Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance (6 page)

“What can I get ya, menu’s on the wall,” A stout man dressed in a white wife beater and dirty white/gray apron with a white cap perched on his head asked. The stub of an old cigar clenched between his teeth as he talked should have put me off, but I was too hungry to give a flying rat’s ass.

“Cheeseburger, Cajun fries and a strawberry shake,” I quickly said, after taking mere seconds to glance over the chalkboard menu with a dozen or so items to choose from.

“You want gravy with that?” he asked, adjusting his cigar with his tongue while he wrote my order on a note pad.

I tried to put the thought of what the kitchen looked like out of my mind, and who would be preparing my meal. Most times it was better not knowing these things.

“No thanks.”

I sat fiddling with my GPS while I waited, making sure I had the lawyer’s address saved. I knew I did, but I was getting anxious, I was so close now.

The waiter, if you could call him that, came with a large tray propped on his shoulder and started placing plates on the table, two burgers, two orders of fries and two milk shakes, one chocolate the other strawberry. I could pack it away for the petite size of me, but this was a ridiculous amount of food. Just as I was about to protest, a body slipped into the booth opposite me.

“You skipped breakfast, Bella,” my preppy lover boy said, as he lifted the chocolate shake and took a long haul from the straw. “You must be famished. Eat, don’t let me stop you.”

“Don’t call me that, and what are you doing here?” I asked, but all he gave me was a shrug accompanied with a grin pasted on his sweet face. For a preppy boy he sure was lethal, he had my heart pumping a little bit faster and my panties lit on fire.

“Eat before your burger gets cold already,” he told me, offering me a fry, holding it a few inches from my mouth.

I glared, ignoring his offered fry while I opened the ketchup bottle and poured a generous amount onto my burger. I took an impressively large bite from my burger, leaving the lady in me at the door and watched a smile spread across his face. He chuckled as he reached out his hand, and wiped ketchup from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. It was a sweet gesture, but when he sucked the ketchup from his thumb and then licked across his lips while he hummed, my thighs clamped together, and I nearly swallowed my tongue.

“You don’t remember last night, do you?” he asked, while chewing on a few fries.

“So what if I don’t?” I asked, the snootiness in my tone uncalled for, he was only trying to make conversation. But I was uncomfortable, wondering if I had made a fool of myself acting like a whore. My defenses were up.

“Too bad,” he winked. “It was a beautiful thing we shared, Bella.”

“Why do you insist on calling me that?” I asked, shoving my burger away. “I hate it.”

He pushed my plate back in front of me. “At the bar you told me your name was Bella and insisted I buy you another drink. I won’t call you bitch.”

To tell the truth, I liked the way my name sounded when he said it. I shrugged and gave in with a simple one word agreement, “Fine.”

“Don’t you want to know mine?” he asked, popping the last of his fries into his mouth while I stared.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ll never see you again after we leave here, so there’s not much need in me knowing it.”

Preppy boy looked almost hurt. There was sudden sadness in his eyes as he looked down at his half-finished burger and something strange, like guilt, settled in my gut. I studied his face as if for the first time. His eyes were so electric blue as they shone beneath his heavy dark lashes. His features were chiseled like a marble statue, his nose perfectly straight, his cheek bones beautifully defined and even his ears looked like they had been carefully sculpted from clay. He was unlike any man I had ever encountered, so unlike the men I found myself attracted to. But I found myself drawn to him in a way I hadn’t before today. This feeling was all sudden and brand new, as he looked over at me and our eyes reunited.

I wanted him.

What we shared, as he put it, could be nothing more than a casual one night stand. Even if I wanted it to be more, my Uncle Ace would put a swift stop to it. He already had me hitched in his mind to Breeze, one of his most loyal and oldest friends, old being the operative word, he had to have been the same age if not older than my uncle. My morbid future flashed in my head as I cringed, drawing a narrowed brow from my companion.

