Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
R arity…
We went back down the stairs and out through the garage, several of the men down there looking up and or stopping what they were doing to blatantly stare.
I was both excited and terrified to go for a ride. The only person I’d ever ridden with had been my dad. We’d sold his motorcycle after he’d died. Mom couldn’t bear to look at it, even though it hadn’t been involved in the accident in any way.
She used to go on long rides, just her and my dad, while I’d stayed at Grandma and Grandpa’s. I think it honestly broke her heart that she couldn’t anymore – not that I think she would if the opportunity came up. That had been her and my dad’s thing. Totally. Completely.
I had no idea what Striker had planned for the day, but just being out in the sunshine, sunglasses on, snugged up to his back as he carefully took us through traffic and over bridges… it was nice. We weren’t going terribly fast. Traffic wasn’t permitting it, but oh , the view from the bridge of all the sailboats out on the water was lovely.
It was nice to just relax and not have to be in charge for once and to just go with the flow. Did I think Striker was doing it just to get in my pants?
I didn’t know. I mean, it was likely, but my intuition was telling me that he was being cool. That he was attracted, sure, but he wasn’t being handsy or anything at all like that.
I was curious when we pulled into a little strip mall off one of the main streets heading toward the beaches.
When he parked and tapped my knee lightly twice, I hopped off. He heeled down the kickstand to lean the bike onto it. He shut off the beastly engine and got up himself, wincing at a little stiffness.
“You alright?” I asked.
He grinned at me and said, “I’m getting too old to be taking these ass whoopin’s.”
I laughed and looked up and down the row of businesses curiously.
“Why’re we here?” I asked.
“For your appointment,” he said, striding up to the door we’d parked in front of and holding it open, gesturing me through.
I furrowed my brow, went through and blinked, surprised at the strong smell of chemicals and acrylic.
“You’re taking me to get my nails done?” I asked.
“Yep. Booked you a mani and a pedi. Off you go, enjoy yourself, I’ll be right here.” He dropped into one of the waiting room’s seats, and a girl came to get me. He told her my name and the appointment time.
She nodded and said, “Ah, yeah, we fix your nails nice.” She enthusiastically took my hand and led me into the salon toward the big deluxe massaging pedicure chairs.
My flabbers were ghasted . I had no idea how to deal with this input of information. No one had ever done anything like this for me except for my mom, back when we’d had the money for such luxuries. We didn’t anymore, except on the rare, rare occasion, and I missed it . So much.
I didn’t want to seem like an ungrateful brat, and Striker was smiling and watching me go, waving his hands at me in a shooing motion as I reluctantly trailed along after the salon lady.
He waited patiently in the waiting room, scrolling on his phone and laughing occasionally at something he read or watched in a video, and I just observed him.
He was incredibly handsome, and I felt a nervous flight of butterflies take off every time he smiled and that dimple on the one side appeared.
I liked his rings. He wore several large, chunky, silver rings. One looked like a class ring, but I couldn’t tell from here if it was actually a class ring or some kind of military ring. He’d said he’d enlisted right out of high school but never mentioned how long he was in for or if he maybe went to school after … you know? He’d lived almost twice the life I had, but it was hard to remember that, just looking at his face.
He did not look like he was in his forties. Thirties, maybe , but not forties.
Honestly, I had no idea what I was even doing here, except it’d been a while since I’d remembered having a friend. I’d had plenty in high school, but after graduation, almost all of them went off to college or to travel abroad. I’d opted to stay home and take a year off. I wanted to work and save some money, take a trip somewhere… then Mom got pregnant, and we were so excited… and then… well… we were broken.
I didn’t think there was any real life left after Dad.
I hadn’t felt anything close to being as vibrant as I was before he… died. I used to say left because I couldn’t bear to even say the word.
I let the women in the nail salon work on my hands and feet and felt a bit of a stirring in my chest. Like there was a glimmer of the old me, just there on the horizon, that I just might be able to catch with a lift from Striker on the back of his bike.
