Chapter 3
When Slice sent me back to the room to change, I blamed my mom, spawning an unwanted analysis of our relationship as I shed the dress I’d been so excited to wear. She had an image of me that couldn’t be further from the truth. Cassie was so much of a dumpster fire, that I must look like an angel in comparison, an opinion Mom was keen to share with anyone who’d listen. I was the ‘good’ kid, even though many of my friends laughed at the suggestion.
Mom started writing seven years ago during my soccer practice. Day after day, she sat in the bleachers, blocked out the world, and penned her story in longhand. Our family wasn’t fabulously wealthy, but we were comfortable enough to where Mom took care of home and hearth, while Dad earned the money and then deposited every cent into my mother’s bank account.
Although she set Dad up as the quintessential hero, I think she dreamed up men who stood up to her much more than Dad ever could. Daria Monroe steamrolled whoever allowed it.
Dad admired Mom’s strength. Mom loved how Dad deferred to her for everything. My mother was an amazingly strong-willed woman with a fantastic imagination and incredible charm when she chose to use it.
Once Mom’s books took off, she and my dad remained wrapped up in each other. They rarely noticed anything about me other than my accomplishments. The year I turned fifteen, I not only broke the glass ceiling, I stomped that motherfucker.
Mom and Dad refused to allow me to go to the skating rink for my best friend’s birthday party. One, I hadn’t posted any teasers that week for her new book. Worse, I left the soccer team and tried out for cheerleading.
For me, their refusal heralded the last straw. I studied their habits and clocked their activities. After two months, I concluded they turned in at ten on the dot without fail. Normally, when they turned off the TV in the den, I’d stand, too, and head to my room. The first two or three times I didn’t, Dad gave me a little pushback. Then, they dropped it.
My next determination established they didn’t leave their bedroom until six the next morning. Without fail. Ensuite bathrooms were handy little suckers.
Once I confirmed their patterns, I began sneaking out every weekend at 11 PM. Six years in, I had yet to get caught.
Next year, I’d graduate college. Mom and Dad begged me not to move out until then. Dad telling me empty nest syndrome would hinder Mom’s creativity killed my intentions to ignore the demand and move out on my own. Heath lived hundreds of miles away; Cassie was miserable and irresponsible. The Mary Sue archetype fell on my shoulders.
Mom and Dad refused rent from me, so I bought groceries with the money I earned from freelance photography. Out of respect for Mom’s creativity, I passed on an internship in NYC at Keegan Enterprises. Ryan Keegan headed their marketing division. I’d read an article about her billionaire husband, known as the Savage Suit, and their romance.
My brother greenlit the idea and offered me the spare bedroom in his apartment. Mom scoffed. She wanted me in Corpus, at home , because she needed my help.
It wasn’t just Slice whom Mom didn’t want me to bind myself to romantically. It was anyone . My mom would encourage Slice to contact Cass while also warning him away from me.
Sighing, I smoothed my hair down, looked at the mirror hanging on the bathroom door, and exited the room.
My theory lacked proof; I didn’t know what they’d discussed in the lobby and refused to ask. If Slice wanted me to know, he would’ve volunteered that information. But he hadn’t. Instead of appreciating that I’d dressed for him, he told me to change into freaking jeans.
The nerve of him!
I almost left him in the stupid lobby, waiting for me. Humiliation coupled with annoyance and a dose of hunger threatened to ruin all my plans. Yet, I returned to him, wearing my jeans and combat boots. I was still stewing, but, when I saw him pacing, his phone to his ear, muscles straining, his long hair queued, I didn’t regret my decision. And when he led me to his Harley, I fell a little in love with him. Any lingering anger melted away.
“Let me help you, babe,” he said, grabbing my waist and settling me onto his bike.
“Thank you,” I breathed, giddy from the brief feel of his hands on me.
After he stuffed my purse and phone in his saddlebag, he mounted up and revved the engine. The roar vibrated the bike, and a thrill shot through me. As he pulled off, I wrapped my arms around his trim waist and leaned my head on his back. Laughter rumbled from him, though I found nothing funny. I didn’t know our destination and I didn’t care. My hard work finally paying off left me quite happy.
I clung to him tightly, relishing his closeness. The cool air lapped at my face and neck as the cityscape zoomed by. Our surroundings blurred. Being on the back of a bike was an exhilarating freedom I’d never felt before.
I didn’t want to pull my body away from Slice’s. No, I wanted to be even closer. With nothing between us, especially clothes.
