13. Lacey
CHAPTER 13
LACEY
I’m stupidly nervous about Eagle coming to dinner. He said yes, which maybe means that our hookup could lead to… I don’t know, but I’m buzzing with excitement.
“But what’s his name?” My mom looks confused.
“Just call him Eagle,” I say, realizing that to my straitlaced Mom, telling her that I invited over my work friend who is a biker probably sounds the same as if I said call him by his street name, his mobster name, or his gang name.
Are those even things? I mean, how would we know? The closest I’ve ever been to a motorcycle is drooling over the guys on one of my favorite television shows. Mom and I watched that entire series together, and it’s like she’s putting the pieces together in her mind.
“Honey,” she says, “I’ll call him Peter Pan if that’s what he prefers, but…” She’s tossing a big green salad with sliced tomatoes in the kitchen, while I check the timer I set, so I know how long I have before I have to turn the chicken. “Is he…dangerous?”
I have to admit, I honestly don’t know. I mean, I don’t think so. He passed a background check for the Lantana, and while we don’t run them again after someone is hired, he had to be clean, at least on paper, if he got the okay to be hired.
I tell her that, but I don’t think that’s what she means.
“Honey, don’t bikers have a reputation for treating women a certain way?” she asks. “I mean, sleeping around, lying, drugs. How well do you know him?”
I have to admit, she’s right. I don’t know him well at all, and yet, I thought I knew Dylan.
“Mama,” I say, using my pet name for her. “I like him. He’s a friend. Maybe more. I’ll find all this out before I get in too deep.”
Mom nods, and I know she’s just looking out for me. She cares, and her affection rarely comes with strings attached.
“I dated a biker once,” she admits, her voice low. “It was a long time ago, right after your father.”
“What?”
My mom never talks much about her dating life. I know she’s had a few dates over the years, but like me, no one that really stuck.
She nods. “Just promise me you’ll always wear a helmet,” she says, growing serious. “Lacey Elizabeth Mercer, promise me right now.”
I laugh and silence the timer on the chicken. “Mama, I’m thirty years old! You can’t use my middle name and scare me.”
I hold up a finger and call out, “Chicken.” Then I run to the grill to turn the meat. We ended up picking up two extra chickens so we have four cooking, but we didn’t want to grill them whole, so I’ve got a lot of small pieces to turn.
When I head back inside, my mom’s friend Danielle is helping herself to one of the beers Eagle brought yesterday. “You never buy this kind,” she says, taking a sip. “Hmmm, I like it, though.”
Mom dries her hands and gives Danielle a hug, then points to me. “Lacey’s boyfriend brought that brand.”
Danielle practically spits the beer from her mouth. “Oh my God. I’m sorry,” she sputters. “I didn’t even think to ask if this is fair game.”
I wave my hand. “It’s fine. He brought it for me, and I’m happy to share it.”
I give Danielle a hug, and Mom takes the three-bean salad she brought and makes space for it in the fridge.
I start chopping up the potatoes for potato salad while Danielle grills me.
“So, are you back together with Dylan?” she asks gently, treading carefully over that prickly topic. “Or is this someone new?”
“Someone new,” I say, grinning. “Not Dylan, thank God.”
“He’s a biker,” my mom says, sounding awestruck. “Like, with a biker name and everything.”
“Oh, stop.” I wave a hand at my mother, who’s giving Danielle a look. “It’s not like it looks on television. At least, I don’t think so?”
Danielle raises an eyebrow. “Those guys are hot, Lace. Is he…” She makes a gesture with her hands that has Mom and me dying with laughter.
“I don’t know what that means,” I say. “But you can judge for yourself. He’s coming over for dinner.”
Danielle practically swoons and fans herself with her bare hand. “He’s hot,” she says. “I can just tell by your reaction. He’s smoking hot.”
I shake my head and run back to the chicken, my alarm ringing to remind me to baste. While I’m out back fussing over the grill, the doorbell must ring, because I hear Ruby barking like the world is coming to an end.
I rush inside, but Mom has already let Eagle in. He’s carrying two bouquets of flowers and at least no condoms that are visible.
“Thank you. That was so thoughtful.” My mom is beaming, and she takes the larger of the two bouquets that Eagle has extended to her.
