Tilly 5.
“Til, why are you sweaty? It’s just a donor meeting. I know I gave you a hard time about who these guys are at first,” my brother shrugs, his face contorting as he swallows, hard to admit, “but the more I look into them, the more I think Gladys might have been exaggerating…or at the least spreading other people’s opinions as fact.”
I give him an unimpressed look that he scoffs at and nudges my shoulder with his. Of course, Gladys was spreading unfounded gossip, that’s what people do. Nobody fact checks anymore. And they mistake opinion and subjection as fact, whether purposefully or unintentionally, it’s harmful all the same. However, all of that is not why I’m sweaty. This isn’t my first fundraiser. At my previous job, I worked with local businesses for charitable purposes. That’s the only reason Tybalt put my name forward initially to Building A Village as liaison. Blood relation or not, Tybs is stone-cold when it comes to his reputation. If I was unable to handle the job or untrustworthy, he would have smiled at me as he told me not gonna happen.
No, I’m sweaty and currently housing a gaggle of cocaine-fueled butterflies in my stomach because of Wilson. I’ve never been so nervous to meet someone before, let alone for work. I’m competent. Capable. An educated and intelligent person. And yet…the thought of discovering if the body is as effective as the voice in inducing full-body tingles is what’s got me all twitchy. What if it doesn’t? Like he’s the stereotypical biker I found online in my research with a big belly, scraggly beard, and nicotine-stained teeth?
What if he’s as hot as his voice and I spontaneously orgasm in a restaurant full of people and my brother?
It’s a lose-lose either way.
Tybs places his arm around my shoulders and squeezes me affectionately. As usual, it grounds me and I take a deep breath, exhaling the nerves and negativity. It’s a donor meeting, just like he said. Piece of cake. Done it dozens of times over the years.
He starts speaking, probably offering comforting words, but I can’t hear him over the buzzing in my ears as we step into the bar and grill. Waiting just inside the entrance are four men, four large men in leather motorcycle vests. Three of them are my brother’s height of 6’2” or shorter, still taller than me by several inches. And the fourth is an inch or two taller than him with a riot of curly hair, dark in the dim lighting of the restaurant.
He turns around first and I’m struck stupid by the love child of Kit Harrington and Jeff Goldblum. I know, sounds weird, but stay with me. Salt and pepper jaw length curly hair, thick dark rimmed glasses perched on a patrician nose, defined jawline covered in a day or two’s growth, long neck, pronounced Adam’s apple, and straight white teeth that gleam at me through a genuine smile. He’s got a slim build, but the cut of his vest, t-shirt, and jeans hint at a swimmer’s build. My eyes dart to his chest and I feel almost faint when I read Wilson on a patch, Secretary underneath.
This is him. Him. The owner of the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard. And he’s right in front of me.
“Tilly? Matilda.” I draw in a much-needed breath and snap my eyes to my brother. Tybalt is staring at me with wide eyes and a slightly manic look. Right. This is business. And I’m not making a great first impression. They need to trust us with boatloads of their money. Shaking my head and drawing my shoulders back, I stick out my hand and introduce myself.
“Thank you for meeting with us today. Matilda Mazekat. I am the branch manager of Aged Barrel Bank, and the donor liaison for the community multiplex project. Tybalt is the Community Services Director for the City of Independence. He will be joining us if that is acceptable to you?”
“Tilly.” Wilson breathes out my name and it skitters along my skin as he takes my hand in his and squeezes it gently. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” His dark gaze runs down my body and slowly back up until he meets my eyes once more. His lips turn up slightly on the right in a charming half-smile. Dammit. He’s even more handsome than he was a moment ago.
I’m in so much trouble.
“Matilda. Tybalt. I’m Madison, President of the Congressionals MC.” Styled white hair and beard can’t disguise that though he is older, probably in his sixties, the tattoo covered man with bulging arm muscles isn’t to be messed with. He introduces the other two men, Vice President Adams, and Treasurer Hayes. Both men in their sixties or near them, more salt than pepper hair and beards, muscular and intimidating, just like their president.
Handshakes are firm but gentle and they have a kindness in their eyes that is easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it. I’m instantly at ease with these men. Wilson…well he’s a different story.
