Motorcycle Man

by Kristen Ashley

  Then, because I was an idiot, I asked, “Naomi’s on a tear about me?”

  “Yep,” Tack answered, mouth full.

  “Why?”

  “She don’t need a reason why, Red. She’ll get on a tear because the sun rose, then she’ll get on another one when it sets. She’s just a bitch.”

  “Why did you marry her?” I asked before taking another bite, his head turned and his eyes came to mine.

  “You been married?”

  I shook my head and his brows went up.

  “No shit?”

  I chewed, swallowed and affirmed, “No shit.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrugged and took another bite.

  “Babe, seriously, why not?”

  My eyes met his and my voice changed, it got soft when I said, “That’s really none of your business.”

  He held my eyes and he did this a long time.

  Then he replied quietly, “Fair enough.”

  I was surprised he gave in. So surprised, I was shocked. I was also somehow touched. It was a nice thing to do, letting it alone because I wanted him to and I didn’t know Tack had that in him.

  “So, why did you marry her? She doesn’t seem your type,” I brought the subject back in hand.

  “What’s my type?” he asked.

  “Not a woman who shouts at you and essentially stalks you,” I answered.

  He threw his head against the back of my couch and burst out laughing. He had a great laugh. It was as deep and gravelly as his voice. He also looked great laughing. I’d noted both of these things last Saturday night. I liked them then but I liked them a whole lot better in my living room.

  Oh boy.

  “So?” I prompted through his laughter.

  Tack’s laughter died down to a chuckle and he took a big bite of pizza, chewed, swallowed and looked back at me.

  “She married a soldier then found herself tied to a general,” he finally answered.

  “Pardon?”

  “There are soldier’s wives and there are general’s wives. Naomi ain’t no general’s wife. She liked the flow, she doesn’t like headache. A general needs a wife who can handle headache, do her bit to make ‘em better, not make ‘em worse.”

  I wasn’t certain I got this but I thought I did and I leaned forward to grab my beer, bowing my head to hide my face with my hair so he couldn’t see me when I asked, “So it wasn’t that you were cheating on her?”

  “According to Naomi it was.”

  I looked over my shoulder at him. He saw me do it, lifted his boots off my table and leaned forward too. Putting his elbows on his knees, his head turned to facing me and, surprisingly, he shared.

  “I filed for divorce, Red. She fought it. She didn’t want to be quit of me. I don’t know why. She was miserable, she made me miserable and she was makin’ my kids miserable. Life’s too short for that shit. After she figured out that she was in a fight she wasn’t gonna win, she started bitchin’ about me steppin’ out on her, spreadin’ that shit far and wide and workin’ so hard at it, she convinced herself. Honestly?”

  He stopped speaking and I realized he wanted me to answer the unspoken question of if I wanted the truth.

  I held his gaze, held my breath and nodded.

  He leaned slightly into me, his leg shifting so his knee touched mine and went on, “She turned into a bitch and I was pissed at her. What we had starting out was good. So good, I thought it would be that good for a lifetime. Not long after we made it legal, she started changing, it started goin’ bad and that’s all on her. She knew who I was and she knew what I wanted outta my life, it wasn’t me who changed. And it pissed me off that she made it turn bad. And it pissed me off more she made it turn as bad as it got which, darlin’, was seriously fuckin’ bad. What you saw was the tip of the iceberg with Naomi. She gets on a tear, she’s hell on wheels. So, I gotta tell you, I thought about it. I found myself not wantin’ to go home to that and wantin’ someone in my bed who wasn’t bustin’ my balls. So, I can’t say I didn’t look but before I found anything, I cut her loose. She was once a good woman but good woman or bad, no woman deserves that shit.”

  Oh hell, that was a really good answer.

  I let out my breath, nodded, grabbed my beer, took a sip then snatched another slice and sat back, lifting my legs to sit cross-legged on the couch.

  I felt him lean back as I was flicking more sausage off my pizza, my eyes slid to him and I felt something should be said. He was a scary biker dude but he laid it out for me, honest and straight.