“First name only then, anything more would just be creepy,” I told him.

He smiled, shaking his head. “Blake.”

Now there was a straight laced, right out of college, football hero name if I had ever heard one. I laughed and he scowled, which made me laugh all the more.

“I have to go,” I blurted, looking at the clock on the wall, tossing a twenty onto the table and grabbing my GPS. “It’s been a slice…Blake.”

“Until we meet again, Be-” he let his words fall, as a smirk crossed his face. “I think I’ll leave it at that.”

He made me laugh and he laughed too, as we both stood and he leaned forward, kissing my cheek. He was adorable, but needed putting in his place.

“There won’t be a next time, an again moment, and our paths will never cross,” I told him, clamping my hand on his shoulder, my palm doing the happy dance as his muscles twitched beneath it. “Get over me and move on.”

“I’ll try,” he said melodramatically, holding his hand to his heart with a panty melting smile. “Safe trip, Bella.”

“Urgh…” I groaned as I stormed out the door and turned back, catching him watching me through the window. He was infuriatingly handsome and waved as I carefully backed up and drove off.

The Hollow’s Landing population marker came into sight as I came to the end of the old rumble bridge over Cold River. I was home. As I slowly drove along Main Street, I was amazed at how little had changed. The red, white and blue barber pole failed to turn anymore, but it still read Mr. Trims over the doorway and Hollow’s Hardware with its blue and white striped awning looked as if nothing had ever been sold, even the paintbrush that Jack had hand painted on the large window was faded, but still there.

Sure there was a new restaurant, an addition added onto Jr’s repair shop and the grocery store looked a bit more modern with a much needed face lift, but no matter the cosmetics masking it, it would always be Hollow’s Landing where I grew up.

A few blocks away from the lawyer’s office, I pulled onto the shoulder of the road to kill time since I wasn’t expected until five pm sharp and had no desire to sit in a stuffy office for half an hour.

Talk about a one horse town. In the thirty minutes or so that I had been waiting only one car passed by, and clearly from the make of the vehicle, it was passing through, no one living here drove an Audi.

As I tightened the strap on my helmet, I heard the distinctive roar of an Indian motorcycle as it approached. The flat black paintjob on the Chief Dark Horse was impressive. The rider’s helmet was solid black, the visor sealing his identity. I was sure it was no one I knew, since the man’s black leather chaps and jacket bore no club insignia that I could see. He obviously belonged to no one, not a true biker, the Sunday afternoon type. I snorted as I climbed onto my bike and started her up.

The lawyer’s office was located on the main floor of a refurbished 19th Century house, a few blocks south of Main Street. The plaque on the right side of the door read The Law Offices of George P.F. Fielding, and the hinges on the door creaked eerily like something out of a horror movie as I opened it and stepped inside. It smelled like a mix of Lavender and old books, rather nauseating actually. It reminded of a funeral home with its hushed atmosphere and piped in elevator music playing from somewhere deep in the belly of the building. The halls were painted a drab beige, the skirting, doors and moldings all stark white and yet the place still felt creepy and dungeon-esc. I shook the thought from my head and moved ahead along the hall to the reception desk.

A sweet little old lady was waiting there to greet me with a bubbly inviting smile. With her reading glasses perched on her nose, she put down her nub of a pencil and folded her hands together resting them on her desk.

“You must be Miss Romano, Mr. Fielding’s five o’clock,” she said, and pointed to two chairs along the far wall. “Take a seat dear, and I will let him know you’re here.”

“Thanks,” I said, sitting and crossing my legs, allowing my dangling foot to wave restlessly.

The creaky front door sounded even spookier from a distance away, as it opened and closed and I watched the receptionist hold her hand up and wave.

“Mr. Holden, you’re late,” she cheerfully scolded. “He’s in his office waiting for you.”