I jolt when his broad hand touches the small of my back, he smiles down at me when I look up in question. “Let’s sit down and order drinks, then we can get down to business.” I nod, even though it wasn’t a question.
I make the mistake of meeting Tybs’ eyes, his dark brow is drawn down and he mouths, “What the hell?” I shrug and allow Wilson to lead me to our table in the back corner. He holds a chair out for me and scoots it in as I sit. I follow him with my eyes as he takes the seat next to me and sits close enough to feel the warmth of his skin against mine where our arms almost touch.
“Are you expecting anyone else?” Tybs nods to the other two empty seats with menus in front of them.
Adams chuckles, smirking at Madison and Hayes. “Their ol’ ladies will be joining us shortly.”
“While any donations are club decisions, our wives are excited to be involved, however they can.” Madison shakes his head with a fond smile, “Any excuse to dress up is always welcomed.”
“By them, not us.” Hayes scowls playfully.
Our server comes over, and while not overtly flirtatious, she’s interested in attention from any of the men, including Tybs. I stifle a giggle when he stutters over his drink order, her impressive cleavage not far from his darkened face.
I lean over when she leaves and whisper, “You’re blushing!”
“Shut it.”
With a broad grin, I shift in my chair and take my time to make eye contact with Madison, Hayes, and Adams, before Wilson. My tummy flip-flops, but I forge ahead, in complete business mode.
“In conjunction with Building A Village, the community services department of Independence has been given the green light to begin construction on a state-of-the-art facility to service every citizen of Independence and their unique needs. Basketball courts, baseball, soccer, football fields, indoor and outdoor pools, and an indoor ice rink, full gym, and rooms for exercise, yoga, Pilates, self-defense, and more. Life skills including cooking, laundry, ironing, sewing, banking, investment, taxes, home maintenance, and yard care, etc. After school and summer programs for school age children and those with special needs.”
Madison whistles appreciatively. “That’s an ambitious project. How do you plan to find instructors and child caretakers? Staff?”
I slide a few sheets around the table from my packet I prepared. “While I imagine not many of your members find themselves retired and idle, there are many in the community with invaluable real-life experience that would be sadly lost if not passed on. The prospective budget does allow for several paid positions to maintain the facilities and manage the day to day, however, most of our instructors, coaches, teachers, will be volunteers. Businesses that are looking for social outreach opportunities, students needing community service hours to graduate, interns from the nearby colleges, and the citizens of Independence that want to give back and pay it forward.”
Hayes leans forward, “For someone who’s new to the area, you have unwarranted confidence in the people of this city.”
I dip my chin in understanding, my eyes bright with the thrill of the chase. I love this part. “I might be new to Independence, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I have 20/20 vision and my hearing is perfect. Human beings, from every walk of life, social class, sexual orientation, ethnicity, and religion…one thing that connects us all is the desire to feel useful. To have purpose. The people of Independence are just as starved for a connection as the people of Liberty, Monticello, or Greensburg. We disagree on a great many things, Mr. Madison, but everyone from Seattle, Washington to Portland, Maine, and Bottineau, North Dakota to South Padre Island, Texas, is searching for something. Something to give their life meaning. Something to be proud of when you take your last breaths. To make a difference in someone else’s life. To leave the world better than when you entered it. We are a simple Kentucky city, Mr. Madison, a typical American town. Why can’t the revolution begin here?”
I slump back in my chair, my chest heaving, as the adrenaline slowly eeks out of my system. I got a little intense there for a second. Shakily, I grab my soda I didn’t even notice was delivered and take a healthy sip, followed by another. My mouth no longer a dry desert, the silence is starting to become awkward.
Tybs brings his hands up in front of him and I reach out to grip his hands tight. “Do. Not. Begin. A. Slow. Clap.”
“That deserves a slow clap, but we’ll respect your wishes.” Hayes tilts his head as he stares at me and warmth spreads through my chest at the admiration I see clearly in his weathered eyes.
Adams clears his throat, leaning forward across the table. He looks me in the eye, serious as can be. “So, do I just give you all my money now, or do I have to wait for the actual fundraiser?”