  So I said softly, “That sucks, Tack. I’m sorry that happened and I’m sorry she’s still messing with your life.”

  “Better mine than yours,” he muttered and that was a good response too.

  “It still sucks,” I stated and his eyes caught mine.

  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “What sucks worse is in her mission to make me miserable she drags my kids into it. No hesitation. Now that sucks.”

  I tipped my head to the side to communicate my agreement then I looked down at my plate and took a bite of pizza.

  Then I heard him order, “Fire up the TV, Red,” and my eyes swiftly moved back to his.

  “Pardon?”

  “Turn on the TV,” he semi-repeated.

  I stared at him then turned my head to look at my TV then I looked back at him.

  “I don’t have TV.”

  His brows knitted, his eyes went to the TV then came back to me.

  Then he asked, “So what’s in the corner? A piece of modern art?”

  I smiled at him because he was being kind of funny and answered, “No, I mean, I don’t have cable and I only get one channel, PBS, and it comes in fuzzy.”

  He studied me then slowly asked, “You don’t have cable?”

  “I don’t watch TV,” I told him.

  “You don’t watch TV,” he repeated.

  “No. I only use the TV to watch movies.”

  “You don’t watch TV,” he said again.

  “No, I don’t watch TV.”

  “You drink tea, do yoga and don’t watch TV,” he stated.

  “Yep,” I answered.

  “Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head, a small smile playing at his mouth then he ordered, “Then fire up a movie.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You got movies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fire one up.”

  This was not good and the reason it was not good was because this was good. I didn’t want to admit it but I was enjoying this. The beer tasted good, the pizza tasted great and Tack being funny, honest and forthcoming was even better.

  I was in trouble.

  “Tack –” I started.

  “Fire up a movie, Red.”

  “I –”

  He leaned into me and I leaned back but his torso was longer so his face got in mine. “Fire up a movie.”

  I looked into his eyes. They were really, really blue.

  Oh hell.

  Then without my permission my mouth formed the words, “What do you want to watch?”

  Tack leaned slightly back. “Your choice. Put in your favorite movie.”

  I stared into his eyes. Then I informed him, “I don’t think you’ll like my favorite movie.”

  “Do they speak English in it?”

  I couldn’t help it, I smiled again. Then I answered, “Yes.”

  “Then fire it up.”

  I sighed, made my stupid, stupid, stupid decision and murmured, “Oh, all right,” then uncrossed my legs, put my plate down on the table and went to my TV. I opened the cabinet under it and sorted through my DVDs, found what I was looking for and “fired it up”.

  I unearthed my remote that I hid in a drawer in an end table, resumed my seat next to Tack, grabbed my plate and sat back, eyes pinned to the TV and started the movie.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tack muttered, “Jesus, Red, what is this?”

  “The Color Purple,” I answered, not looking at him.

&nb
sp; He said no more and I didn’t either. I finished my pizza, finished my beer and started another one and, as usual, got lost in one of the most devastating, most beautiful movies of all time. That was, I got lost in the movie until I started crying. When I started crying, I became acutely aware of Tack’s presence. I didn’t want Tack to see or hear me crying so I pressed my lips together and tried to breathe steady in an effort to control my tears as I kept my eyes glued to the screen.

  This didn’t work and I knew it didn’t when I suddenly felt his fingers at my chin and he forced my face in his direction. I tried not to catch his eyes but this was difficult because I liked the way they roamed my face with that warm look in them. Then as suddenly as his fingers took hold of my chin, they let it go, his arm went around my shoulders, he pulled me into his side and again lifted his feet to put on the coffee table. He slouched, taking me into his slouch so I had no choice but to slouch with him. I did actually have a choice but I told myself I didn’t and lifted my legs to rest my heels against the armrest as my side and back settled into his side and my head settled on his shoulder.

