Hard Charger: Jake & Sophia: A Hot Contemporary Romance (5 page)

All of a sudden, Jake sensed someone watching them.  He glanced over toward the bar and saw Sophia standing by the booth, her hand on her scarf, her eyes wide and filled with a combination of pain and anger as she looked at him and Staci.  He felt her stare like a kick in the gut.  A thousand explanations crowded his lips. Nothing came out.

Quickly he shoved his dick back into his jeans and zipped up.  He pulled his wallet out, found two twenties and a ten, and handed them to Staci.  “Good job,” he grated, “but next time, tell me in advance that you’re a hooker.”

“I’m not a hooker,” Staci informed him.  “I’m a college student who needs money.”

“Sure, sure.”  He realized that Sophia was walking toward them.  “Alex,” he hissed.  “Your sister’s here.”

Alex heard him, shot a panicked glance toward Sophia and then broke it off immediately with Elena.  Hurriedly they re-arranged their clothing.

Sophia came within about ten feet of them and stared at Jake, then Alex.  Her face had gone pale and her eyes looked like two pools of green fire.  “I came back for my scarf,” she said woodenly, “and what do I find, but my brother and his friend getting it on with prostitutes.  Wonderful.”

“Don’t judge, girlfriend,” Staci barked, almost at the same time Alex croaked, “Prostitutes?”

Jake pulled another fifty bucks out of his wallet and shoved it into Elena’s hand.  He just wanted this situation to end.  Immediately.  “Not prostitutes,” he muttered.  “Just two college girls trying to earn a few bucks.”

Sophia’s face tightened with disgust.  “I’m outta here.”  Her tone registered deep hurt.

His stomach in knots, Jake held out a hand.  “Wait—”

“How long do I have to wait?  Ten years?” she sneered, then turned to Alex.  “I’ll tell mom you’ll be late.” With that, she spun on her heel and marched out of the bar.

Alex was still looking at Elena, his face registering confusion, alarm, and a dawning realization that he and Jake had been hustled.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Elena said to Staci, and then both girls left, leaving Jake feeling sick with the knowledge that within two weeks of coming home, he’d had sex with a prostitute, had been caught in the act by the one girl who meant something to him, and had proven himself a jackass, just as the bus driver had shouted earlier that night.

He was Kurt Gallent’s son, all right.

Chapter Three

Five minutes later, Jake
was riding his motorcycle back home.  The time had crept past 1 AM, and so the drive home was peaceful, with the roads awash in silvery light from a crescent moon, and fog hugging the dips and lower-lying areas on either side of him.  Even the tranquility that came with the night couldn’t soothe his spirit, though.  A deep disquiet had grabbed hold of him.  He kept thinking about how badly he’d fucked up in front of Sophia.  Was there an award for fuckups?  If so, Jake felt certain he would have won it tonight.

He also continued to mull over Ray’s strange cageyness when he’d talked about restoring the roadhouse.   And what Alex had meant by ‘
From Russia with Love
.’  A lot more had changed in Rockport Grove than was apparent to the eye.  Jake was starting to get the feeling that Hurricane Sandy hadn’t been the only storm passing through town. 

It was with these misgivings that he pulled into the driveway outside his mom’s house and saw his dad’s old Harley parked there, just outside the garage.  The porch light shined upon it, making the exhaust system, the front forks and all of the other chrome on it sparkle.  Jake had a sudden, startling sense of Deja-vu that, coupled with his misgivings and disquiet, made him feel like some higher power had it out for him tonight.

The Harley had sparkled like that on the last night Jake had ever seen his dad...

He pulled up next to the Harley, put the bike in first gear and hit the kill switch.  The CB450’s engine quieted down reluctantly before cutting out entirely.  He put the kickstand down and dismounted.

A door next to the double-bay garage doors opened and his Uncle Martin strolled out.

