coat. I suddenly wanted my toenails to be painted just like that. The black leather seat had shiny metal rivets along the back edge. The pipes that ran almost the length of the bottom of the bike were shiny chrome. In a word, sexy; but I wasn’t going to share that with Cal.
As it happened, the asphalt took us to Riverside. And it was so damn fun getting there. I was more than a little freaked out being on a motorcycle on Blanding Boulevard. That six-lane thoroughfare was dangerous on a good day in a car; I worked hard to keep my anxiety from running away with me with thoughts of crazy texting drivers sideswiping us. I thought about chocolate laceys, and pairing them with ice cream instead of Cabernet, to keep my panic at bay. It wasn’t until we started banking slightly to the right and climbing the overpass for Highway 17 where Blanding becomes Park street that I realized we were headed to Riverside. As the speed limit lowered on the two-lane residential road, Cal released his left hand from the handlebars, and put his hand on my knee and just slightly leaned back into me. Heat rolled from where he touched me up through my lungs, and the rolling heat practically pooled in my most private areas. A giddy smile lit upon my face because I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so warm and excited.
I was really enjoying myself. This broad, burly and good-looking biker wanted to take me out on his bike, and he wanted to get to know me. How I managed to pull that off, I’d never know. The scent of his leather jacket and his cologne was comforting. When we approached the five-way intersection of the Five Points neighborhood, Cal’s hand left my knee in order to make our right-hand turn. I immediately felt chillier, and disappointed. He found a parking space in front of the Mossfire Grill. Excellent choice.
I maneuvered myself off the bike so Cal could do the same. I had the helmet off already when he turned to look at me, “You ever been to Mossfire, sweet cheeks?”
I gave him a look. “Of course I have. No self-respecting taco lover ‒or margarita lover for that matter‒ could possibly not know about Mossfire. I mean, c’mon.”
“So this meets with your approval?”
I snorted. “Yes. Let’s go. I’m cold.”
Cal hooked his arm around my neck, and we went.
* * * * *
“What the hell? What in the God-damned hell, Cal?” This was a muffled yell from a woman I could not see, and it was muffled because I was sitting on a recliner in Cal’s room at the motorcycle compound. A room he had just locked me into for my own “safety” he said.
Our dinner at Mossfire was interrupted by a call on Cal’s cell. To be technical about it, my dinner was interrupted, since I don’t scarf my food down like it’s going to suddenly be stolen from me. Further, I was eating slower due to Cal’s behavior when we were first seated. The hostess led us to a booth; I sat down in the first bench expecting Cal to round the hostess and sit across from me. I was opening my menu when I felt Cal’s thigh pressing me to the left.
“Make some room, woman,” Cal said, giving me a firmer nudge with his shoulder.
I made room, but said, “What are you doing? You should be sitting across from me.”
Cal slid an arm around my shoulders and used his other hand to take his menu from the hostess. “I do whatever I want to, not what I should do.”
He placed his menu on the table in front of him, removed my menu from my hands, and then he pressed me into the booth and kissed me hard. Surprisingly, this kiss had even more force than the kiss in my foyer. Cal was an excellent kisser, to say the very least, but we were in a booth at a restaurant. So, when Cal’s hand started sliding under my sweater toward my left breast, I squirmed away.
Cal’s eyes opened and I gave him a look. Then I whispered, “We’re in public.”
His eyebrows furrowed slightly. “So what, woman?”
My lips pursed, “So, I don’t do PDA.”
His lips curved up on the left side. “Pretty sure you just did, and I betcha if I checked, you liked it. A. Lot.”
I was saved from providing a decent retort and having an out-and-out hissy-fit when the waiter showed up.
“Hey, guys. What can I getcha to drink?”
“Two Margaritas.” Cal looked at me, “How do you take your ‘rita, Mal?”
“Who says I want a margarita?”
“I believe your words were ‘self-
respecting taco lover or margarita lover,’ so I got that you’re a margarita lover, sweet cheeks. It’s something we clearly got in common. Now how do you take your ‘rita?”
I gave the waiter an apologetic smile. “On the rocks, please. With salt.”
Cal tipped his chin at me slightly and turned to the waiter. “Same for me.”
Luckily Cal didn’t try to order my dinner for me, and based on his earlier attempt at a public make-out session, I was eating much slower than normal. I could only imagine what he would think he could get away with prior to ordering dessert. The upside to eating slower than Cal was that I got to hear much more about him. Cal really did work at the MC’s window and door business. The Riot MC had a few other businesses such as a storage facility on the Westside, a pawn shop, and a bar and grill.
“So, how did you get into the motorcycle club life? Some wild hair in your twenties or something?”
Cal’s hazel eyes darted to me. “Hardly, Mallory. Lived in foster homes. I came to the MC at 17. They didn’t want me there, but I begged. I was runnin’ from the foster care system. The president at that time was an older man who loved his food, and any prospect had to cook, in addition to tend bar and do whatever other random dirty work came their way. I happened to know my way around the kitchen.”
“You knew your way around the kitchen?”
Cal’s lips tipped up, “One of the foster homes – the best foster home I’d been in by far – had no cable, but Diane watched Julia Child every Saturday morning on PBS. She’d go get Julia Child videos from the library. The fuckin’ old stuff in black and white, The Art of French Cooking. I didn’t have much access to a TV in other homes, so I watched anything and everything I could at their house. Since Diane loved watching cooking shows so much, the food she made was the best I had. But back to Riot, if a prospect didn’t cook well enough, the prez wouldn’t approve their patch-in.”
Unforeseen Riot Page 7
