BAKER

by Scott Hildreth

I brushed his hair away from his face and raised my head from the pillow. Without further instruction, he leaned forward and kissed me. I raked my fingers through his hair and slid my hands along his tanned skin until they came to a stop at his shoulders.

  Holding him as intently as he held me, I kissed him while we shared the most intimate moments I’d ever had the pleasure of experiencing. It was no longer about orgasms or having his hips slap against my ass. The length of his dick was irrelevant, as was everything else about his appearance.

  As he made love to me, my heart became my only receptor. My outer extremities no longer sent signals of satisfaction to my brain. I felt him inside of me. I felt his chest against mine. I felt his lips and his tongue as we kissed.

  Yet.

  Satisfaction rushed from my heart, and my heart alone.

  I welcomed the feeling, viewing it as a reassurance that I’d made the right decision in accepting him into my life fully.

  His hips moved fore and aft, bringing with them the energy to pump the feelings through me, and through me they went. I filled with satisfaction until I felt I would surely burst, and when that moment came, I opened my eyes.

  Our lips parted. His eyes told me that he, too, was incapable of continuing. With our eyes searching each other’s face for clues of the satisfaction we hoped to provide, we reached climax.

  While in the comfort of his bed, with his arms wrapped around me, I had the orgasm of a lifetime. I didn’t scream, nor did I curl my toes or dig my nails into his strong back. I simply allowed it to take me away to a place I’d never had the pleasure of being.

  A place safe from harm. A place where nothing but my feelings existed. When I returned, I met his gaze. He was smiling.

  His eyes told me he’d been there, too. At the place where our feelings ran rampant and free.

  In that moment of vulnerability, I gave Graham Baker my heart.

  And, I never looked back.

  He scooped the eggs from his plate like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. I watched with eager eyes as he mopped the plate clean with the corner of his toast and then poked it into his mouth.

  “Damn it’s nice to have breakfast.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said with a smile. “Want more?”

  His eyes shot to the kitchen. “There’s more?”

  “There isn’t, but I can make some more.”

  He sipped his coffee. “That’s okay. Four eggs ought to be enough for anyone. Remind me of my aunt’s eggs. She made them just like that. Exactly like that.”

  I had no idea how he liked his eggs. Instead of going with the safe bet, which was scrambled, I cooked them over medium, my personal favorite. To think that they reminded him of what I hoped was home was uplifting.

  I smiled pridefully. “I’m glad you liked them. They’re my favorite.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s make a deal.”

  I reached for my coffee. “Okay.”

  “Saturday nights, let’s have a standing date. When we’re done, you can stay all night here. Sunday mornings, you make those eggs.”

  “I like it. Let’s do it.”

  He held his clenched fist over the table. “Gimme some fist.”

  I pounded my hand against his.

  I cut into the edge of my last egg. “If you like eggs so much, why don’t you cook them in the mornings? You’re self-employed. It’s not like you’re going to be late to the office.”

  “I can’t cook.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That food in the fridge? Goose got it at the store. I couldn’t even tell you what’s in there. If he doesn’t cook it, I don’t eat it.”

  I lowered my fork. “What about that night--”

  “Our first date?” he asked.

  “Yeah. All of the Brazilian food?”

  He pointed toward the refrigerator. “Goose.”

  “The left-over lasagna in the fridge?”

  He wagged his finger. “Goose.”

  “The peppers and chicken that’s in a zip-lock, and looks like it needs tossed out?”

  He wagged it again. “Goose. He’ll toss that out. He always does.”

  I chuckled. “How long has he been cooking for you?”

  “Fifteen years or so.”

  “Wow. That’s a good friend.”

  “We’re more than friends. We’re brothers. In time, you’ll see just how close we are.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “You’ll see through their actions.” He reached for his coffee. “Couple of ‘em aren’t keen on talking. But you’ll see by what they do and how they act that we’re noting but six brothers who share a few common bonds.”

  I hoped he was right. My guess was that although they might eventually warm up to me, the process would be slow.

  Very slow.

  After interrupting their schedule, taking one of their men’s time, and then stealing his heart, I couldn’t see them welcoming me with open arms any time soon. I took the last bite of my egg and recalled Mort’s words of wisdom.

  We can’t let what might happen keep us from doing what our heart tells us is right.

  That simple phrase was I needed to remember.

  THIRY-EIGHT - Baker

  Two weeks of Saturday night dates and Sunday morning breakfasts had the men questioning my sanity. None questioned my loyalty, or my devotion, but side-eyed looks had become the norm in the clubhouse.

  I realized for the men to accept Andy as a whole – or in part – would require that they see her express loyalty and devotion. Then, in time, trust would develop. When they trusted her, she’d be treated no differently than one of the men.

  I feared the day was so far in the distance that I couldn’t quite grasp it.

  “Trust goes a long way with the men,” I said. “A long, long way. When they trust you, you’ll see a huge difference. It’s just going to take time.”

  “Trust goes a long way with everyone.” She twisted her hair into a bun and then checked it in the mirror. “If there’s no trust, even having a friendship is difficult.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” I put on my hat and then looked at her. Dressed in a sleeveless black dress and pair of heels I didn’t recognize, she looked marvelous. I nodded toward the four-inch heels. “New shoes?”

