“I don’t want you sending her something that’s—”
“I’ll let you read it,” he said. “You can decide if you want to send it.”
I handed him my phone.
“Does she know you ride?” he asked.
“I didn’t mention it, no.”
“What’s her name?” he asked.
“Reggie.”
“Like Reggie Jackson?”
“Yep.”
He nodded in approval. After a moment of typing, he turned the phone to face me.
Silently, I read the message. Reggie. Just wanted to see if you were up for a motorcycle ride on Saturday? We can ride it to dinner if it’s alright with you.
“Looks good,” I said.
He pressed send. Almost instantaneously, the phone beeped. He read the message out loud. “Depends, she says. Is it a Harley, or a sport bike?”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“Who knows. Maybe she doesn’t like sport bikes.”
“Maybe she does,” I said.
He typed a quick response. “This ought to be a safe response. I have both. What’s your preference?”
“Send it,” I said.
He pressed send. The phone beeped. He read her message and let out a laugh. “Well, she passed.”
“Passed what?”
“The test,” he said. “She wants you to ride the Harley.”
“Ask her why she asked the question,” I said. “About the sport bike versus Harley.”
He typed another message. In a matter of seconds, the phone beeped again. Goose read the message out loud.
“I was once told that sport bike riders were unpredictable maniacs and that Harley riders were only after one thing. Sex. Although the former might be fun, on Saturday, I’d prefer the latter.”
I smirked. “Tell her I’ll be riding the Harley.”
7
Reggie
I’d never ridden on a motorcycle before. It wasn’t at all what I expected. I had every expectation of enjoying it. Quite the opposite was true. When we turned corners, I was sure we were going to tip over. When we came to a stop my stomach filled with fear that we’d rear end the car in front of us. Visions of my ragdoll-like self being flipped over the handlebars and into the street—only to be runover by another passing motorist—played over and over, like a scene from a M. Night Shyamalan horror movie.
When we arrived at the restaurant, I was a bundle of shaking nerves.
He pulled off his helmet and glanced over his shoulder. “Are you always nervous when you ride?”
“I’m a motorcycle date virgin,” I admitted.
He chuckled. “It shows.”
After convincing myself we were no longer moving, I removed my helmet and handed it to him. “How?”
“You were tense the entire time.”
“How often do these things tip over?” I asked.
“With experienced riders? Providing no one crashes into you, never.”
“How often does someone crash into a motorcycle?”
“Per vehicle mile traveled, you’re less likely to be involved in a crash on a motorcycle than in a car,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Did you just make that up?”
He stepped off the motorcycle and reached for my hand. “It’s statistical data.”
“Oh.” I took his hand in mine. “Well, that makes me feel a little better. I was convinced we were going to die before we got here.”
He helped me off the motorcycle, which I thought was nice. Relieved that we made it to the restaurant alive and that the ride from hell was over, I eagerly followed him across the parking lot. Once inside, I searched for the restroom. A path worn through the dated seashell-pattern carpet marked the way to the bathroom, which was nestled at the end of a narrow corridor just inside the entrance.
Making a few adjustments to my appearance was going to be in my best interest, especially if I wanted our dinner date to go my way. I smiled at the elderly hostess and then glanced at Tito. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Okay.” He faced the woman, who seemed to have aged a little in the last sixty seconds. “Table for two.”
In slow motion, she removed two menus from the hostess station, then began to shuffle toward the center of the restaurant. “Follow me.”
She was adorable. I grinned at the sight, knowing I’d have ten or so minutes to kill while she was escorting Tito to the table. I glanced in his direction. “I’ll be right back.”
I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Despite wearing a helmet during our trip, my hair had exploded. I looked like Albert Einstein. If Albert Einstein had tits and a crease across his forehead, that is.
Across the middle of my forehead a crease remained, marking where the helmet had rested during the forty-five minutes of hell that I’d endured. Frustrated that I hadn’t thought of it before getting on the motorcycle, I quickly braided my hair. I made a few adjustments to my makeup and checked myself in the mirror. Short of the valley that ran from one side of my forehead to the other, I looked presentable.
I wasn’t going to capture his attention with my looks, that much I was sure of. My magnetic personality was all that remained. I’d lure him into my sexual web with wit, wisdom, and wanton behavior.
I glanced in his direction as I walked through the dining area. He was a handsome man, no doubt. It wasn’t his looks, however, that garnered my attention. There was a mysterious cloud of unknown that accompanied his being. I studied him, wondering just what it was that gave off that vibe.
I’d nearly reached the table before he made eye contact with me. When he did. I wagged my eyebrows playfully.
Straight-faced, he returned the gesture.
He had good eyebrows. They weren’t oddly shaped, and they didn’t meet in the middle, which was a pet peeve of mine.
I sat down across from him and offered an apologetic grin. “Sorry. My hair was a disaster.”
He looked me over. “I didn’t think so.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
He ran his open palm over his scalp. “At least I don’t have to worry about that.”
