Misadventures of a Biker

by Scott Hildreth

  Vinnie’s black Cadillac approached the front door at the pace of a crawl. Blocking the sidewalk from any pedestrian traffic, it rolled to a stop.

  The passenger door opened. A middle-aged man with the upper body of a deadlifter struggled to fit his body through the door opening. Wearing an old-school zip-up track suit, he looked the part of an Italian triggerman.

  The car’s trunk popped open.

  The musclebound passenger waddled to the trunk, reached inside, and produced a small gym bag. After draping it over his shoulder, he slammed the trunk closed.

  While I gazed at the oversized thug with curious eyes, Vinnie got out of the car and stretched. He gestured toward the front of the building. The goombah nodded. Together, they sauntered toward the front door, each of them having the same bravado characteristics to their gait.

  The thug opened the door and held it. Vinnie stepped through the opening and did the same thing I did when I saw the entrance for the first time. He gawked at the newly decorated space.

  He slapped the meathead’s massive bicep. “Talk about nuotare nell’oro.”

  The tracksuit-wearing thug nodded.

  Vinnie met my gaze as he made his way to my desk. “Fuckin’ old lady wrecked her Bentley in front of the Dunkin’ Donuts. We couldn’t get out of there for thirty fuckin’ minutes. Puttana ran the red light. Van hit her, truck hit the van, and one of those fuckin’ Mini Coopahs hit the fuckin’ truck. Bam! Bam! Bam! Just like that. Watched it through the window. Paulie pulled the door open on the Mini Coopah. Girl didn’t have a fuckin’ scratch on her.”

  “Sounds like a hell of a wreck,” I said.

  “Truck had a load of roofing materials. Fuckin’ shit’s spread from here to that island down south. If anyone’s leaving, tell them to take Vanderbilt or be prepared for a fuckin’ wait.”

  I turned down the music and stood. “I’ll do it.”

  “You and me,” Vinnie said, leaning against the countertop. “We can talk. Just you and me?”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. I nodded anyway. “Absolutely.”

  “Theoretically speakin’, I can buy that house with cash. No?”

  For effect, Hollywood movies portrayed a million dollars as being physically larger than it is in real life. In reality, a million dollars in hundred-dollar bills weighed twenty-two pounds and could easily fit into a small backpack, a briefcase, or a gym bag. Nevertheless, sixty million dollars would require a few wheelbarrows, sixty backpacks, or sixty briefcases, and weigh roughly half as much as the Mini Cooper Vinnie was referencing.

  I wondered if the gym rat was carrying a down payment in his bag.

  “Sure,” I said. “We could work out something with cash. What are you thinking?”

  “Let’s say I have Brunei ten-thousand-dollah notes. They’re the same as Singapore notes. The exchange rate is one to one. For the hassle of getting it exchanged to US dollahs, I’ll give the puttana the US equivalent of sixty-two million in Brunei dollahs.” He cocked his head to the side. “We got a deal?”

  My heart raced at the thought of him buying the home, but I had no earthly idea if we could accept that much cash. Hell, I didn’t know if we could accept Brunei money at all. I knew that banks typically exchanged foreign currency. In Naples it had to be a common occurrence, considering the foreign population. Sixty million dollars, however, was a little excessive.

  “You’ve got sixty million in cash?” I asked, knowing there was no way he was carrying one-tenth of that much money.

  “Sixty-two million,” he replied. “In US equivalence.” He nodded toward the goombah. “Paulie’s got eight thousand four hundred and thirty-two bills in that bag. It’s worth sixty-two million in US dollahs at today’s exchange rate.”

  Simple math told me that eighty-four hundred ten-thousand-dollar bills would weigh roughly eighty-four percent of what a million dollars weighed. In short, less than twenty pounds.

  “I’m about to piss my pants,” I said, lying through my teeth. “I was headed that way when you came in. Can you give me a minute?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  I made a beeline to Teddi’s office. Once inside, I shut the door. “You’re not going to fucking believe this.”