Jake eyed his uncle in his leather Rebel Grove Guardians jacket and frowned, his sense of Deja-vu increasing.  His uncle remained a member of the same motorcycle club his dad once belonged to.  He even looked like his dad in the darkness: a wide, square face, snub nose, smallish eyes that often glinted with humor; and longer brown-gray hair swept back from his face.  If Jake didn’t know better, he might have thought he was talking to the ghost of his long-dead father. “Uncle Martin.  What are you doing here?” 

Martin shrugged.  “I was here talking to your mom a while ago, and then I got the itch to look at Kurt’s old bike.  I’ve been working on it.  Guess time got away from me.”

Jake looked at the deer skull on his uncle’s motorcycle jacket and twisted his lips into a grimace.

His uncle took a step forward and looked at Jake with a penetrating gaze.  “Everything okay, son?”

“Yeah, sure.  Just tired.”  Jake deliberately glanced toward the front door.  That was where he wanted to go—inside the house, and to his bed.

Martin continued to gaze at Jake.  “You’ve been home two weeks now.  How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.  Why do you ask?”

“You were gone for ten years, and you didn’t take a single furlough here at home.  That’s a long time, Jake.”

Jake shrugged.  “When I had a furlough, I took the opportunity to see the world.  What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing.  Happy to be home?”

“Of course.”  Jake lifted his eyebrows.  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Martin shook his head.  “Adjusting to civilian life isn’t easy.  You end up feeling like you’re outside, looking in.”

His uncle had fought in ’Nam, so Jake knew he spoke from experience.  He considered opening up about his vision of the girl earlier that evening, but then decided against it.  This wasn’t the time or place.  “I’m okay.”

“Got a suggestion for you,” his uncle said.  “Join the Guardians.”

“What?” Jake barked.  “Are you serious?  That fucking motorcycle club took my father away from me.  It robbed my mother of her husband.  You’re insane to even mention it.”

“Easy,” Martin said, and made pressings motion with his hands, as if he was trying to push Jake’s ire down.  “I know what happened to your dad.  He was my brother, too.  It killed me to lose him.  But that happened twenty years ago.  The club’s different now.  If you join, you’ll get that sense of camaraderie you had in the service.  You’ll get that sense of purpose back.”  His uncle paused and then gave Jake a considering look.  “Alex joined, you know.”

Jake barely suppressed a scowl.  “Alex has lost his mind.”

“We could use a guy like you: a decorated Airborne Ranger.” his uncle pressed.  “We’d be lucky to have you, in fact.”

Jake looked at his uncle for a moment and wondered at the older man’s purpose.  Martin knew he’d never join the same motorcycle club that had destroyed his family.  Why was he trying so hard to sell it?  “The Guardians are nothing but a bunch of old has-beens who sit around bragging about their Harleys, smoking cigars, and drinking all night,” Jake observed. 

Martin shrugged.  “Not true, but okay.”

“You guys are barely strong enough to keep your Hogs off the ground on a sharp turn,” he added, his voice bitter.  His father’s old Harley was sitting nearby, and he strolled over to kick its rear tire.  “Is that why you have his Harley out?  You think I’m gonna join the club and start riding this thing around?”

Martin slanted a glance at Jake’s CB450. “That would sure as hell be an improvement over your rice burner. If you can get it up over 100 MPH, I’d be surprised.”

“Well then, be surprised,” Jake replied.  “I tore the engine down, installed bigger pistons.  I had the engine bored and mounted a more radical cam.  I swapped the chain sprockets out for a smaller rear sprocket and a bigger front one.  The result?  A sweet gear ratio and 150 MPH, easy.”

His uncle lifted his eyebrows and pressed his lips together.  “Impressive, I suppose.”

“You’re damned right,” Jake muttered.

“So you’re not going to ride your father’s Harley.”

“No, I’m not.  And you should get off yours, too.  No one wants them anymore.  The people who ride them aren’t real bikers, they just want to be tough guys.”

Martin frowned.  “You’re going to let his bike rust down to nothing, then.”

“I’m going to strip it for parts,” Jake corrected him.

His uncle’s frown deepened.  “You’ll be dishonoring your father’s memory.”