  I knew I shouldn’t lie like that. I knew it but I liked it. His body was warm and hard, his arm strong and the movie inspired a variety of deep emotions. It was good to have a warm, hard, strong body close when watching it. I’d never done it but I liked it so I did it.

  When the credits rolled, I wiped the new tears from my face, twisted in his arm, placed my hand lightly on his chest and tipped my head back to look at him to see he was already looking down at me.

  “What did you think?” I whispered.

  “She shoulda cut his throat with the razor,” Tack replied and I grinned.

  Definitely scary biker dude.

  Then I said, “She didn’t have that in her.”

  “Right,” he muttered.

  “And if she did, he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to learn how to be a better person and find absolution.”

  Tack stared at me intently for a few beats. Then he repeated quietly, “Right.”

  “So did you like it?” I pressed.

  “Not really a movie you like, Red,” he answered.

  “I think it’s beautiful,” I whispered.

  “Not sure you understand the concept of beauty, darlin’.”

  “Truth, honesty, perseverance, strength, love of all kinds and forgiveness are all beautiful, Tack. The most beautiful stories ever told are the most difficult to take.”

  For a few more beats he again stared at me intently then he said, this time on a whisper, “Right,” and his eyes didn’t release mine.

  I liked him looking at me like that. I liked him being like this. I liked pizza, beer and sad movies with an easy-to-be-with Tack. This was what I thought I’d found a week ago and here it was, in my living room.

  God, what did I do now?

  “You got any movies that don’t make you cry?” Tack asked and I blinked up at him.

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  He shifted me off him, lifted his legs off the coffee table, got up and went to my TV. He ejected the DVD, crouched in front of the cabinet and then dug through it, pulling out DVDs at random and totally ruining the alphabetical organization of my films. Then he opened a case, slid in another DVD and came back to the couch. He grabbed the remote from the end table and then he settled in again.

  And when he settled, he did not slouch. He did not put his feet up on the table. No, he laid down flat on his back, ankles crossed, head on a toss pillow on the armrest. While he did this, he arranged me tucked into his side with my back to the back of the couch and my front plastered down his side.

  Oh boy. Maybe it was time for me to start being smart.

  I lifted up with a hand in his chest and looked down at him.

  His eyes were on the TV and his arm with the remote in his hand was stretched out and aimed at the TV.

  “Tack –”

  He didn’t even look at me when he muttered, “Relax, Red.”

  I started to push up from his chest and his arm around my waist got tight as his head turned my way.

  Then he whispered, “Relax.”

  I stared down at him. He turned his head back to the TV, hit some buttons and then tossed the remote on the coffee table. His arm curled me deeper into his body as his other hand went behind his head.

  Speed started on the TV.

  “Tack –”

  “Relax.”

  “Um –”

  Another squeeze and his head turned to me.

  “Baby,” he said softly in his gravelly voice, I felt that one word in my belly and it felt nice. “Relax.”

  His eyes were warm, his arm was tight and his body against me was hard.

  I bit my lip.

  Then I made another decision and relaxed.

  An hour later, I fell asleep with my cheek to Tack’s chest, my arm curved around his gut and my legs tangled in his.

  * * * * *

  I woke up confused.

  It was dark and I was trapped in some kind of comfy cocoon. I sluggishly surveyed my situation and it hit me that I was sleeping on the couch with Tack. My head was cushioned on his bicep, my cheek pressed to his chest, his forearm was wrapped around my shoulders, his other arm resting on my waist. My arm was draped around his, my leg was hitched over his hip and his leg was cocked and resting between mine.

  Okay, damn, this felt nice. Beautiful. Special. Perfect.

  Maybe I wasn’t wrong a week ago because this felt right.

  Really right.

  Dreamy.

  I snuggled closer. Tack’s arm around my waist tightened unconsciously before it went loose again and a second later, I fell back to sleep.

  * * * * *

  I was being lifted and I opened my eyes to see weak light in the room.

  It was dawn.

  My arm automatically slid around Tack’s neck and I whispered, “Tack.”