  She smiled. “They are. Sale rack shoes. They were one-fifty, marked down to thirty-five. I get lots of sale options because nobody has feet this big. Drag queens, maybe. I love shoes. It’s so bad, I might have a problem.”

  “I like your feet. If they were any smaller, you’d tip over if you leaned forward.” I chuckled. “How much time?”

  Her expression went from a stink eye to a smile. “Just a few minutes. Why are we leaving so early again?”

  “Again? I never said. Just get ready, and you’ll see.” I kissed her. “I’ll be in the living room.”

  “Okay.”

  Bitter End, by Blind Pilot was playing when I walked into the living room. A song that made me yearn to have a father in my life, it typically ground against my nerves. I walked to the window, clenched my jaw, and peered out at the street.

  Saturday afternoons were slightly different than the weekdays, as the people who worked up and down the block were no longer parked along the curb. Most of the spaces were occupied by patrons of the coffee shop and several pubs that served lunch.

  A row of four Harleys was parked in front of the coffee shop. Inside, the small group of riders from a national Christian MC were having church. Unlike many of the one percent clubs that peered down their noses at clubs that didn’t claim the outlaw way of life, Devil’s Disciples accepted all bike clubs as having the potential of being equal.

  My eyes scanned the street. As the song ended, I turned toward the bedroom. After a few steps, goosebumps raised on my upper arms. I hesitated, turned toward the window, and took another look.

  A black Dodge Charger with tinted windows sat at the curb across the street. It was the same Dodge Charg
er I’d seen a few weeks prior, I was sure of it. The windows were too dark for me to see inside, but the black steel wheels that had replaced the standard aluminum alloy versions led me to believe my suspicions were correct.

  He was the man who was interested enough in my life to invade my home.

  Just wait, motherfucker.

  I’m coming for you.

  Pride took over, and I instinctively raised my middle finger high enough for him to see it. Before I lowered my hand, he provided all the proof I needed.

  He pulled away from the curb and drove away.

  THIRTY-NINE - Andy

  The heels of my shoes clanked against something each time I moved them. I leaned forward and looked under the front edge of the seat. A red fire extinguisher was secured beneath it, but within grasp of the passenger.

  Upon seeing it, I looked at Baker. “Who put a fire extinguisher under my seat and why?”

  His eyes remained fixed on the road. “It came that way.”

  I was puzzled. “You bought it that way? With a fire extinguisher?”

  He shifted gears with the switch on the steering wheel. The force of the acceleration pinned me to my seat. “They all come with one.”

  I checked my seatbelt. “Why?”

  He shifted again, and then merged in traffic. “You need one if you’re going to the racetrack.”

  “This is a race car?”

  “It’s a street-legal race car.”

  “How handy is that?” I asked, my tone sarcastic as hell. “You can go get groceries and then go race.”

  He grinned. “You sure could.”

  I gestured toward the rear of the car with my thumb. “The trunk’s kind of small, though.”

  He laughed. “That’s the engine compartment.”

  I looked behind me. “Back there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where’s the trunk?”

  He extended his index finger and pointed toward the hood. “Up there.”

  “We should be driving in reverse.” I laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It gives it perfect weight distribution.”

  “What if you put a watermelon and a few steaks under the hood?” I asked with a laugh. “Then you’d be top heavy or whatever.”

  “When you go to the racetrack, you make sure your watermelons are at home,” he said dryly.

  He didn’t see the humor in me making fun of the car. It was cute, but I wasn’t near as fascinated with it as he was. I’d become spoiled by the Saturday night bike rides, and I wasn’t thrilled that we were driving to who knows where at noon on a Saturday in his Porsche.

  After four hours, we stopped for gas. He filled the car, and we went into the gas station together to get a drink and snack.

  “We’re eating at this mystery place?” I asked.

  “We are. One more hour. Maybe forty-five minutes. We can get a snack.”

  I grabbed a Bottle of water and a sack of Doritos. Upon seeing them, he stopped and pointed to the rack of chips. “I don’t allow Doritos.”

  “In the car?”

  “Anywhere,” he said. “I’ll vomit.”

  “You’ll vomit if I eat them?”

  “I will.” He glared at the bag. “Can’t even stand to look at the damned things.”

  “Okay. Well.” I looked around the store. A display of Chex Mix caught my eye. “What about that?”

  “Fine with me. Doritos are my only no-no.”

  “Superstition?” I asked.

  “Actually, it is.”

  I grabbed a bag of nacho cheese flavored goodness. “I’ll get the Chex Mix, then.”

  He grabbed a Moon Pie and a Mountain Dew. On the way back to the car, I made a comment about the selection.

  “That doesn’t seem to fit you.”

  “Highway food is different than any other food. When I was a kid, my aunt and I would take a vacation every summer. She thought they’d settle me down, but they never did. I’d always get a Moon Pie and a Mountain Dew.”

  I paused. “What about your uncle? Did he go?”