“I
have
no memories of my father that are worth keeping.”  Jake narrowed his eyes.  “To be honest, I couldn’t care less about him. Now how about we get some shut-eye?  I have to be up in less than five hours, so I can get down to the construction site.”

Shaking his head, Martin put the kickstand up on the Harley and started to roll it back into the garage.  “Go ahead, Jake.  Sleep as much as you want.  But let me know when you’re ready to wake up.”

The alarm on his
cell phone seemed to wake him up the moment his head hit the pillow.  Jake groaned and shut the damned thing off.  To say he was in a bad mood would be putting it lightly, given all that had happened the previous night.  He dragged himself out of bed, got dressed, grabbed his work boots, and went downstairs to the kitchen. 

His mom, Laurie, was already in the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of coffee.  She had a bathrobe on and had put her hair up in a ponytail.  Jake thought she looked years younger than fifty-nine.  Her skin was still smooth, with only a few wrinkles around her eyes. Her hair had a soft, silky sheen, and she still fit into the jeans she’d worn in her twenties.  He was surprised she still hadn’t replaced his father with another man.  She certainly deserved some happiness. 

When she heard him stumbling down the stairs, she poured him some, too, and handed it to him as he walked in and dropped his boots on the floor.

“Morning, Jake.”

He tried for a smile, but kissed her cheek instead.   “Morning, mom.”

“You working the site down at Holy Trinity today?”

“Yeah.”  He took a drink of his coffee, and then threw a few slices of bread into the toaster.  “We’re still working on Father Al’s rectory.”

“If you see him, tell him I said hi.”  Laurie sat down at the kitchen table and picked up yesterday’s newspaper. 

“I will.”  Jake got the butter out of the refrigerator, and grabbed a knife.  “You’ll be down at Beach Waves today?”

“We have a full appointment load—cuts, colors, highlighting, two perms. I’ll need to be there before we open,” she confirmed, then slipped a pair of glasses on her nose and began to read the newspaper.  “Heard you talking to your Uncle Martin last night.”

For a moment, he stilled, then grabbed a plate out of the cabinet.  “More like an argument.”

“Yup.  I heard.”  She never looked up from the newspaper. 

He groaned aloud.  This was usually how she liked to conduct her interrogations: She asked lots of questions but never looked at her suspect.   He supposed that the lack of eye contact allowed her to be more ruthless in her questioning—she didn’t have to acknowledge how uncomfortable she was making the accused feel.  Silently he reminded himself to go look at a few more apartments next weekend. 

His toast popped.  He started to butter it.

“You were rude to him, Jake.  That’s not how I raised you.”  She turned a page of her newspaper and focused on a new article.

“Uncle Martin caught me on a bad night.”  He gulped a sip of coffee and eyed the clock.

“You’re going to apologize to him, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll apologize.”

A few moments passed, and then she glanced up at him, briefly, before returning to the newsprint.  “What made last night so bad?”

He sighed.  He wasn’t about to tell her about his motorcycle stunts or his accident with the deer—he didn’t want to hear her scolding him about safety.  He thought of something else and turned to face her, toast and coffee in hand.  “I was talking to Alex and Ray last night down at the roadhouse,” he said.  “About all of the devastation from Sandy that still hasn’t gotten fixed, and Ray was saying something about the government and insurance companies not paying out enough.”

She continued to look at the newspaper, but something about the way she’d gone still told him that he had every bit of her attention.   “Yup, that’s right,” she murmured.  “Not everyone had good insurance.”

He shook his head.  “It’s just a damned shame, what the storm did to this town.  At least Ray found the money to fix his place up,” he continued, then glanced around the nearly-new kitchen, recalling how his mother had also dumped tens of thousands of dollars into repairing the house. 

“I know, Jake.  It’s been tough for everyone.”

“Yeah, but Ray claims he didn’t get an insurance payout or government money,” he continued.  “When I asked him where he’d found the cash to repair the roadhouse, he wouldn’t answer.”

She shook her head, but kept her gaze on the newspaper.  “Damned if I know where that old coot gets his money.”