He holds the second one in his hands. “Lacey.” He nods when he sees me, and just like when I saw him in the tux for the first time, my heart catches in my chest and the rest of my body speeds up. It’s almost dizzying the effect he has on me. It’s as if the world around us collapses until all that’s left is a tunnel that leads straight to him. To his bright-blue eyes, his sexy smile.
Today, he’s wearing another gray T-shirt and the leather vest with his name on it. The sunglasses are already on his head, and his heavy boots sound against the floors with every step.
“Hi,” I say to him, suddenly shy and excited and wishing I could fling myself into his arms. I take the flowers from him, cocking my chin at him. “Thank you.” I open my arms, hoping he’ll be okay with a hug.
He’s more than okay with it. He draws me close to his chest and hugs me tight, the contact sending ripples of excitement down my spine. I hold him and breathe in the smell of him. I almost hum against him, I’m so happy to see and smell and touch him.
“Thanks for having me,” he says. Then, noticing Danielle, he releases me and extends a hand. “I’m Eagle,” he says. “My real name is a state secret, so Eagle’ll do.”
Danielle’s face goes from stunned and silent to giggly and all grins. “Okay,” she says. “I’m Danielle. Just Danielle.”
They shake hands, and then Eagle turns to me, offering to help with anything we need. Meanwhile, I miss the question because Danielle has cupped her lips, but I can clearly see her mouth, “Oh my God,” to my mother.
I shake my head, a little proud that, yeah, Eagle is hot. And he’s here for me. I set the flowers in water and motion for him to join me outside. I go over to the grill, check the temperature of the hens, and then turn off the heat.
“We’re almost ready,” I say.
He’s just standing there, though. His boots are planted in the grass, and the slightest hint of a breeze blows the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. I’m hot and flushed from the heat and humidity, but something about the way he’s looking at me makes me hot -hot.
“Eagle?” I ask, stepping close to him.
“I want to kiss you so badly,” he says, his voice low. “How much can Mom and Danielle take?”
I chuckle. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.” I check my smartwatch for the time. “That’s why we’re eating so early. They are trying to make the five o’clock show. Mom needs to be home and in bed by nine.”
I watch his biceps flex as he extends a hand toward the grill. “Let’s fucking eat, then.” The corners of his mouth curl up, and I put the chicken on a clean plate and hand it to him to take back into the house.
We eat inside at the table, and Mom and Danielle are such old friends, they don’t even have to press Eagle for information. We have music playing through the TV, and every once in a while, Danielle uses her spoon as a microphone and sings to the music, or Mom will get up from the table to refill someone’s water and she’ll shimmy along with the beat. Mom and Danielle keep the laughter going, and at times, they seem completely oblivious to the fact that we have a guest.
I don’t think Eagle minds, and I sure don’t. It’s nice to be able to have things feel normal and yet have him here. I don’t have to try too hard, although I do cringe when Mom and Danielle’s favorite song comes on, and they pressure me into singing the chorus.
“I have a mouth full of food,” I protest, but Mom loves music. Other than baking, it’s her only passion in life. So, when she chair-dances or belts out a few notes—terribly out of tune, but very earnest—you join in.
What I don’t expect is the smile that covers Eagle’s entire face as I sing. I flush, finish the chorus to “We Are Family,” then jam my mouth full of potato salad. “No more,” I tell them. “You’re all embarrassing me.”
Danielle whoops and slaps the table, and even Mama looks more at ease than I’ve seen her in a long time. Ruby is actually lying at Eagle’s feet. For someone she just met this morning, she seems to have accepted him. She is offering herself to him fully, without hesitation.
After we eat, Mom and Danielle hustle out the door for the movie, telling me to leave the dishes and relax. They both give Eagle a big hug, Danielle comically measuring the size of Eagle’s bicep between her fingers—it takes both hands—and then giving me a very obvious thumbs-up. All of which seems to make Eagle laugh even harder.
“Whole lot of estrogen in this place,” he teases after Mom and Danielle are gone.
“Yep. Even my dog’s a girl,” I say, walking into his open arms.
We stand together in the living room behind the closed door. My hands are locked behind his back, and he’s slid his hands behind my neck, tugging lightly with his fingers on the loose strands of my hair.
He breathes in deeply and exhales against the top of my head. “I did bring something else for you,” he says, his low tone a rumbling storm cloud. I feel the energy in his chest, the promise of power unleashed, unrestrained.