  She looked up from her computer monitor. “What?”

  “Vinnie’s out there with almost eighty-four million and a half Brunei dollars in ten-thousand-dollar notes. He wants to know if we can take—”

  “Oh. My. God.” She leaped up from her seat. “You’re kidding me!”

  “I’m serious.”

  With one hand covering her heart and her eyes as big as saucers, she tugged the hem of her dress down. “Tell him yes.”

  I was sure she misunderstood. Maybe in my excitement, I didn’t convey it properly. My eyes narrowed in opposition. “It’s not US currency.”

  “I heard,” she said with a nod. “It’s Brunei. BND. It’s not as uncommon as you think. They’re one of only two countries that make a ten-thousand-dollar note. Singapore and Brunei. They’re locked at one to one in exchange. Money launderers use Brunei money all the time. It’s easy to hide, travel with, and transport.”

  “So, I tell him okay?”

  “Absolutely.” She cleared the edge of the desk and walked toward me. “We’ll need to verify the authenticity of the money and count it, of course, but we’ll accept it without question.” She turned toward her desk. “I don’t know what the exchange rate is right now. What’s that equate to in US dollars?”

  “Sixty-two million,” I said.

  “Two million over ask?” Her hands shot to her cheeks. “You’re kidding?”

  “I’m not.”

  She coughed out a laugh. “Who is this guy?”

  Herb told me Vinnie had more money than sense, but in my wildest dreams I wouldn’t have imagined something like this ever happening.

  “I’m beginning to wonder.” I gestured toward the door. “He thinks I’m in the bathroom. Give me, I don’t know, five minutes. After that, just wander out there and ask how it’s going or something.”

  “All right, I’ll come out in five minutes.” She gave me a kiss. “I can’t believe this. I’m so proud of you.”

  I turned toward the door. “It’s not over yet.”

  Attempting to act indifferent regarding the all-cash transaction, I returned to my desk and let out an exaggerated sigh. “All right, where were we?”

  “You were going to ask Bahbie if she could accept Brunei dollahs,” he said with a dry laugh. “What’d she say?”

  I chuckled. “She said yes.”

  He slapped his hand against the countertop. “I contanti, per favore.”

  The goombah dropped the bag onto the counter, unzipped it, and began slapping banded stacks of bills onto the marble surface, side by side. When the stack was so high I could barely peer over the top of it, I shifted my attention from the money to Vinnie.

  “Do I want to know where this came from?” I asked with a laugh.

  “The money’s clean,” Vinnie said, seeming irritated that I said anything. “There’s one more thing, though.”

  I doubted his response regarding the cash was completely true. There was a reason he had sixty million dollars in Brunei ten-thousand-dollar notes. I didn’t press the issue. If Teddi was okay with the deal, I needed to be, too. I scanned the stacks of bills in disbelief and met his stone-faced gaze.

  “What is it?” I asked. “The other thing?”

  He tilted his head toward Paulie. “The house goes in Paulie’s name.”

  “I’m not sure if we can—”

  He waved the back of his hand at the display of cash. “O mangiar questa minestra o saltar questa finestra.”

  My brows raised. “Translation?”

  He folded his arms over his chest. “Take this soup or jump out the fuckin’ window.”

  I gave him a look of disbelief. “You’re saying, take it or leave it?”

  “We’ll take it,” Teddi said from behind me.


  Chapter Sixteen

  Teddi

  A sense of serenity washed over me. I stretched my arms wide. Like an eagle soaring over a wide open plain, I sailed over the six-lane-wide stretch of pavement without an ounce of worry.

  “This is crazy!” I shouted. “We’re flying.”

  Devin cocked his head to the side. “This is about as close as you can get.”

  In fulfilling my promise to do so, I was on the back of Devin’s Harley as we rode along a winding road that connected North Naples to Bonita Springs. We weren’t traveling much more than forty miles an hour, but it was enough to give me a sense of what it was like to fly.