“Thanks, Miss Fitch,” I heard a male voice call out. There was a familiarity in that voice that sent a shiver up my spine, but from my vantage point I couldn’t see him, I could only hear a telephone chime and his footsteps as he ran up the wooden stairs.

I thought maybe that voice belonged to someone from my past, a high school friend maybe, but I quickly forced the thought away. My past was exactly that, the past. There was no place in my world for my past to fit, my Uncle Ace had seen to that. It still astonished me that he had allowed me the freedom to make this trip without one of his boys latched at my side. Rarely did I get a moment to myself, let alone the liberty to ride across two states without a set of lackeys. What’s worse was what I would be returning to…my wedding day.

“You can go on up, Miss Romano,” Miss Fitch said, startling me. “Top of the stairs, second door on the right, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” I said, making sure to give her my best smile.

Stepping onto the top landing, I noted it looked like any other family home, all the doors closed, bar one. I could distinctly hear two male voices, one a touch more baritone than the other, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I stepped forward and the floor let out a tortured groan as the wood moved under my weight.

“Come right in, Miss Romano,” the more baritone of the two called out.

An older man dressed in dark blue jeans and a soft yellow golf shirt approached, taking my hand in his and shaking while the other held my elbow escorting me into the room, as if he was scared I’d run away. I tittered, my nerves getting the best of me as he stepped aside exposing the other occupant in the room.

“I’m Mr. Fielding, you can call me George,” he told me, as my jaw dropped open and I gasped. “And this is Blake Holden.”

I could feel all of the blood rushing to my feet and my head starting to spin as preppy boy rose to his feet with an awkward smile. My knees started to buckle. I could feel myself slowly lowering to the floor as preppy boy’s arms enveloped my waist.

“Grab a chair, George,” he called out, a few seconds before I felt something push under me. “Let me grab you some water.”

Before I knew which way was up, preppy boy was knelt between my legs helping me take sips from a glass as a flash of him naked caused me to choke. He was so handsome, so beautiful and so not supposed to be here.

“What the fuck,” I said, shoving the glass away. “Are you stalking me, you sick fucker?”

“Bella,” he said, with an apprehensive look on his face. “We need to talk.”

“Talk?” I laughed angrily, as my stomach knotted. “Did my Uncle Ace pay you to follow me?”

His brows knit together, his eyes narrowing as he rose to his feet. “I don’t know anyone named Ace…come with me and I’ll explain everything.” He held out his hand. “Would you give us a minute, George?”

“As long as it takes, Blake,” Mr. Fielding said, nodding his head like an obedient puppy.

My hand slipped into his, his warm palm heating mine. Like an electric current had been passed between us, I felt my heart start to thaw and my stomach fill with butterflies. Stupid butterflies. I didn’t want to like the feel of him or the way his possessive touch ignited something inside me, making my breath hitch and my heart skip a beat. I didn’t want to feel anything but the miserable me I had become. I attempted to pull my hand free, only to cause his hold to tighten.

Across the hall, he opened the door and pulled me into what looked like a copy room. There was a large Xerox copier and shelves piled high with multicolored paper and file folders. One wall resembled the filing system in my doctor’s office, with one of the sliding doors propped open with an old wooden ruler. He directed me to a small leather love seat and waited until I sat before joining me.

“My name is Blake Holden,” he started, his knee pressed against mine, distracting me for a moment. “I was your grandmother’s power of attorney.”

“You knew my gran?” I asked.

“I met Carina when she was a patient at Briarwoods,” he told me, like I knew what he was talking about. “I was volunteering. I was painting patient rooms. That’s how I met her.”

“I barely knew my gran,” I frowned, feeling stupid for being so out of the loop. “I never knew she was in an old age home.”

“It’s more like a retirement community,” he assured me. “I don’t like calling them old age homes. Beside, your gran wasn’t that old, she was a nice lady. We got to know each other very well, she told me all about her life while she kept me company. Most importantly she told me about you and how she regretted the way things turned out between the two of you.”