Everything felt out of a dream and strengthened my attraction to Slice. The moment would forever be ingrained in my mind, and I didn’t want it to end. In my life, I’d had two boyfriends, one in middle school and one during my senior year of high school. Neither boy compared to the man Slice was.
When we finally glided to a stop, I examined our whereabouts. It wasn’t the smartest move, hopping on a motorcycle for an unknown location, but I trusted Slice. His illegal side hustle aside, none of my dealings with him indicated he was a bad man.
“A bar and grill,” I noted as I read the sign. My mouth watered at the thought of food filling my belly. Burger grease and sautéed onions scented the air.
One look around told me we were on a shadier side of town and the diner wasn’t a five-star eatery. But hey, mom-and-pop shops offered some of the best food around, and I was positive Slice wouldn’t intentionally put me in danger.
“Morty’s Bar and Grill.” He killed the engine, then helped me off the bike. As he led me inside, he wrapped an arm around my waist. Immediately, I cozied up to him. “I come here whenever I pass through Austin. Bomb burgers and some good ass brews.”
“Do you visit Austin often?” He relinquished his hold on me to open the door and I smiled in gratitude. “Such a gentleman.”
A chuckle met my teasing, quickly followed by a swat to the ass. My eyes widened and my cheeks heated. Despite the photos we’d exchanged earlier, such forwardness took me aback. Not that I was complaining.
“Don’t be too sure about that, sweetheart,” he replied, leading me to a wooden hostess stand, one arm slung around my shoulders. “Table for two, please.”
The pretty blonde manning the station was scrolling on her phone. When Slice cleared his throat, she looked up, tucking the device away. She smiled at him. Pursing my lips. I quickly masked my sour expression with my own grin.
“Of course.” She grabbed two menus. “Right this way, please.”
The restaurant was more crowded than expected, and the clientele matched the exterior of the building. More than one biker in a cut dined here. A question popped into my head.
“Did you take me to a biker joint?” I asked Slice the moment the hostess left to put in our drink order.
A brow quirked up. “What? No, Effie. It just happens to be near the Austin branch of Red Rum. And to answer your earlier question, I come to Austin a handful of times a year.”
“So, you do come here often.”
“If you call two to four times a year often, then sure.”
“It’s more often than I come to Austin, and I live in Texas.”
“Touché,” he conceded.
Our banter had me in a good mood, enough so that my empty stomach hadn’t turned me into a raging bitch. My heart fluttered at his genuine smile. I prayed our night wouldn’t end after dinner. I enjoyed his company. Once the signing ended, I didn’t know when I’d next see him. Even if we agreed to give a relationship a go.
I didn’t believe in long-distance romance. For Slice, I’d make an exception, though almost six hundred miles stood between Corpus Christi and Oklahoma City.
Picking up my menu, I flipped to the burger section, remembering Slice’s earlier comment about the bomb burgers. I found myself torn between the ‘All American,’ which was just a bacon cheeseburger with the fixings, and the more experimental BBQ jalapeno burger. Both had my stomach growling in anticipation.
“Which burger are you getting?”
Slice had been here before, so I’d trust his judgment. I hoped his choice wouldn’t offend my tastebuds.
“The ‘Eggcellent Burger,’” he said, not even looking at his menu.
My eyes navigated to his selection. It was topped with bacon, a sunny-side-up egg, and sliced avocado.
Meh.
The ‘All American’ it was.
My decision reached, I set the menu aside.
Seeing my expression, he chuckled. “Not too impressed with the Eggcellent, huh?”
“I’m not a fan of avocado,” I admitted. I cringed just thinking about that too soft and green fruit, with a hit-or-miss flavor. Its biggest offense was how quickly it spoiled.
The waitress arrived, setting down the craft-APAs Slice ordered for us. I took a sip, needing the liquid courage to calm down. Slice seemed content to go with the flow, but the lull in conversation skyrocketed my anxiety. What if he found me boring? What if he wasn’t into me, but simply felt obligated to entertain his boss’s daughter? The nonsensical thoughts were baseless, but they continued populating my mind.
“And for you, ma’am?” the waitress asked, pulling me back in the moment.
I handed her my menu. “The ‘All American,’ please.”
She looked me over, her eyes lingering on my exposed cleavage before she focused on my face.
Was she checking me out?
I cleared my throat.
“Coming right up!” the waitress chirped, disappearing and leaving me and Slice alone once again.
“The ‘All American’ is good,” he praised, sipping the beer.
Either he hadn’t noticed the waitress’s appraisal of me, or I was delusional.