  The wind enveloped me. The aroma of the summer’s flowers tickled my nostrils. The palm trees that lined the sides of the street swooshed past. A crew of landscapers in the distance pruned hedges and replaced withered flowers with new ones. I closed my eyes as the aroma of freshly cut grass filled the air. The sights, sounds, and smells that accompanied a motorcycle ride were more than my mind could come to grips with.

  He twisted the throttle and accelerated past a soccer mom in a BMW. The sound from the exhaust echoed off the side of her SUV. As we passed, she stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel like her life depended on it.

  The tattoos and stern look etched on Devin’s face was enough to ward off those who felt they might want to approach as he walked through crowds and past patrons of fine-dining establishments. On the highway, the ear-piercing drone from his motorcycle’s exhaust obviously served as a warning to those within earshot that the man with his hands draped over the sky-high handlebars wasn’t one to be fucked with.

  I felt powerful and protected on the back of his motorcycle. Like I too couldn’t be intimidated by the lesser humans who dared to occupy the roads in their cages constructed of steel and glass.

  My desire to please Devin had opened my eyes—and my mind—to accepting changes in my life. So far, he hadn’t steered me in the wrong direction. I hoped our future together was equally as eye-opening and free of regret as our past had been.

  “This is crazy,” I said. “I can’t believe it took me this long to do this.”

  He coasted to a stop at a traffic light. “It’s the best way I’ve found to clear my mind.”

  Over the years, I’d seen many bikers stopped at beaches, bars, and alongside the highway as they passed through Naples on their way to who knows where. The men—like the motorcycles they rode—all differed. Each of them, however, possessed the same look.

  One of being content.

  In the twenty minutes that we’d traveled on Devin’s two-wheeled wonder, I felt that I’d somehow managed to join those men. Although we were separated by time and distance, we now shared the very same experience of obtaining a sense of tranquility that could only be derived from a ride on the open road.

  A few minutes later, we parked across the street from Devin’s favorite coffee shop. A handful of people were seated outside. Sad that we’d stopped but eager to sit down with Devin and express how much I enjoyed our trip, I relaxed against the seat’s backrest and ogled the patrons. Some drank from wineglasses while others sipped their drinks from porcelain coffee cups.

  Devin turned off the engine and leaned the motorcycle onto the kickstand. After getting off, he extended his hand to help me do the same. Upon seeing the satisfaction plastered all over my face, he grinned.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  I stepped off the motorcycle and into the narrow curb-side parking lane. I realized in doing so that half an hour with an eight-hundred-pound vibrator between my legs had done wonders in stimulating my nether region.

  In short, my panties were soaked.

  “This is embarrassing.” I tugged against the inner thighs of my jeans. “I’m soaking wet.”

  He pulled me into him and kissed me. He slid his hand into the waist of my jeans. The tip of his finger gently grazed the length of my wetness. I pulled my mouth from his and gave him a dirty look.

  “Are you really going to tease me like that?” I asked. “Right here?”

  He pushed his finger beyond my wet folds. I sucked an uneven breath. He inserted another. I winced.

  “Is that better?” he asked.

  I ached for him to finger me into oblivion.

  I closed my eyes and bucked my hips, forcing my wet pussy against his hand. He obliged, pushing his fingers deeper until the tips tickled my G-spot. He curled them repeatedly, grazing the hypersensitive flesh with each motion. Euphoria smothered me, stripping me of my ability to resist. With each stroke of his fingers, I grew closer to climax. I was seconds from an earth-shattering orgasm when a car whizzed past, the rush of air in its wake a reminder that we were standing in a public street.

  I opened my eyes.

  Many of the coffee shop’s patrons were unaware I was two finger strokes away from reaching climax, while others seemed all too interested in what we were doing. Being fingered while I stood in the narrow two-lane road wasn’t the best of ideas.

  I glared, but in a playful way. “You make me mad.”