Silly, I know… but this?
I looked down at where my nails were being carefully filed. I opted for a French tip on both fingers and toes. Something simple that hopefully wouldn’t chip at the bar. I missed my acrylics, which could withstand just about anything, but affording them was a pipe dream anymore. I just couldn’t fathom dropping fifty bucks or so every other week at a good salon. That was a hundred bucks a month that could go to much better things, like keeping the three growing little monsters in clothes that fit .
Lord, that was a chore in and of itself! It felt like we had only just bought them shoes, and they were in another size a couple of mere months later.
“You good, baby girl?” I heard from across the empty salon, and I blinked and shook myself as if coming awake. I said, “Oh! Yeah! Just thinking really hard.”
He got up, wandered over in my direction, sat sort of funny in the chair next to mine, and asked, “What about?”
His voice was gentle, soothing, and I flashed back to how he’d used it on the phone with the ex-soldier who was having a hard time.
“You’re a good listener,” I said, and he had a slow smile grace his lips.
It was a knowing one, as he licked his bottom lip and said to me, “Don’t try to change the subject.”
I laughed a little and asked, “Why is this so much easier over text rather than in person?”
“That’s easy. There’s something anonymous about typing into a screen and sending a message out into the ether. You were talking to me, sure, but there’s an almost disconnect about it. Now…” his voice dropped into a lower register that sent a shiver down my spine in all the right ways. “Don’t change the subject.”
“I was thinking about how much I miss getting my nails done,” I said. “I just can’t justify the cost with the boys, you know?”
“No, yeah, I get that,” he said.
“How did you even know?” I asked, and I couldn’t help the smile curving my own lips.
“The pictures in your bedroom,” he answered.
I cocked my head to the side, curiously and in silent question.
His smile grew, and he raked a hand through his hair, those heavy silver rings sparkling under the harsh overhead lights of the salon.
A skull with a crown, so like their club’s logo. That class-looking ring with the red stone. The Harley Davidson logo, and finally, one that was a round-looking seal with a skull in the middle of it with memento above it and mori below it.
His other hand was likewise decorated in rings, and it wasn’t lost on me that they more than likely served as something very akin to brass knuckles in a fight.
“I’m the chapter’s road captain. Do you know what that means?” he asked.
“Vaguely,” I answered truthfully. “You pick some things up working in a biker bar for the last three years.”
He laughed, nodded, and said, “Yeah, I suppose you do.”
“You’re in charge of mapping out and leading the runs, right? You’re the man with the plan.”
He nodded and eyed me like I’d said something both interesting and that’d pleased him. As stupid as it may be, I glowed from the pleased look.
“That’s about the right of it,” he answered. “The devil’s in the details when you’re the man with the plan. You gotta be the one up front, the head of the pack. It’s a position of a lot of responsibility. Not only do I need to know where the fuck I’m going – I need to have alternate routes planned and am responsible for the safety of the whole ride. Situational awareness is a must. If shit’s going sideways up ahead, I’m responsible for alerting every rider down the line.”
I nodded. “Okay,” I murmured. I hadn’t realized there was that much to it.
“I guess the whole hypervigilance and situational awareness thing was drilled into me in the Army. It was practically our religion on the Stryker brigade, and once that switch got flipped?” He shrugged. “It never went off again. I notice things that most people wouldn’t. I noticed at the bar that you didn’t have your nails done, but in all the pictures in your bedroom, they were always done, and in quite a few of them, yours matched your mom’s.”
He'd noticed that?
“You’ve been through a mess of shit. I figured it would be a nice treat.”
“It is,” I breathed. “Thank you.”
He winked at me and got up.
“Relax, enjoy yourself, think about what you might like to eat. We’ll grab a bite after a while when you get hungry. On me – no arguments.”
“You’re going to spoil me,” I tried to protest.
All he said as he walked back to the sitting area was, “Yeah, and? You deserve it.”