His closely-cropped hair and his eyebrows shared the same overall appearance of neatness. I grinned just a little. “I suppose not.” I took a precursory glance around the restaurant. “Do you eat here often?”
“This is my first time.”
The dark-stained wood of the rickety armchairs was chipped and worn from years of use. The high-traffic areas of the outdated carpet had thinned to the point that loose threads were sprouting up like freshly-planted grass. The ceiling was still stained from cigarette smoke that had risen into it thirty years past. Nevertheless, the place was filled with smiling patrons who were shoveling seafood into their eager mouths.
I shifted my gaze from an elderly man who was dipping crab legs into a tub of butter as fast as his wrinkled hands would allow him to. “What made you pick this place?”
“Suggestion from a friend.”
I faced him. “A good friend?”
“He’s basically a brother. He said, if you like seafood, that’s the place to go.”
“Do you like seafood?”
“I do.”
“If this is the place to go, and the person who told you about it is basically a brother, how did you just find out about it?” I asked. “Why haven’t you eaten here before now?”
“I don’t get out much.”
It seemed like a reasonable response. Hard to believe, but reasonable. “You spend your time at home?”
“Most of it.”
I wondered why. Southern California’s population typically spent their idle time in the sun. The weather was perfect for outdoor activities and was the reason most of the people lived here in the first place. It certainly wasn’t because the commute was easy or that housing was affordable.
I gazed blankly at him, trying to decide which direction I wanted to steer the conversation. He claimed to be
a homebody, but the tone of his skin suggested otherwise. His glowing tan wasn’t achieved from watching television or reading a book in his living room.
The mysterious cloud that surrounded him thickened.
I cleared my throat. “You didn’t get that tan from binge watching Netflix.”
“I manage self-serve carwashes,” he explained. “A motorcycle’s my mode of transportation. I spend the workday in the sun.”
Managing self-serve carwashes was miles away from where my mind had taken me. I’d conjured up images of him working as a security guard for a famous female pop star, being the muscle for a criminal motorcycle club, or working in waste management.
I looked at him like I’d caught him in a lie. “You manage carwashes?”
“From here to Oceanside,” he said with an affirmative nod.
“Have you seen the Sopranos?” I asked. “The show about the mafia with James Gando-whatever?”
“I have.”
“When Tony Soprano was asked what he did for a living, he always replied he was in waste management. It was a play on words. He killed those who stood in the way of his criminal enterprise, and then disposed of the bodies. So,” I cocked a suggestive eyebrow. “Do you manage carwashes, or do you clean up messes?”
The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled. A faint smile formed. “You’ve got quite an imagination.”
He looked innocent when he smiled.
I wasn’t fooled. Even so, I smiled in return. “I come about it naturally.” I pushed my menu to the side and locked eyes with him. “You didn’t answer the question.”
Still wearing the slight grin, he pushed his menu to the side mockingly, held my gaze, and leaned forward. “I manage car washes. It’s a simple job that allows me to work alone—at my own pace—and it pays well.”
His responses were sincere, and without the telltale ticks of an expressed lie. He was either a great liar, or he was telling the truth. I gave a nod of approval. “I’ll accept that.”
He relaxed against the back of his chair and rested his forearms on the worn wooden armrests. “How did you come about your imagination naturally?”
Listening to my father’s theories regarding his cases while we ate dinner fed my imagination as a child. Admitting that to Tito wasn’t high on my to-do list. In my early years of dating, my father had managed to scare away several of my potential boyfriends. Finding out I was the daughter of a cop seemed to make men uneasy, regardless of their reluctance to delve into criminal activity.
Wishing he hadn’t asked, I reached for my water glass. “I grew up with a parent who was always putting together scenarios that were based on theory instead of fact. My exposure to him and his ideas caused my imagination to blossom.”
“Mother or father?” he asked.
“Father.”
“What was his profession?”
“A detective.”
“Currently or retired?”
“Currently.”
He feigned indifference, but his flushing face gave away his true feelings. He took a drink of water and struggled to swallow it. “Oh, really?”
I wasn’t prepared to allow my father’s career choice to become the wedge driven between me and the one-night stand sitting across from me.
“Yeah,” I said. “As far as cops go, he’s pretty cool, though.”
He looked away. “Is he?”
I’d hoped for a light dinner followed by a heavy dose of dick. His interest in me was fading and fading fast. Hell, I’d be lucky to finish my glass of water and get a goodnight hug. I needed to recover and do so quickly.
“He’s employed by the Sheriff’s department, but he specializes in organized crime,” I explained. “He works hand-in-hand with the DEA, ATF, and FBI, trying to catch people who operate criminal enterprises. Gangs and stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”
All the color drained from his face. “Sounds like interesting stuff.”
“Welcome to Sandy’s,” a weathered voice said from behind me. “Have you had time to look over the menus?”
I glanced over my shoulder. My grandmother’s doppelganger tapped the tip of a mangled golf pencil against her notepad.
“Can you give us a minute?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said with a crooked smile. “I’ll come back in a few minutes.”