  He smirked. “Do I?”

  “You’re starting something you can’t finish,” I complained. “So yes, you do.”

  He pressed his fingertips into my G-spot. “Why can’t I finish it?”

  “We’re standing in the street,” I whispered, my body shuddering as I spoke. I nodded toward the patio in the distance. “And there are people over there. A few of them are watching us.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Do I look like I give a fuck?”

  He didn’t. As satisfied as he was with his existence on earth, I doubted he cared what anyone thought of him, including the two women behind him who were now nodding in our direction.

  “No,” I replied. “You don’t.”

  He studied my face. His eyes narrowed. Using the two fingers that were still buried deep in my throbbing pussy as leverage, he pulled me close to his chest.

  “If I want to finger you in the street,” he said sternly, “I’ll finger you in the street.”

  “Umm.” I swallowed a ball of apprehension. “Okay.”

  As the two women in the distance watched eagerly, he proceeded to do just that. Seconds later, I was backed against his motorcycle with my eyes rolled back into my head and him leaning over me.

  The world around me vanished momentarily, leaving me to enjoy the fruits of Devin’s labor in the solace of silence.

  My eyes shot open as he brought me to climax. I bit into my lower lip in hopes of stifling my urge to scream out in pleasure. Wondering just what he’d done to change me from the woman who once worried what someone might think about the color of my shoes to one who obviously didn’t care if someone watched me being finger-banged while my ass rested against a dusty Harley-Davidson, I looked at Devin, thinking the answer might be hidden somewhere deep in his brown orbs.

  His eyes glistened with satisfaction. He curled the tips of his fingers against my G-spot once again for good measure. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

  I collapsed against his motorcycle, nearly tipping it over. “What…what are you doing to me?” I stammered.

  He slid his hand from inside my jeans. “Whatever I want to.”

  That much was obvious. I braced myself against the teetering motorcycle. “I can see that.”

  “C’mon,” he said, tilting his head toward the coffee shop behind him. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee.”

  I situated things the best I could and checked myself in the motorcycle’s rearview mirror. “I look like hell.”

  “You look fantastic.” He draped his left arm over my shoulder. “You always look fantastic.”

  I tugged my panties out of my crotch and adjusted my ponytail. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  We sauntered across the street. As we strolled past the table where two of the interested parties were seated, Devin paused and faced them. He raised his right hand to his mouth and sucked my juices from the two fingers he’d
used to please me.

  “Good morning.” He lowered his hand and gave the two women a sharp nod. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  Either incapable of responding or unwilling to do so, they both gawked at us as if we were aliens.

  Devin reached for the door and opened it. “After you,” he said, gesturing inside.

  I stepped into the coffee shop, wearing a prideful smile. There was no doubt Devin was opening my eyes to accepting changes, many of which were in complete contrast to my mundane past. Nevertheless, I had not one single regret.

  I hoped that didn’t change anytime soon.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Devin

  Midway through his meatloaf dinner, Herb paused to listen to the newscast playing in the adjoining room. When the segment finished, he shifted his eyes from the television to me.

  “Some lady cop posing as a masseuse offered him a hand job. Then she arrested him when he tried to pay her.” He waved his fork toward the television. “Did you see that?”

  I’d seen the report several times prior. The man, a rich celebrity of sorts, had driven from a wealthy neighborhood in Palm Beach to a seedy massage parlor in a neighboring city.

  “Somebody with that much money wouldn’t drive from Palm Beach to Jupiter to get a massage unless he wasn’t looking for a little something extra,” I replied. “I’m guessing he didn’t stumble in there by chance.”

  He pressed the tines of his fork through the corner of his meatloaf and paused. “Man’s a billionaire, isn’t he?”

  “I think so.”

  “What’s a billionaire doing getting hand jobs at a shitty massage parlor, anyway?” he asked.

  “That’s exactly what I was wondering.”

  He poked at his food. “What’s a hand job cost at a place like that?”