Eleanor was looking around the room, and Riley knew she was cataloguing the guests, making note of people she should stop and chat briefly with, as was the way in this world. She didn’t notice Riley and Bart until they were maybe six or eight feet from the table. She began to smile, but as understanding cleared her eyes, her expression became aghast. Ever the exemplary socialite, she recovered quickly, but her eyes darted around, and Riley knew that now she was cataloguing the people who’d noticed Riley’s entrance with the broad-shouldered man wearing a biker’s kutte. Which would be everyone.
“Hi, Mother. I’d like you to meet Bart Elstad. Bart, this is my mother, Eleanor Piedmont. Mother, you spoke to Bart on the phone once, if you remember.”
Eleanor’s attention was fixed on their linked hands. Bart held out his right, the one with the leather bands and the big tattoo. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Despite her pale shock, Eleanor didn’t miss a beat. With a glance at his ink, she took Bart’s hand. “Yes. Lovely. Well, please do sit down.”
When the server had brought drinks (Bart had ordered a Jack Daniels, straight up, which was unusually downscale for the normal patrons here and caused the server to blink) and then had gone away again with their lunch order (Bart had ordered the vitello parmigiana, and had pronounced it well, which had impressed Riley and surprised Eleanor), Eleanor turned to Riley, as if Bart weren’t even at the table, and asked, “What on earth do you think you’re doing—bringing him to California at all, but bringing him here?”
“You picked the place, Mother.”
“Well, I certainly would not have if I had known you were going to bring your pet biker out to lunch with you. Riley, think! My God, how many pictures were taken of you walking into the restaurant? Were you holding hands out there, too? And what if there are long-range zoom lenses out there? You know there are.”
At that, Riley felt Bart’s hand on the back of her neck. He leaned toward her, and she turned, knowing what he was going to do. He raised his eyebrows, and she nodded, reading the question he was asking. Then he kissed her. Hard. Full tongue. And he took his time. When he sat straight again, Eleanor’s color had gone from waxy pale to what could best be described as puce, and the tables nearest them had gone strangely quiet, but only for a second or two.
“What are you doing?” She drank down her full glass of wine in three swallows.
“You wanted me to bang Tanner to get the press talking about something besides Devon.” Bart’s hand was on her knee, and it clamped hard around her at that, but for now, she only set her hand over his to calm him, and continued. “I think I’d rather go one better and have an actual relationship with an actual person I love.”
At that, Eleanor laughed viciously. She had never directed that kind of bile at Riley before. “Love? Oh, please, Riley. You are so naïve. You say you want to run your own life, and then you do something like this? It’s absurd. He’s absurd. I won’t have it. You are clearly incapable of making a wise decision. You need to stand back and let those of us who know better take care of you.”
“You don’t know your daughter at all, do you?” It was the first time Bart had spoken since he’d told Eleanor it was nice to meet her. Now, she turned frigid eyes on him and literally looked down her nose at him.
“Who are you to say anything? Who are you to make any observation about my relationship with my daughter? My only child? You’ve known her for, what, six weeks? At the topmost limit? Don’t you dare presume to make a claim about how well I know my Riley!”
She’d shouted. Eleanor Piedmont never shouted. She most certainly did not shout in a restaurant crowded with entertainment illuminati—all of whom were now silently watching the show.
Riley stood up, and Bart stood with her. “That’s just the problem, Mother. I’m not your Riley. I’m my Riley. Deal with it or don’t, it’s up to you. But until you do, we’re through. And either way, Bart is with me. Deal with that, too. Have a nice lunch.”
She turned and headed to the door. Bart caught her hand and pulled her back to move in front of her, shielding her as he led her outside. Their lunch hadn’t yet arrived.
When they got out of the restaurant, Riley’s knees buckled, and Bart caught her and led her to stand against the frescoed façade of the building. Riley could hear the frenetic click of cameras—and then she saw the paparazzi, like the carrion feeders they were, beginning to close in on them. Bart leaned protectively over her, his hands on the wall on either side of her head.
