Bikers and Pearls

by Vicki Wilkerson

  April knew there were two kinds of bikers—weekend riders and lifestyle riders. He was definitely of the latter sort—the sort that didn’t fit in with the Ladies League husbands with their snappy haircuts and starched white shirts. She closed her eyes and imagined the way Bull’s short ponytail brushed at his strong shoulders. How different he was. Then she remembered the time.

  The moment she walked through the door at work, she noticed that she and three others at the State and Casualty Insurance Company had chosen to wear blue suits that morning. Thank goodness for different-colored shirts and blouses, or they would all look like they had been birthed from the same IBM copy machine.

  As she walked through the large, open building, she passed the other departments: Policies, Premiums, Claims, and Finance. Risk Assessment and Management was her domain. Once behind her desk, she let out a long breath. The tension inside her flowed out for the first time in over fourteen hours.

  She looked at the sign on her wall. RISK MANAGEMENT. That was what she was good at. Really good. She glanced over the awards and citations on her desk and then got back to her report correlating statistics about drivers under twenty-one.

  Mandy stopped by her door with a file in her hand. “What are you doing there?” Mandy was nosy. And she’d had April’s cubicle in the back across from the big boss in her crosshairs for a while now.

  “Compiling a report on texting and driving.”

  “Oh,” she said and held out a file. “Here’s the latest financials from Hanna Marks.” She paused for half a second. “Hanna’s been seeing that rich guy who owns that antique shop in downtown Charleston. You know, the one next to S.N.O.B.”

  Slightly North of Broad. Yes. Everyone living within a fifty-mile radius of Charleston knew about the swanky restaurant.

  Mandy went on. “Well…”

  April tuned her out and recounted some of Mandy’s previous forages into storytelling. There was the one where Charles, who was a married man, was purportedly “seeing” Hanna. Mandy got that idea because the two stayed late for days because they were conducting an internal audit directed by headquarters. Oh, and then there was that time she told everybody that the reason Mr. Thompson was missing work and slurring his speech was because he was having small strokes. When in reality, he was merely wearing “invisible” braces and didn’t want everyone to know that he’d gotten braces at his age. And who could forget the time Mandy told everyone that April was stealing company paper after she’d loaded her car with the safety pamphlets from headquarters to deliver to the women’s crisis center?

  When Mandy finally quieted down, April said, “Please thank Hanna for me, and tell her that I’ll need her quarterly report by Friday.”

  Mandy craned her neck to eye the paperwork on the desk, picked up a mint from the candy dish, and then leaned into the hall to see what was going on in Charles’s office. After she left, April turned around in her office chair to retrieve her coffee cup from the bookcase behind her.

  There it was. Her notebook on motorcycle accident statistics from the National Highway Transportation & Safety Administration. She didn’t need to open it, though. She knew the numbers by heart. Over 4,500 motorcyclists killed last year, and an additional 87,000 injured. Bikers were thirty-four times more likely than passenger car occupants to die in a crash. And eight times more likely to be injured. In addition, the statistics proved that fatal motorcycle accidents involved an increased incidence in alcohol use, speeding, and driving with a suspended or a revoked license. The numbers proved everything. Motorcycles were dangerous, and bikers were risk takers. But she didn’t need statistics to tell her any of that. Her stomach knotted around the knowledge she had carried in her gut since she was seven.

  She had more than enough reasons to stay away from Bull.

  No time to really think about any of that right now. She couldn’t change the past, and it was time to get to work. Through the rest of the morning, she typed dollar amounts, percentages, and risk factors into her computer, turning out report after report. During her midmorning break, she typed the information about the members of last night’s group into a spreadsheet and then got right back to work. After making several calls, she went to work on canceling the policies of some of their high-risk drivers who’d had one too many DUIs. Finally, she set up several risk classes for new employees, and then she leaned back in her chair. Almost eleven fifty-five. Almost time to make that call to Bull.