I mimicked him, sampling my brew once more. Beer wasn’t my choice of drink, but the one he ordered for us wasn’t half bad.
“So, uh, why’d you change your road name?” I blurted, unable to think of something else to jumpstart the conversation. “I’ve been researching outlaw bikers. I thought once you earned a road name, you’re stuck with it for life.”
His eyes widened, then narrowed.
Immediately, I wished I hadn’t divulged the information, and I nearly face planted.
“I’m just curious, but if you don’t want to tell me, that’s cool,” I added, attempting damage control.
Instead, my words came out in a hurried, jumbled mess.
Smooth.
Real smooth, Effie.
Flirting was easy for me. I’d been doing it since I hit puberty and knew how to butter a guy up. My mother was an expert flirter, especially with my dad. Cass…well, Cassie only excelled if it involved her boyfriend. The point was, I could be a smooth-talker and had examples of how to do it. And yet, Slice had me struggling.
His tension eased and amusement rose in his eyes. “I don’t mind telling you this , sweetheart,” he said gruffly. “Fair warning. The less you know, the better.”
Giggling, I rolled my eyes. “Noted, though it isn’t as if I’m in any danger, Slice.”
He nodded. “I want my brothers to take me more seriously. ‘Pretty Boy’ is a childhood nickname and doesn’t earn me respect. I’m the butt of so many fucking jokes, it isn’t even funny. It’s time for a change, and Slice is simple.”
“That depends on why you chose it,” I decided. He’d explained one received road names based on something about themselves—riding skills, personality trait, or a memorable incident. “Knives slice, right? There was also a soda called Slice . And, of course, you slice fruit.” I liked that option the most.
His dark eyes twinkled. “What do you think my reason is?”
“Oh…uh…I haven’t given it much thought,” I hedged, not wanting to offend him. Over text, I communicated with Slice with reasonable intellect, but in person, I turned into a flustered little girl.
“Little liar,” he said, his teasing note removing the sting.
I flushed.
“There’s also slice and dice,” he said, picking up where I left off. “The term has origins in the cooking world. Before you ask, I’m not a fucking cook. Never have been. Never will be. A motorcycle slice is a cutout of a bike.”
“So, which is it?”
He sipped his beer. “I’ll leave it up to you to decide. Tell me Sunday morning at breakfast.”
It took a moment to remember MMM was hosting a breakfast the day after the signing, so everyone could say goodbye to colleagues and old friends and bond a little more with all their new acquaintances.
Our conversation lulled once more, and we drank our beer in uncomfortable silence. I wasn’t sure how to get our date back on track. The boldness that propelled me to send the topless photo had deserted me. I felt so vulnerable. I didn’t know if seeing my mother and dodging out of sight set the precedent for the awkwardness between Slice and me. Or if I was still salty that Slice didn’t even care why I wore my pretty dress before he sent me upstairs like a child.
Once he accepted my invitation, I’d carefully folded the dress and packed it in with my underwear.
Usually, my forays brought me to parties and other group events. I hardly ever went on dates . Despite my rebellion, I was too busy trying not to be like Cassie. I was too busy trying to protect Mom’s creativity.
Sometimes, I wondered if that was just a convenient excuse I used. Deep down, I didn’t want to end up with a loser like Chad. Nor did I want a man who catered to my every whim and had no thought of his own. Then, guilt would eat me up and I’d curl back into my cocoon.
I didn’t want my choices to affect my mother’s career. She loved writing. I loved seeing her excitement. On a darker note, I didn’t want to give her the power of I told you . I told you to listen to me. I told you that you’d fail.
I told you. I told you. I told you.
I fucking hated those three words.
Refusing to get into a deep dive with Slice about why my life stood still, I clammed up.
Everything I could’ve asked, Slice had already covered in our DMs. He wasn’t married and had no kids. He was a twin and they, along with their father, belonged to Red Rum MC. His mother died ten years ago when he was seventeen. As a child, he’d modeled for catalogs and magazines. He took it up again after meeting my mother because he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue being a biker. Once, he’d dreamed of owning a shop where he built custom motorcycles and refurbished old cars. We talked about visiting all fifty states on the back of his bike. Well, except for Hawaii. Once we finished our tour of the states, he promised we’d backpack across Europe. All after I graduated.
I promised I’d one day cook all his favorite meals. I’d try to watch NASCAR if he promised to watch football games. We knew each other. More than that, I’d believed him. When he ghosted me, I realized he’d just been talking. Or dreaming.
