First Date
Bad Boy.
It always has been and always will be my favorite trope. I’ve read just about every series I can find with bad boys who turn into a cinnamon roll for the woman they fall in love with.
The thought of being with a man who would kill for me and come home to give it to me good makes me a little giddy. And slightly worried. Like I maybe need to seek therapy. But it’s a fantasy, right? Sort of.
Okay, as much as I think I’d like that, I don’t know that I could really handle it if the man I was dating actually killed someone, whether it was for me or not. Unless it was to save my life or something. Even then, it might be hard to come to terms with.
My hands shake too badly to drink the water the server set down in front of me. It’s a nice day, and I’m seated on the patio. Perfect for spotting the man of my dreams. Perfect for hearing the rumble of his motorcycle as he pulls up wearing a leather kutte.
All I know about him is his name: Benny B.
The app doesn’t give last names, which is probably safest. If it did, I’d have already cyberstalked him, checked his socials, and maybe even searched for a criminal record. He’s listed under the Biker subcategory, after all.
All I have is his profile picture—which makes this totally worth the anxiety.
He looks so much like Jax Teller from Sons of Anarchy.
Talk about swoon. Charlie Hunnam is my absolute favorite actor, especially when he plays an antihero.
I wouldn’t hesitate to lick whipped cream off any part of his body.
And that English accent? Yep, that’s the stuff.
The thought has me shifting in my seat, and I hate how Decker was right about my dating drought. The thoughts of licking most parts of a man’s body don’t usually pop into my head otherwise. What I wouldn’t give for a man to give me an orgasm rather than my toy that has had its batteries replaced.
My head snaps toward the parking lot at the sound of a motorcycle, and I perk up. Excited doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Grabbing my compact mirror, I check my makeup and hair, smoothing the flyaway strands down. I do my best to look cool. As cool as I can.
Honestly, I’m probably bouncing like a kid about to demolish birthday cake. If Benny’s anything like I’ve imagined, his motorcycle won’t be the only thing I’ll be riding tonight.
But when the bike comes into view, my excitement plummets. No. This CANNOT be Benny.
When he smiles at me, I know I’ve been duped. Benny B. is a Photoshop wizard. Sure, he’s got blond hair like his picture, but that’s about it. No muscles. No washboard abs. Instead, his arms are scrawnier than mine, and he sports a beer gut.
And the leather? It’s a knock off. He’s clearly tried to recreate the Sons of Anarchy kutte. Same style, but with “Anarchy” replaced with a badly stitched patch reading “Devils.” On the back, the reaper remains, but it’s seen better days.
I catch all of this as he backs up his motorcycle. And scrapes the exhaust on the curb. Something I’ve never seen a real biker do unless they’re in a hurry.
There’s no way this guy has been riding for more than a month. He’s definitely not in a club.
Benny swings his leg over the bike only to catch his sneaker on the seat and face-plant on the ground beside it. And from my position on the patio, I have a front row seat to watch this disaster.
“Fucking seat,” he mutters, getting up and brushing off his T-shirt. “You like the hog?”
Dear God. “Uh, sure. Yeah.”
“Holly J., right?”
“Yep.”
He flashes a smile, and at least he has nice teeth. Unless he lands on a curb next time he tries to get off his bike. “Benny.”
“I know,” I remind him. “It’s on the app.”
“Yeah, just wasn’t sure if… Never mind.”
He fumbles with the patio gate. Just as I stand to open it from my side, he awkwardly climbs over the short fence. He stumbles again, but still wears his cocky grin. “You’re hot.”
“Thanks.”
I wish I could say the same, but it’s kind of a major disappointment when you’re expecting Charlie Hunnam and get… this.
“I’m still getting used to the bike,” he admits, settling into the chair across from me. “Just bought it a week ago.”
Called it. “What did you have before?” I ask.
On the bright side, I’m finally able to take a sip of my water because all the excited trembling has vanished.
“A Prius.”
I choke, coughing as I set the sweating glass back on the table. “You traded a Prius for a motorcycle?”
“A Harley,” he corrects.
At this point, it really doesn’t matter. His profile says he’s thirty-two. Too young for a mid-life crisis. “Interesting. What made you decide to make such a… drastic change?”
“Fuck the man, right?” He chuckles. “Plus, I got on this dating app and realized where I’d fit best. I’ve always been a man fighting against the hierarchy.”
Blink. “Excuse me?”
“Women love bad boys, right? And more than one woman has told me I look just like Jax Teller—as they rode more than just my Harley. In my bed. Might as well play into it. Charlie Hunnam and I are basically twins.”
I hide my laughter behind a cough as I take another sip. Benny B. might actually be a little crazy. “So, you’re not really in a motorcycle club, then?”
“Of course, I am. I’m the president. See?”
The way he points to the patch on his chest makes it impossible to fight the laughter. But I do my best to cover it with another cough. “That says vice president, Benny.”
He glances down and grimaces. “Gotta change that. We’re still figuring out what works before we waste money on real leather, you know?”
Apparently, he’s incapable of leaving a statement as a statement. Everything ends in a question. I don’t think he actually knows what he’s talking about.
“So, there’s… more of you?”
He gives me a look like I’m an idiot. “You can’t have a motorcycle club with only one person, right?”
The urge to ask him if the rest of his club members are visible to the general public is almost too strong to ignore, but I manage to restrain myself. “So, you’re testing out club names?”
“No, we decided on Sons of Devils. But leather vests are expensive, so we’re using ones we found online instead. At least until we get our gig set up to bring in money, you know?”
“Just so you know, I’m pretty sure what you’re doing is copyright infringement, but I’m not a lawyer.”
Winking, he leans forward. “Who gives a fuck about the law, am I right?”
“Well, I don’t think bikers typically steal other clubs’ identities, real or from Hollywood, but you did upgrade from a Prius to a Harley, so…”
“Right? Badass, huh?”
“Also, it’s called a kutte.”
“What?”
“You said leather vests are expensive, but MCs call it a kutte.”
He frowns. “Like scissors?”
Dear God, help me. “Never mind.”
Benny takes off his hat, and I nearly gasp. What looked like flowy blond hair comes off with it—revealing a balding head with short brown hair. I’ve officially been hat-fished.
“What’s wrong? Really turned on, aren’t you? Let’s order first, and then we can discuss dessert. It’s not a standard after dinner snack, but I have a hot dog you can devour later. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Yeah, none of that is happening. “Your hair is… different from your picture,” I manage to say.
Looking down at his hat, his eyes widen. “Oh, shit!”
The blond hair isn’t part of the hat like I first thought. It’s a wig taped to his forehead that his sweat managed to loosen.
This man is wearing a full-on costume at this point.
“My bad. Can we pretend you didn’t see that?”
“I don’t think I can, Benny.”
“Well, I mean, the night’s going to end up with us in bed together, so it won’t really matter since everything’s going to come off anyway. You know what I mean?”
Oh my God. Mona can never know about this. I’ll never hear the end of it. This guy is beyond delusional, and I’m on a date with him.
Some happily ever after.