  At that moment, she saw her coworkers step aside at the front door and watch as the tall, well-proportioned man approached.

  The bell from the entrance clanged. Or perhaps it was the chains and zippers on his jacket. And it wasn’t last night’s relatively conservative bomber jacket. This one had insignia and metal rivets, and who knew what else.

  Her stomach knotted even tighter as he stopped at the receptionist’s desk. April knew he was asking for her. Now everyone was going to know. Oh, the questions she would have to endure later from Mandy. Summerbrook was the deep, deep South—and there would be talk. She twisted her pearl necklace around her finger.

  He started for the back of the building, and people parted like the Red Sea. Without the binding of a ponytail, his hair was mussed up and sexy, like he’d just hopped out of bed and only had time to run his fingers through it.

  As he took long strides, air caught in his jacket and almost gave the appearance of a cape. Black and red. And dangerous.

  Goodness, he was handsome, even with the lengthier locks.

  He stood at the entrance to her office. She had to shake her head to break the trance of it all.

  “Hi,” he said. His gaze went right through her.

  Her heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings against her chest. “I thought I was supposed to call you,” she said as she stood up and looked at her watch.

  “Yeah, well. I was in the neighborhood.” He shifted his weight to his other foot, which was covered in a rattlesnake boot.

  “But how’d you know where I work?” She looked over his shoulder to see some of her coworkers staring in her direction. And Mandy was acting like the office paparazzi. Was probably even taking notes for her next exposé.

  “Bertie Houseman,” he said, as his intonation increased to add emphasis. He turned to look behind him. “You worried about what they’re thinking?”

  The truth was that she was somewhat concerned, but she couldn’t tell him that. He wasn’t from the South; his accent told her that much. He’d never understand the unwritten rules of Southern etiquette. Appearances. Manners. Family names. The importance of silver that had been passed down for generations. Belonging to all the right clubs and organizations. “They’re not used to seeing me take personal visitors at lunch.”

  That was also true. She kept her personal life—what little there was of it—out of the office. And boy, had it been bland until now.

  “Well, they’ll just have to get over it. I thought we could talk about the rally over a burger or something.” He took off his jacket.

  Her head started whirling for words. The accident, the fire, her father, all her risk-management statistics.

  She took in his form and noticed that his sleeves were rolled up more than they had been last night. And there it was. A Rebel Angel tattoo. Full blown in all its infamy. He had a past that made him her enemy. She couldn’t possibly go to lunch with him, no matter how captivating he was.

  Oh, and then there’d be all the office gossip, led by Mandy. Everyone in town would know by 5:00 p.m. And if her parents—or rather her father—ever found out…

  She was so glad her parents had retired to Columbia, South Carolina, the state’s capital, about an hour or so away, where her father would be less stressed. She couldn’t shield him from everything, though, because he still stayed in touch with his old friends from Summerbrook. The worst part of the move was that he had to sell his rebuilt hardware store, but the doctors had already told them that he wouldn’t survive another heart attack. He needed to take it easy. Sh
e wasn’t ready to lose him. He hadn’t had the chance to walk her down an aisle yet. However, at this point, it didn’t look like he’d ever.

  Her stomach tightened as she tried to think of what to tell Bull. But right as she was about to speak, Charles Woodall, the manager of the branch, stuck his head inside her office. “Anything wrong?” he asked.

  Bull overshadowed her immediate supervisor in every way—height, looks, voice. Bull shifted his perfectly distributed weight again. “Don’t think so,” he said.

  Charles’s eyes switched glances between her and Bull. “’Kay then. April, can you have those reports ready for me by one thirty instead of three?” Charles sized up the stranger with his gaze until it finally settled on Bull’s snakeskin boots.

  She looked at the clock on her makeshift cubical wall. “If I work through lunch, I can.”

  “’Kay then. See you in my office at one thirty.” He took in Bull’s form one last time and left.