“Can you ride, babe? I’ll get you out of here, but you have to be able to keep your seat.” He turned his head to the side. “Or I can just knock this asshole right here out, give you some room to breathe.” Riley looked and saw a photographer about six feet away, clicking shots off madly. If they stood here much longer, they’d be surrounded.
“I can ride. I’m okay. Just freaked out, mainly.”
He pulled her into the shelter of his arms. “Okay. Let’s get you home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Their picture was everywhere. On every cover, at the top of every feed, on all the entertainment news shows. An obscured image of their restaurant kiss got some play, but the one that had really captured the attention of the world was of Bart sheltering Riley against the wall of the restaurant. Second to that, a snap of them riding away, Riley’s hands linked low on his waist, her head resting sideways on his back.
His Scorpions kutte featured strongly in both.
In the two weeks since the lunch-that-wasn’t, there had been a marked upswing in the number of photographers who showed up whenever Bart took Riley out in public. They’d started to cluster on the street outside her house, too. But the paparazzi stayed well away from the Scorpions compound, and that was good.
In fact, so far, there didn’t seem to be any negative blowback from the publicity. The talk track of the entertainment commentators was positive, painting Bart as an alpha hero, taking care of his dainty woman. One intrepid blogger had done an image match and figured out that Bart was one of the Signal Bend Bikers, as the Horde were known out in the world. When that story broke, about a week in, Bart had gone into the clubhouse more than half expecting to get his head blown off, but all Hoosier, his new President, had said was, Stay on top of it. And now the Scorps were giving him affable shit, calling him Prince Charming.
If he wasn’t careful, he was going to end up with a very annoying road name, something he’d avoided in seven years of association with the Horde.
When he’d been outed as former Horde, the blogosphere had erupted, and now the story was that they’d found true love when Riley was researching her part (which was true), and her heroic biker, unable to be parted from her, had given up his club family to be with her (which worked, in terms of truthiness). Entertainment news was hardly ever interested in truth or depth, so that was the story that took. Soon it would be the only truth anybody cared about, and that worked strongly in their favor—Riley, Bart, and the Scorpions.
The reality show talks had gotten hotter, with bigger numbers in the offer. The patches doing TA and stunt work were getting more calls. The bike shop was starting to get more work than it could handle. All in the past two weeks. The Scorpions LA were riding a high tide of public regard, simply because Bart had taken Riley to Farfalla to meet her mother for lunch. It gave him some room in the clubhouse, definitely.
Eleanor wasn’t coming off very well in the story. A lot of people had heard her shouting, demeaning Riley, and not everyone in that restaurant was averse to sharing gossip with the media. So it was also known that Riley’s mother had made a scene, insulting her and being rude to her handsome, heroic biker. The spin was sharp enough to slice, and Eleanor was on the wrong end of it.
That seemed to have encouraged her to reconsider her approach to her daughter, and a few days ago, Riley and her mother reached a détente. Since then, Bart had been in the same room with her twice, and she’d been civil enough.
Moving around in Riley’s
life was taking some adjustment, but everything about living in L.A. was taking some adjustment. Bart had grown up in coastal cities where his dad was stationed, so urban life wasn’t that unusual to him. But he’d been in a tiny town for a lot of years, most of his adult life, and L.A. was a different kind of urban. The Scorpions, though this charter was a lot easier than the mother charter, much easier than he’d been anticipating, were a different kind of club. And Riley’s very public life was a different kind of living.
And it was almost always public, even when she was home. Her house was practically as busy as the clubhouse. He was shocked at the number of people who just let themselves in—Trevor, obviously. Pru. Eleanor. Marta, Riley’s housekeeper and cook. Shit, even the gardener had keys to her garage, where her fucking $200,000 car lived.