Some dreams weren’t meant to be realized. They were just imaginings to propel us to the next phase of our lives. Slice needed Mom’s modeling gigs to get through whatever he’d gone through. He seemed to have come out on the other side.
Yet, he was here with me. Maybe, I could be a part of his life and he a part of mine. If I knew how to make that happen.
Gazing into his mesmerizing eyes, breathing in his spicy cologne, I wasn’t sure what more I could ask him that wouldn’t come off as if I was a repetitive dummy.
I deflated. My date was crashing and burning because we had zero chemistry.
“How many dates have you been on, Effie?”
Damn. Slice’s question shouldn’t have surprised me. If I felt the awkwardness, he did, too. But I refused to go down in the flames of failure. “A fair amount,” I said with a straight face.
His grin called me a fucking liar. “I’m still the same Slice, sweetheart. I won’t bite,” he said gruffly, and winked at me. “Unless you ask me to.”
Staring at his mouth, I licked my lips. My pulse sped up and I squirmed, imagining our tongues touching, tangling, and tasting each other. Heat swept through me. Suddenly, I was happy he’d ordered me out of the bandage dress. My hard nipples would’ve poked through the material.
“I might,” I returned, the honest words drawn from weeks of pining for him. Now that I had a chance with him, I couldn’t screw it up. The reminder stiffened my resolve. I peeked at him through my lashes. “If you let me bite you back.”
His eyes flared in surprise, pleasing me. A slow smile curved his mouth and the twinkle in his eyes changed to a hot gleam filled with promise. He lifted his beer and tipped the neck toward me, then sipped from it, his gaze never leaving my face.
If my stomach hadn’t growled, I would’ve leaned over and stolen a kiss. I grabbed my beer and pressed it against my forehead, glad for the cold condensation. When I didn’t feel as flushed, I set the bottle on the table again.
“You don’t like beer, do you?”
“Not really,” I admitted, seeing no reason to lie since half my beer remained and Slice was almost ready for his second. “I prefer margaritas and pina coladas. White wine. Although,” I added at his sudden interest, “I’m a lightweight. I can only have two at most and I can’t mix my drinks at all. It makes me so fucking sick.”
“You should’ve told me. The bartenders here make a mean margarita.” He turned in the direction of the bar. “I don’t see Pam. Hers is the best.”
“Let me eat first,” I said. “I don’t want to get sloshed. If I drink on an empty stomach, that will happen.”
“I’d hate for our date to end on such a note.”
“Really?” I asked shyly.
He nodded. “I’ve been looking forward to spending time with you.” The moment the words left his mouth, he winced. “Forget I said that.”
Never in a million years. Those words took up residence in my head and wouldn’t easily move out. No matter what he said.
“Why is the club named Murder?” I blurted, attempting to move away from his admission since he seemed so uncomfortable.
“It isn’t named Murder. It’s Red Rum.”
“A palindrome. Murder spelled backward.”
“It isn’t. Murder is one word. The club’s name is two words.”
“Probably deliberate, so stop gaslighting me. If you had it as one word, it would be too obvious.”
He scowled. “You go from awkwardness to nosiness. I prefer the former.”
“You don’t have to insult me because I’m right.”
“It wasn’t an insult,” he said flatly. “It was the truth.”
I huffed.
“I don’t want to talk about my fucking club. The topic’s off-limits.”
“Fine,” I gritted.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Where the fuck’s our food?” he asked crossly.
I thought it was a rhetorical question until someone yelled, “It’s coming, Pretty Boy.”
I still thought Pretty Boy was more applicable than Slice. He was pretty—okay, handsome —while Slice could mean something I didn’t want to imagine. I hadn’t even meant to ask him the stupid question. He flustered me so much and it turned me into an idiot.
To cover my disappointment, I grabbed my purse from where I’d sat it. “Is it okay if it took pictures?” I pulled out my phone, slid my chair back, and stood. “If I can’t do it in here, I’ll go outside.”
My camera would’ve been ideal, but I hadn’t planned on doing anything else but basking in Slice’s presence. Now that that plan was up in flames, some selfies were my last minute backup solution.
Slice drained his beer. “Claude,” he called, his commanding voice rising above the din. “Effie wants to take photos. She’s good. An amateur photographer, so don’t give her any shit.”
“You got it, Pretty Boy,” the same voice, now identified as Claude, responded.
“Don’t wander too far,” Slice said and sighed. “Our food should be out soon.”
I nodded. “Fine.”