  Bull wrinkled his face and pointed in the direction her boss had walked. “Did I forget to take off my horns and tail this morning?”

  “Sorry about that,” she said. Her supervisor was so obvious. Bikers must get stared at a lot in her town. “There’s a history here.” He had to have heard about the old fire. But he didn’t acknowledge a thing.

  She gazed at Bull briefly to completely see what Charles had just seen. Bull’s appearance was discomfiting. Discomfiting and insanely handsome. She moved her head to break the spell. “I do have that list for you, though.” She reached into her desk drawer, pulled out a folder, and gave him a copy.

  He perused it with great interest. And she perused that jawline of his again. His skin was taut and slightly tanned—and it was only March.

  She hoped he wouldn’t notice something on the spreadsheet, but then he asked, “What’s this?”

  “What?” she asked as innocently as she could, fidgeting with the strand of pearls around her neck.

  “Your address and number. It’s your work address.”

  “Well, I’m here about as much as I am at ho—”

  “Don’t. Don’t explain.” He shook his head and looked around her office. His gaze settled on the sign on her desk. “Look. Miss…Risk-Assessment-Manager.” His words sounded like an indictment. “The Angels are out of town. And none of the rest of us bikers want any blood, you know.”

  “I don’t think you understand.” How could she possibly tell him all about how her little head had thudded on the dashboard? How all the glass had twinkled as it rained down on her? And how the sounds her father had made when he was beaten that night still woke her up sometimes?

  Bull probably wouldn’t buy into her reticence. Because she knew that all bikers weren’t drunken brawlers. In her head she knew that. Heck, she insured regular bikers every day—just not gang members who had a pile of DUIs so high she couldn’t reach.

  He held up his hand as if to stop her again. “Look, I know you need to—” He glanced around the room. “Type something or pretend to type something or who knows whatever Mr. Brooks Brothers said.” He paused. “Anyway. This all appears to be a little too, um…difficult for you. So why don’t you let me handle the advertising on my own. I thought that we could plan the rally together, but I don’t think this is going to work out.”

  April was uncomfortable, but she remembered Mr. Houseman’s words. She needed to be an example and to represent the Humanity Project. And she needed to distance herself from the emotions she’d attached to that motorcycle wreck so many years ago.

  She walked from behind the safety of her desk. She picked up a pen and tapped it on the wooden edge. “I gave my word. I said that I would help. What do we do next?”

  He ran his fingers through his untamed locks. “So, you’re sure about wanting to help?”

  April folded her arms. “Yes. I need to help.”

  “Well, in that case… I thought we’d make some fliers this evening. The computers at the garage where I work are down for maintenance, so we can’t do it there. What about your place?”

  Her head spun, searching for alternate locations. There was no way she was going to take a chance like that—letting a virtual stranger into her home—even if the guy did seem nice. Still, he was a risk taker, and she couldn’t forget that.

  “What about the library?” That was about as safe as a person could get. A public library. “They have everything we’ll need for fliers. We can do all the printing there also.”

  He arched his brow. She knew what he was thinking. His skeptical look told her that he knew she was concerned to be alone with him. But who in her right mind wouldn’t be? She’d known him for less than twenty-four hours. Even if Mr. Houseman did know him. She didn’t.

  “Fine. Say six thirty?”

  “Six thirty.” She nodded.

  He took one step out of her office cubical, turned, and said, “I’m not going to bite you, ya know.”

  She closed her eyes. Biting. An image of him nibbling at her neck took her by surprise and she dropped her pen.

  She startled and opened her lids. He was far more dangerous than she had first imagined. Even her thoughts weren’t safe from the perilously handsome man.

  Chapter Three

  April tapped on the door of Ben’s hospital room door and walked in. As soon as he saw her he lifted his arms for a hug. “Hey, Ben-ificent,” she said as she wrapped her arms around him. She placed a notebook and some markers on the table beside his bed. “Brought you some more. I couldn’t believe you completely filled up that last notebook I brought you.”