Her $200,000 Ferrari. Her amazing house on the hill overlooking the what seemed like the entire L.A. Basin—a house she insisted was ‘modest,’ and after attending a party with her at a more famous person’s house, he understood what she meant.
And shit, at that party, he’d had an actual conversation with last year’s winner of the Best Supporting Actor Oscar. Standing at the bar, talking engines with the guy. Jesus Christ.
That life was nothing he understood.
And neither was this one.
He dismounted and set his helmet on the handlebars, then joined Hoosier and five more of his new brothers as they crossed a dusty span of empty land just southwest of Escondido and met the representatives of the Perro Blanco cartel.
Bart lined up with Lakota, Diaz, Sherlock, and Connor, all of them with their legs wide and their arms loose at their sides. They were all wearing double shoulder rigs and ready to use the guns resting in them. Hoosier and Blue, his SAA, stood forward, meeting two cartel primaries, a like array of soldiers behind them. They were making an exchange: guns for coke. The Scorps ran guns south and drugs north. This was a friendly exchange, but cartels were fractious organizations, and you didn’t go into a meeting unprepared to take fire.
Or so Bart had been told. His job was supposed to keep him in the clubhouse, working intel. And he believed, for the most part, that would be true. This was the first run they’d brought him in on in his three weeks in town. But, coming in as a patched officer without prospecting first, he had to prove his loyalty on the road. And he was going to need to do his miles, anyway. Unlikely they’d let him log them all on charity runs.
But this gig was nothing at all like the outlaw runs the Horde had done. Then, there, for the most part, with a few very notable exceptions, the biggest risk was getting pulled down by law. Now, here, the risk was getting Swiss-cheesed by a hotheaded Mexican with an AK.
The exchange went off smoothly. When the leads had their business done, the soldiers unloaded and reloaded their vans, exchanging one cargo for the other. Then the Scorpions turned around and headed north, delivering their new cargo to its distributor.
When they got back to the compound, the only cargo they still carried was two large black duffels full of cash, their payments for the run.
No more Robin Hood. He was a real outlaw now. Full stop.
~oOo~
The next day Bart stood on the set of Signal Bend and watched Tanner Stafford fuck his girl.
Well, not exactly. But close enough that it was all he could do to stay where he was and not jump in front of the cameras and beat the unholy shit out of that son of a bitch. His girl was up on that bed wearing nothing more than a little beige G-string, and Tanner was up there in nothing but the same, and he was sucking on her actual tits. No fucking make-believe about it. There were a good dozen people on the set with them, all of them watching as Riley arched her back and moaned.
He knew what those tits were like. He knew how she felt when they were sucked. That was for him. Only for him. Jesus Christ, he was going to lose his fucking mind.
His fists were clenched so hard he could feel his palms getting wet with blood. His whole body was that tense, so rigid his head ached, red pain pulsing behind his eyes.
It didn’t matter that the director was telling them what to put where. It didn’t matter that they’d stop and start and move and be still according to what that dude—Gerry Blakely, he was famous, whatever—said, or that every time he said, ‘cut,’ and they changed something, both Riley and Tanner came completely out of the moment.
What mattered was that somebody else was lying on top of his girl—and oh, shit, now Blakely had her on her hands and knees. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. That was so not going to happen. He took a step forward, and then he felt a hand on his arm. He jerked it away and looked over. Eleanor. Well, that was just awesome.
“What?” He snarled. She’d been decent to him for the past few days, or at least not outright shitty, but he was not in the mood to be nice to her.
“Why don’t you come over here with me and talk while they work? They have some really lovely pastries at the craft services table. Fresh coffee, too.”
“No.” He was going to stay right where he was. Who the fuck knew what was going to happen next.
“Bart. She’s just doing her job. She doesn’t even like Tanner.”
“He likes her.”
“Why should that matter? Come with me before you make things difficult for her. Come on, you know this is part of the job.”