He realized she’d been reading the same article for several minutes now.  “Thank God you had good insurance.”

“Mmmm,” she agreed.

He narrowed his eyes.  “Mom?” 

“What?”

“You had good insurance, right?”

She looked up then, and he saw something dark in her eyes, the same evasiveness and worry he’d seen in Ray’s.  “Don’t you have to get to work, Jake?” she asked.  “It’s almost six.”

“Answer me, mom.  Did your insurance company cover the cost of the repairs on the house?”

“You’ve been gone for ten years.  I’ve learned how to get along without you, Jake.”

He shut his mouth and stared at her.  Saw that stubborn tightness in her jaw.  He knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere for the moment.  “I’ll leave it alone for now.”

She shrugged, shook her head, did everything but say
tisk tisk
.  “Just get to work, sweetie.”

“There’s nothing but secrets in this town anymore,” he grumbled.

“Sure.  Have a nice day.”  She went back to reading her paper.

Annoyed, he finished up his breakfast, put his work boots on, and grabbed the lunch she’d packed him from the refrigerator.  Then he was out the door.  He pulled his bike out of the garage, mounted it, and was on his way to the construction site moments later.

Although a few leaves
were starting to turn, the day still remained very warm for late September.  Jake deliberately took Ocean Drive and caught a glimpse of a sky painted with pinks, oranges and grays as the sun rose over the ocean.  He made a left onto Queen Street and took it to the end, giving a nod to the Mermaid Inn as he passed it by. Sophia waitressed there now.  

Sophia
, he thought.  The way she’d looked at him last night at Rowdy Ray’s—the hurt in her eyes—still tore at him.  She had no right to be hurt, though.  They weren’t a couple.  And yet, as he pulled up to the construction site, he frowned.  He didn’t want her thinking badly of him.  He decided to head to the Mermaid Inn for dinner, despite his promise to Alex to leave Sophia alone.  Regardless of his and Sophia’s relationship status, he had a fence to mend.

He cruised past the church and parked his bike in front of the half-demolished rectory.  Father Al’s former home had nearly been ripped from its foundation as the Atlantic Ocean rose over the dunes and sliced a temporary inlet through the north side of town, dragging half of the rectory 300 feet west in a twelve foot storm surge. At the moment, it looked like a remnant from a war zone—something Jake was far too familiar with.  And since Father Al had frequently stepped in and helped Jake and his mom once his dad had passed away, Jake was now eager to return all of those favors and help repair the priest’s home.

He headed over to check in with Tom McKenna, the site supervisor.  Tom, a red-headed guy who preferred Carhartts over jeans, was also the owner of the construction company that had won the contract to rebuild the rectory next to Holy Trinity Catholic Church.

The church’s spire gleamed in the brand-new sunshine as he caught up with Tom.  Standing next to a half-built wall with an unrolled blueprint between his hands, Tom was glancing at the two by four’s that formed the foundation of the new wall.  A few construction workers behind him had already gotten started with a table saw.  The scent of freshly-sawed wood perfumed the air.

“Morning,” Jake said.  “What’s on tap for today?”

“Let’s get the walls up and the repairs on them done,” Tom replied.  “I want to get started on the roof before the end of the week.  Rain is coming in next week.  Looks like a nor’easter.”

Jake nodded.  “You want me on the downstairs or upstairs?”

“How about getting started on framing the second floor?  I have a crew of newbies coming in this morning, so I’ll need you to supervise them, too.”

“Sure thing.”

Tom nodded and gave Jake a friendly smile.  “Sure glad you came home from the war.  You’ve a good head on your shoulders.”

“Thanks, Tom.”

“Wanna grab dinner one of these nights?”

“Sounds good to me.” Jake turned, grabbed his hand tools out of an on-site tool locker, and got to work.  He found carpentry relaxing, despite the fact that he often needed to use a helluva lot of muscle.  The act of doing something with his hands, of creating, felt very satisfying to him.  By the end of the day, he always had something tangible to show for his effort.  He became so involved in measuring the locations of anchors, placing straps and tie downs, and doing beam work that he didn’t even notice lunch had arrived.  Only the cessation of sawing and hammering alerted him to the fact that the rest of the crew had paused to eat.