  “Yep. I did. You wanna see? I drew three cypress trees, one sweet gum tree, and eight oak trees. Look at that last one,” he said and handed her a red spiral notebook.

  She thumbed through his drawings. “These are great, sweetie.” All sorts and sizes of trees decorated the pages, until she got to the last page. It was a drawing of a big oak tree with a little boy standing on a limb. He wasn’t quite as proficient at drawing people, but she knew the boy was supposed to be him. “Is this one mine?” she asked.

  He nodded and smiled. It wasn’t the same smile he had merely a month ago, though. She removed the page and placed it beside her purse. “That one’s going on my refrigerator.”

  “I knew you’d like it,” he said.

  “I’ve got some news for you,” she said. “The people who built your family’s home are helping to put on a fundraiser. For you.”

  “What’s a fundraiser?” he asked.

  Oops. He probably didn’t have a clue that his stay in the hospital was costing his family every dime they had, and a lot more they didn’t have. How was she going to get out of this? “Well, it’s really a motorcycle rally in your name. Some people are calling it Bikers for Ben. We want everyone to keep you in their thoughts and prayers so that you’ll get better soon.”

  He sat up in bed. “Motorcycles? I love motorcycles. My pop-pop has one, but my mom won’t let me ride on the back. He says if I keep it a secret, though, he’s gonna ride me around the hospital when I feel better.”

  “I’ve met your pop-pop. He’s a very nice man.”

  “What are they going to do at the rally?” he asked.

  As she told him all about the plans for Saturday and Sunday, his dispirited eyes lit up in spite of the dark halos around them.

  “There are a lot of people hoping that you’ll get better soon. Everybody misses you very much,” she said.

  He smiled wanly. She’d give anything to watch him pull the ribbons out the little girls’ hair at a project build again—even if she would have to quiet down the diminutive screaming divas. Since April had first met him, she had always imagined that he was what a son of hers would look like—if she were to ever have one. His hair was the same dirty-blond color that hers was, and his eyes the same chocolate brown. But now he looked so different from her. So sad. So sick.

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. “I took off work a few minutes early to run the markers by, but I’ve got to get b
ack to make it to another meeting tonight. What shall I bring next time, sweetie?”

  “Peanuts. The same kind you brought me before,” he said.

  “You got it, little buddy,” she said and bent down to kiss the top of his head. “My number is inside the notebook. Just like last time. Call if you need anything. Like you did today. Okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thanks for the markers and the notebook, Miss April.”

  “Okay, sweetie, I’ll see you later,” she said as she walked to the door. She turned and paused. The thin boy opened the markers and surveyed the colors. He chose a blue one and started drawing in the notebook. She was going to do whatever she could to help Ben.

  …

  After her bell rang inside her condo, April opened her door. Jenna was standing there, struggling to get her phone into the proper compartment in her purse. The moment she glanced up, her mouth flew open. She removed her small wire glasses to get a better look. “And where might you be going, all Calvin Kleined? I didn’t know you even owned a pair of jeans.”

  “Very funny.” April kicked off the red, runway heels and rummaged in the coat closet by the door for her favorite pair of black leather clogs. She slipped her feet into them. “There. Much better.” She didn’t really think so. The other shoes were so much more head turning. She wasn’t thinking straight, though. She didn’t need to turn anyone’s head—especially Bull’s.

  Jenna asked, “You still haven’t answered me. Where are you going?”

  April tried to speak nonchalantly and said, “The library.” It was time to change the subject. “Where have you been? I’ve left several messages.”

  “I stopped by to see Ben this morning and then an emergency neighborhood watch meeting late this afternoon. We had a break-in today, but you’re not going to change the subject that easily.” Jenna stared April up and down again. “Seriously. We’ve been best friends since kindergarten. I know you. That’s not an I’m-only-reading-at-the-library get-up, now is it? Don’t even try to lie to me.”