Yeah, he knew. He’d already borne up under the sight of her making out with Tanner—twice. It had happened more than that, he knew, but he hadn’t been able to be on set to monitor the situation those other times. He knew that Riley was frustrated with his insistence on being present, since he was always so mad after, but he had no choice. When he wasn’t here, he imagined her enjoying these scenes, and it made him practically homicidal. But this, what was happening now, was so very much worse.
But he wasn’t going anywhere. Eleanor finally gave up and simply stood next to him, her hand on his arm.
Boiling acid rolled around in Bart’s gut as Tanner simulated taking Riley from behind. He stood there and listened to her making come sounds—they weren’t her come sounds, they were the come sounds Blakely was telling her to make, and that was the only thing keeping Bart’s feet where they were. Blakely finally called “Cut! Print!” And that was the end of this torturous scene. A girl in a headset trotted up with a robe for Riley, who was staring across the set at Bart, her expression equal parts compassionate and furious—and something else he couldn’t name. And then Tanner stood up, eschewing the robe that had been offered him.
He was hard as a goddamn rock.
Bart lost his shit. He tore past the cameras and the lights and the sound equipment and the people and flew at Tanner Stafford, ignoring Riley’s shouted pleas to stop. He had that asshole on the floor and he got three good swings in before a couple of huge security goons dragged him back. One of them punched him in the side of the head, and the lights went out.
~oOo~
He came to in her trailer, lying on the couch. Riley was sitting in a chair, watching him. Fuck, his head hurt. That security guy had been a beast. He blinked to clear his eyes and then sat up, groaning and holding his head. He focused on Riley.
She’d been crying. She wasn’t now, but she obviously had been, and for some time. Her eyes were red and puffy.
“Hey, babe. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? You dick. Are you kidding me? Tanner’s face is a fucking mess. You just pushed back the wrap date by at least a week. I just got shouted at by Gerry and Stan both. I’m to blame because I brought you on set. Because I trusted you to be an adult about it. What’s wrong. Fuck you!”
He leaned forward, ignoring the angry pounding behind his left eye, and reached for her hand. She yanked it away. “Riley, I’m sorry. I saw him standing there with a huge boner, and I just lost my shit. I can’t deal with that, with him on you like that. All over you.”
“Then stay away! This is my work! It’s just work! It’s not like he’s actually fucking me!”
“I can’t stay away
! I go even crazier imagining what’s going on than I do seeing it!”
“Bart, it’s more than today. It’s the way you’re such a moody jerk for hours after a scene where I even kiss him. Like you think I was cheating. God! Can’t you see? This isn’t going to work if you’re going to be so jealous.” She sobbed once, and then took a breath. He could see her fighting for calm, and he felt like the dick she said he was.
“After the holidays, I start filming the new season. You watch the show, right?”
“Yeah.” His head hurt too much to follow the leap from what Tanner was doing to her on this movie to her regular TV job.
“Well, Desdemona has a steady boyfriend, right? Corson? They make out—at least—almost every episode. I am going to kiss other men all the time—Jon Gunther in particular, what with him playing Demi’s boyfriend and all.”
Right. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m drawing a line here, Bart. You have to get right with it. You have to trust me. If you can’t, then we can’t do this.”
He wasn’t about to even consider the possibility of not doing this. There was a solution. There had to be. “You said you didn’t have to work.”
Her eyes went wide, and then they went hot, and, too late, he understood the subtext of his statement.
“I don’t have to, but I want to, and I am not giving up a job I like because you’re a fucking territorial douchebag.”
“No, I didn’t mean—can’t you choose, though? Be selective?”
She put her hands on her knees, her arms locked straight, in a classic posture of someone trying not to explode. When she looked up, her eyes were still flashing fire, but her voice was calmer. “I will choose the roles that I think are interesting. I will not choose them based upon whether or not you’ll turn into an incoherent rage monster because you don’t trust me enough to believe that I am unaffected by choreographed, simulated sex in front of a crew of people and with a camera in my face.”
Alone on Earth Page 27