He stretched, then climbed down the ladder from the second floor.  He saw a few guys eating lunch on the steps of Holy Trinity.  Father Al was there too, chatting with them.  He grabbed his lunch and headed over to the priest, who he’d seen nearly every day since he’d started work on the rectory.

Father Al’s weathered face broke out into a smile the moment he noticed Jake.

“Hi, Father.”

Father Al sat down on the top step.  Jake sat next to him and pulled out his sandwich.

“Ah, a simple bologna sandwich,” the priest observed.  “I miss them.  My doctor told me to lower my sodium.”

Jake nodded and took a bite.  “I’d rather have a hamburger, myself.”

Of Irish descent, Father Al was somewhere in his early to mid-sixties, with gray hair brushed back from his forehead and a broad, ruddy face that was accustomed to a smile.  He’d served with the Navy in Vietnam, working as a chaplain; and when he’d left the military, he’d gone straight to the seminary.  He was one of the few men besides Ray that Jake felt he could talk to about his combat experience, and know that the priest understood.

“It’s good to have you home, Jake,” Father Al remarked, not for the first time.  “Did you know that for hundreds of years, there’s been nothing but war after war in Afghanistan?  They call it the ‘graveyard of empires’--a hopeless place of perpetual conflict.”

“It
was
a little like Hell on Earth,” Jake observed.  “But I had Saint Jude to protect me.”

The priest nodded.  “The patron saint of hopeless causes.”

Jake pulled out the medal Father Al had given him from beneath his flannel shirt.  He wore it with his dog tags now, although when the priest had first given it to him, he’d worn it alone.  It glinted with silvery light in the sunshine.  “You must have a lifetime supply of these things.  I’ve seen more than one person in town wearing something like it.”  He let it drop against his shirt.

Father Al smiled.  “I still recall when I gave you yours.  Do you?”

“How could I forget?  You came down to the police station to bail me out, when my mom refused.”

“Once a week was enough for her,” the priest added.  “I had to do it the second time around.”

Jake smiled, but it was bittersweet.  His father had been a drunk and a criminal, a hard-core biker who’d fashioned himself after the one-percenters—a group of outlaws who considered themselves the last truly “free” men in America.  As such, he hadn’t been home much to participate in Jake’s upbringing.   Father Al had stepped into the void his father had left more than once, to provide the support Jake had needed so desperately.  “I don’t remember everything you said to me that day, but I do know that I respected you enough to want to try harder, to be a better person.”

“You were an angry teenager, but who isn’t?  You turned out all right in the end.”  The priest sighed.  “I remember looking at that medal for a long time, and then looking at you.  And telling you that every single parishioner in my church gives me cause to believe they could use Saint Jude’s help, but none more so than you.”

“To this day, I’m amazed at the patience you had in dealing with me,” Jake admitted.

Father Al laughed.  “You weren’t that bad.”

“You still giving them out?”

“More so than ever.”  The priest made an expansive gesture with his hands.  “If I could give one to the town itself, I would.”

“Why?  Is Rockport Grove a hopeless case?”

Father Al’s lingering smile faded.  “Not all is right here, Jake.”

“What do you mean?”

“My vocation gives me certain kinds of...knowledge,” the priest hedged.

“Like,
confessional
knowledge?”

“Let’s just say that evil lingers just below the surface.”

“Evil?”  Jake snorted.  “Come on, Father.  Be real.”

“I’m not talking about vampires and werewolves,” Father Al said.  “At least not supernatural ones.  The evil is wholly human.”

“Well, that clears it up,” Jake remarked, sarcasm creeping into his voice. “First Ray Morris, and then my mom, and now you.  You’re all looking anxious and talking about evil, but no one wants to say anything specific.  What’s the big deal?”

“I can’t speak for your mother or Ray, and I’m bound by the confessional,” Father Al answered.