  “She never married,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  It was a small piece of his life’s puzzle that I was able to snap into place. Piece by piece, I was sure that one day I’d get all the answers I needed.

  “We were talking about loyalty and trust earlier,” he said. “Keep in mind, with bikers, there’s nothing more important than that. Respect is the only thing that comes to mind.”

  “I know I’m a laugh a minute, but I’ll be my best around them. And, when we’re not around them.” I devoured a handful of snacks and then set the bag aside. “When I decided to do this, I realized that I’d have to be as devoted to this club as you are. So, I decided that’s where I stand. It’s the only way I could make it work in my head. I Googled a bunch of stuff before I came over with those signs. I’m pretty savvy about outlaw clubs.”

  He looked at me and grinned. “Oh, really?”

  “Uh huh. Respect. Give it and get it. Don’t talk about club business. Don’t ask questions. Don’t ever be seen around a cop. I’m pretty legit.”

  He shook his head and laughed. “Sounds like it.”

  “All joking aside. I’m not going to embarrass you.”

  He glanced at me. “I never thought you would.”

  I went back to eating my snacks, wondering when the day would come where I could get to know his brothers. It fascinated me that they’d been friends for a lifetime. Forty-five minutes later, we pulled into a place marked Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca. I read the sign and then looked at him side-eyed. “We’re at a race track?”

  “We are.”

  I wasn’t dressed for the occasion, and neither was he. I wasn’t thrilled in the least. “We’re going to watch a car race?”

  “No. We’re going to race a car.”

  As much as I didn’t want to be excited, I was. “We’re going to race?”

  “We are.”

  My eyes went wide. “Holy crap. Really?”

  “Really.”

  An hour later, even though he said I didn’t have to be, I was fitted with an awesome leather suit, a helmet, and some cool boots. I didn’t care that my hair and makeup were a mess, I was excited to see what the car with an engine in the trunk was all about.

  When we started the race, boredom immediately set in. Two minutes later, Baker announced that the tires were heated up, and he began to slaughter the competition.

  “The geometric line follows the radius of the track’s corners. That’s not where you want to be. You want to be on the racing line. It follows the outside edge as you come to a corner, then as soon as you hit the turn in point...” He took a corner so fast I thought I was going to vomit. “You turn to the inside edge.”

  Despite my thoughts that it would, the car didn’t squeal or slide. Baker downshifted, hit the throttle, and then upshifted, all with the steering wheel switches.

  He shifted the car from the right to the left, and passed a red car with little effort. “Then, back to the outside.”

  It made sense. Regardless of the radius of the track’s corners, the drivers attempted to make them as wide as they could, to prevent sliding out.

  After a few laps where we reached speeds of over one hundred and thirty miles an hour, I was hooked. When we passed cars, I mentally cheered. When we went in the corners, I held my breath. When we came out of the corners, I exhaled.

  I have no idea when I took a breath. I was too excited to figure it out.

  He gave me instructions as we drove, making sure I fully understood what it was he was explaining. When I was sure we were going to be declared the winner, he pulled the car off the track and by one of the buildings.

  He opened the door and got out. “Your turn.”

  “Oh my God, no,” I gasped. “I couldn’t--”

  “You can. Go as fast or as slow as you want.”

  “I don’t know how to drive a stick,” I said.

  “You don’t have to. All y
ou need to do is pull the paddles. The right is up a gear, and the left is down. I’ll instruct you.”

  “I don’t want to hurt it. This thing’s got to be expensive. I mean, crap, it came with that handy little fire extinguisher.”

  “It’s a car. I’m not worried. Drive it, please.” He looked at me with sad eyes. “It’s why we came.”

  I decided what the hell. With his instructions, I drove the car around the track six times. Although I didn’t go as fast as he did, I went over a hundred and ten miles an hour, and I even passed the same red car that he passed a few times.

  In the end, my hands were shaking, my head was spinning, and my pussy was soaked. It was a much different experience than the motorcycle, but equally satisfying. Maybe even more so, but for different reasons.

  After the race, we parked the car by the buildings. I removed my helmet and held it in my hands. I felt powerful. Accomplished. Different. The smell of rubber and hot exhaust caused my nostrils to flare as the sound of the exhaust made funny noises from cooling down. I swung the helmet back and forth and admired the car.

  “I’m glad I didn’t wreck it,” I said. “I’d probably have to work some overtime to pay for this little guy.”

  “Two hundred and thirty-nine thousand dollars’ worth,” he said with a laugh.

  I stumbled against the building’s wall as he revealed the value. “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious. It’s worth a little more than that, now. Maybe three hundred grand. These go up in value as time passes, as long as you take care of ‘em.”

  “You let me drive a three hundred-thousand-dollar car?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a car.”

  “An expensive one.”

  “Did you have fun?”

  I traced my finger over the top of my helmet and smiled. “I did.”

  “All that matters.” He leaned toward me and kissed me. “Is that you had fun.”

  Driving three-hundred-thousand-dollar cars wasn’t something I could ever get used to, but I had a feeling racing wasn’t the first – or the last – of the exciting things Baker was going to bring my way.

  In fact, I was sure of it.

  FORTY - Baker