“Follow me,” I say, tugging his hand and dragging him to my room.
Once we’re inside, I close the door to keep Ruby from joining us. He’s toeing off his motorcycle boots, and I just watch him, taking in everything about him. He’s so different from Dylan. Different from every man I’ve dated, and yet, I should feel afraid. Should be worried that this, like everything else before him, won’t last.
All I know is, looking at him, the last thing I can feel is fear. I shouldn’t trust my body, and yet my fingers are aching to touch him, to explore every inch, every freckle and wrinkle.
“What is it?” he asks, standing after setting his boots off to the side. “Something wrong?”
He looks so concerned. I want to reassure him, but I don’t have the words. I don’t know how to say what I’m feeling. It’s like no feeling I’ve had before, and I don’t want to trust it.
“I want to see your tattoos,” I say in a rush, trying to find something to say that makes more sense than what I’m feeling.
He nods slowly. “Okay. Show-and-tell?”
I smile. “It’ll be all you showing and you telling. I don’t have any tattoos.”
He smirks at that. “I saw a scar or two that I think have stories.”
I gasp, not believing he noticed those. But I shouldn’t be surprised. I nod. “Okay. You first.”
He grabs the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it up to reveal his toned stomach. Then higher, revealing a smattering of hair on his chest and defined pecs. Then he tugs the whole damn thing over his head.
I can’t help it. I sigh out loud, and he shakes his head with a grin. “I hope that was a happy sound,” he says.
“Definitely happy,” I say.
He sits down on the side of the bed, and I climb behind him and kneel on the mattress. I trace my fingers along the curved, sharp muscles of his shoulders.
Finally, I get to see everything, and I’m going to take my time. A bald eagle covers his back, the beak and face right between his shoulder blades, the tips of the eagle’s wings resting on each shoulder. The navy-blue ink is faded. It could be twenty years old, but the artwork itself is impressive.
I touch the eagle’s wings, running my fingertips along the feathers, the scales on its feet with claws inked to razor-sharp-looking points. “This is gorgeous,” I tell him. “Absolutely beautiful.”
I move from his shoulders and back to his right arm. His bicep is covered in freckles, no doubt from years in the sun, but I can see the logo of what must be his old club, a different version from the one on the back of his jacket, on his inner bicep.
“The club means a lot to you?” I ask, stroking his skin.
“Hmmm,” he grunts, nodding. “I only put shit on my skin that means something big, something real to me.”
I bite my lip, curious what the club means to him, how he became involved in it. This is supposed to be show-and-tell, but I don’t feel like talking. Show-and-feel would be a better name for this game because all I want to do is touch him, trace the lines of his body and his ink, and memorize every beautiful detail.
“What’s this mean?” I ask. On his right hand, he’s got the number 1 tattooed on his thumb, an N for neutral on his index finger, 2, 3, and 4 on his other fingers, and a gorgeous number 5 on the top of his hand.
I kiss each of the fingertips on his right hand after he explains the art that decorates them. Then I move to the left.
On his left hand, he’s got letters tattooed, two per finger in very small print, starting with his pinkie and leading to his thumb.
CO LA MB AN US
Then, on the back of his left hand, a dotted road that disappears on the horizon.
“St. Colambanus,” he explains. “Patron saint of bikers. I’m not a religious man, but I’ll take any help I can get. And these fingers pull double duty.”
He holds his left thumb and left index finger together, so the -an and -us are joined to make a word.
“When somebody’s being a dick, I don’t even have to say the word. Just make a finger gun and point the anus at ’em. If you get what I mean.”
I look down at his fingers. The font does perfectly spell anus when his fingers are pressed together. I shake my head. I can’t imagine a man who’s a further cry from Dylan.
I kiss the left fingers and then peer around to see what I missed. He’s got art on his left arm and lower back under the eagle, so I come full circle, working my way through the stars on his left arm until I see a small word printed on his lower back. It was almost obscured by his underwear when he was first sitting, but now that he’s twisted and turned so much, I can see the small black letters spell out a name.
Since everything on Eagle’s body seems to stand for something very, very important to him, I have to ask the question, even if it’s sensitive. I touch the word, my fingers dipping right below the waistband of his briefs.
“Eagle,” I ask, “who’s Linda?”