“Thank you.”
As she shuffled away, I looked at Tito and let out a sigh. “You don’t manage car washes, do you?”
He wiped his brow with his forearm. “I do.”
“You seem nervous,” I stated. “Really nervous.”
“The general population distrusts police officers,” he argued. “They fear corruption.”
“According to who?”
“A recent survey I read.”
I coughed out a lungful of disbelief. “You’ve recently read a survey about police corruption?”
He nodded. “A few weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“I found it interesting.”
“Do you fear the police?” I asked.
He cleared his throat. “I believe there’s corruption in some departments, albeit a small percentage. With people being eager to plaster their bad experiences on social media and much less willing to share their positive encounters, I think the general public has become biased in their opinions of law enforcement. Despite those observations, I don’t fear them, personally. If you noticed a change in my demeanor when you revealed your father’s occupation, it was shock, not fear.”
His little speech regarding law enforcement was clear, concise, and well thought out. I gave him a look of disbelief. “You sound educated.”
“You seem surprised.”
“It’s just. It’s not what I expected from a biker.” As soon as the words passed my lips, I wished I could retract them.
His gaze narrowed. “That was a little prejudicial, wasn’t it?”
He was right. It was prejudicial. It wasn’t surprising, though. My mouth often delivered comments before the dab of common sense I possessed could stop it.
At the rate I was going, sex with Tito was nothing but a pipe dream. Realistically, I would end up spending what was left of my Saturday night in a wine-induced dance around a backyard bonfire while Mel tossed the few articles of clothing my ex left behind into the flickering flames.
My shoulders slumped in defeat. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
“I’ll try not to take it as such.”
I offered him an apologetic look. “Can we start over?”
“Sure.” He looked away for a moment, and then met my gaze. “I’ve got a friend that’s pretty savvy on matters of human nature. He told me you were planning to use me. In his opinion, infidelity ended your relationship, and you were intending to use me for sex to get back at your ex. Is there any truth to his belief?”
My face flushed with the warmth of embarrassment. I could deny his claim, but there was no sense in it. My beet-red cheeks told the truth, even if I wasn’t willing to.
Attempting to own the mortified look I was undoubtedly wearing. I grinned a guilt-ridden smile. “I’d say he was pretty accurate in his assumption.”
“Might not be a bad idea to eat before we get started.” He raised his menu until it obstructed his face. “You’re going to need the nourishment.”
Nourishment?
I blinked. “Huh?”
“I don’t need you cramping up in the middle of an all-nighter due to some deficiency in your diet,” he said from behind the menu. “Let’s eat before we get started, shall we?”
I hadn’t had an all-night sexual romp since my sophomore year in college. The thought of it was frightening. For an instant, anyway.
I swallowed against my tightening throat. “An…an all-nighter?”
“If I have one shot at this,” He lowered the menu, “I’m going to make it worth my while.”
8
Tito
Reggie was a bundle of nervous apprehension when I picked her up and
had remained that way throughout the night. She finished her first glass of wine in an instant. Now half-way through her second glass and waiting on our food to arrive, the nervousness she possessed was diminishing. Relaxed in her seat and grinning permanently, it appeared her protective walls were coming down.
“What made you nervous about riding on the motorcycle?” I asked.
“Oh. My God. What didn’t? It’s definitely not what I expected I can tell you that much.” She flipped her braid over her shoulder and chuckled. “I’m just glad we made it here alive.”
“Do you feel safe in a car?”
“If I’m the one driving?” She studied her wine glass. Apparently dissatisfied that it was almost gone, she lowered it to the table. “Sure. Sometimes when I’m riding with others, not so much.”
“Did you feel unprotected? On the motorcycle?”
“It’s hard to explain.” She traced her thumb around the edge of the glass. “Vulnerable. I felt vulnerable.”
“That’s understandable.”
“It’s just. I had expectation of loving it. Girls rave about them,” she said. “I don’t know how many times I’ve heard how awesome it is to ride on a motorcycle. No disrespect, but if I make it home alive, I’ll probably never get on one again.”
At least she was honest. I wondered how many of the women who regularly rode on the back of a motorcycle truly enjoyed it. My guess was they were there because the man riding it wanted them to be.
“Do you suppose the women you’re speaking of—the ones who claim it’s awesome to ride on a motorcycle—are lying?” I asked.
“They’re either lying or they’re stupid,” she said dryly.
“They’re certainly not for everyone, but motorcycles are both fun and safe. If they’re ridden with respect, that is.”
“The federal government mandates that cars must comply with safety standards,” she said. “They have regulations that vehicles must pass. Did you know that?”
I did but chose not to admit it. “I didn’t realize that, no.”
“Those regulations prevent Joe Schmoe from putting a V-8 engine on his leather recliner and driving it down the freeway.” She leaned toward the center of the table, as if preparing to tell me a secret. “A motorcycle provides about the same amount of protection to the rider as a V-8 powered recliner.”
Tito Page 5