  “Sh, baby,” he whispered back, walking and carrying me.

  I pressed my forehead into his neck and sighed.

  Then I felt myself going down and I was in my bed, head on my pillow. I turned to my side and my eyes slid to him to see Tack standing beside the bed pulling the covers over me.

  “Are you leaving?” I asked quietly.

  “Got things to do,” he answered just as quietly.

  “Okay,” I whispered, my eyes drifting closed and, as they did this, I felt the sweet sweep of his thumb across the apple of my cheek.

  Then I felt his presence leaving me, my eyes drifted open and I saw he’d almost made it to my bedroom door.

  “Tack?” I called, he stopped and turned.

  “Yeah, baby.”

  “Thanks for dinner.”

  He grinned and it was no less sexy when I was half asleep.

  “You’re welcome darlin’,” he replied and I grinned back as my eyes drifted closed again. Then I heard a muttered, “Pepperoni next time,” before I fell back to sleep.

  Chapter Six

  We Play This My Way

  I was in my office at Ride. It was the Thursday after the second Saturday night I’d spent with Tack. The second Saturday night I’d mistaken him for my motorcycle dream man. The second Saturday night where I made the way wrong decisions and acted so stupid I’d humiliated myself.

  Four and a half days of nothing from Tack. Not one thing.

  This did not mean I didn’t see him. I saw him. I saw him roaring in on his bike. I saw him standing outside the Compound talking to his biker brethren. I saw him working in the garage.

  I did not see him anywhere around me. He didn’t come into the office and he didn’t pay another surprise visit to my house. But he was at Ride and he was either doing a bang up job of avoiding me or he forgot I existed.

  Now I was a slut and an idiot and I decided that being a slut was more fun. A lot more fun. Being an idiot, melting toward Tack, letting him in over beer, pizza, sad movies and snuggling on my couch only to have him shut me out was not fun at all.


  He’d used me. He needed a place to crash that Naomi couldn’t find so he showed at my door with pizza and turned on the biker charm to get what he needed to keep clear of his crazy, bitchy, stalker ex-wife.

  And I’d let him. I’d even thanked him for a dinner I didn’t want to eat in the first damned place.

  Yep. Totally an idiot.

  My cell chirped on my desk, I picked it up, saw a text from Lanie, flipped it open and read it even though I knew what it was going to say.

  Did you give notice yet?

  This was the same text she sent six times a day, every day, since Tuesday when I realized that I’d been an idiot with Tack (again) and I’d shared this knowledge with her. She went from thinking he was a jerk to actively hating him. This was not surprising. This was what best friends did. Before Elliott, I’d done the same thing with numerous boyfriends of Lanie’s.

  No, I texted back.

  Five seconds later, I received, I’ll pay for your yoga classes until you get a new job.

  Yesterday, she started an incentive strategy. We were up to once a month facials at her favorite salon, weekly invitations to Takeaway Thursday at her and Elliott’s place and now yoga classes.

  I’ve applied three places. Give it time. I sent back.

  Is he there today? She returned.

  He was. He was currently in the garage working on that kickass red car I noticed no one touched but him. He was also currently avoiding me or forgetting I existed. It was nearly two in the afternoon. I’d heard him roar in at nine forty-five (I’d heard it and like the idiot I was, whenever I heard any bike roar in for the past four and half days, I’d looked), he’d sauntered into the garage and I hadn’t seen him since.

  Yes, he’s here. I told Lanie.

  I’m emailing you your letter of resignation now. You just have to print it, sign it and give it to him. Easy. Lanie replied.

  She’d written my letter of resignation. Totally Lanie. I smiled at the phone. Then the door to the garage opened, I looked up and Tack stood there.

  Damn.

  I felt my smile fade and my throat clog at the same time my palm itched to find something to throw at him.

  He walked right to my desk, eyes on me, hand to his back pocket and he said, “Do me a favor, babe. I’m starved. Go out and get me a sandwich.”