Chapter Two
Pierce
“Are you sure you don’t wanna stay?” Kenna gazes up at me, fluttering her eyelashes. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, and I’ve got nothing to get up for.”
Her meaning is obvious… not that she needs words to express herself. Her demeanor and clothing reveal more than enough.
“Unfortunately, I have,” I say, taking a step backward into the hallway outside her apartment.
She pouts, which I think is supposed to tempt me into changing my mind, but it’s not gonna work, because even though I have nothing planned for tomorrow – at least, not until the afternoon – I’m not sure how much more of Kenna I can take. Sure, she’s pretty enough, her heart-shaped face framed by long blonde hair. Not only that, but she has the kind of hourglass figure that most men would die for… or kill for. I’m not sure which. She does little to hide it, either, wearing a white lacy mini dress, with a fitted bodice and plunging neckline. It has straps, but she’s allowed one of them to fall from her shoulder, and while I’m tempted to raise it back up, I don’t want to get that close, just in case she gets the wrong idea. Because I’m leaving, no matter what.
Why?
Good question.
She sounds ideal, doesn’t she? Sexy, beautiful, available. She’s all of that.
But there’s a problem…
She’s just too clingy for my tastes.
Even over dinner, she wouldn’t let go of my hand. I actually had to ask her to release me, so I could cut my steak, and the moment I had, she grabbed a hold of me again. It was infuriating, to put it mildly. What made it worse was her reaction when I rolled up my shirtsleeves. I only did it because I was getting warm, but after that, she became positively unstoppable. She gazed at me for a moment, her eyes switching from my slightly unkempt hair to my left arm, and then over to my right, before she leaned in a little.
“How far do they go?” she asked.
“How far do what go?”
“Your tattoos. Do they go all the way up?”
“The pattern meets in the center of my chest,” I explained, and she licked her lips. It was clear she found that thought appealing, and from then on, she not only held my hand, but stroked it, too.
Afterwards, once we’d finished our meal, it was all I could do to stop her from clutching at my arm as we walked along the street, and she positively purred as we climbed the steps to her apartment. The apartment I’m currently backing away from.
“That’s a shame,” she says, tipping her head and biting on her bottom lip. “You could still stay the night and get up early, couldn’t you?”
“Sorry. I can’t.”
I move toward the stairs, and she steps outside. “You’ll call me, won’t you?”
I nod my head, turning to go down, even though I know I won’t call her at all… and I feel bad about that. It’s wrong of me to lie to her. But if I said no, she’d probably be offended, and she’d want an explanation, and I don’t feel like explaining. I’m done here, and I’m so damn relieved she doesn’t have my number. I made a point of not giving it to her, and that – as it transpires – was a wise move. Admittedly, when I first arrived here and knocked on her door, looking her up and down in that sexy dress, I thought I might have been too cautious. I mean, who wouldn’t wanna give their number to a woman who looked like that? Naturally, I didn’t just blurt it out at her, randomly quoting the digits by way of a greeting, but I told myself I’d find a way to give it to her before the end of the night… or maybe in the morning. Because at that stage, I had every intention of staying the night… if asked.
That was, until we got down the stairs and outside her apartment block, and she saw my motorcycle.
“Who left that thing here?” she asked, looking down the street, as if she expected someone to jump out and reveal themselves as the culprit of this seemingly heinous crime.
I’d parked it between a BMW and a Lotus, and had locked my helmet to the handlebars before going up to her place. Standing there, looking at it, in all its black, shiny glory, I was hurt by her calling my precious motorcycle a ‘thing’, and I turned to her and said, “I did.”
She frowned and looked at me. “This is yours?”
“Yeah.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to ride on it with you.”
I shook my head. “I booked us a table at the Italian restaurant around the corner.”
“Thank goodness for that.” She sighed out her relief and linked her arm through mine, guiding me along the sidewalk, while she explained how much she detested bikes.
No matter how sexy she looked, that was a deal-breaker for me.
I felt like I had to go through with dinner, though… and it was nice enough, aside from her clinging to my hand the entire time. Within seconds of us sitting down, she made it clear what she expected from a man, and that if I wanted to be hers, I’d have to change.
Needless to say, that wasn’t gonna happen, but I was still intrigued by her interpretation.
“Being a bad boy is one thing,” she said, studying me closely. “But there’s such a thing as taking it too far.”
She didn’t say so in as many words, but I got the feeling that riding a motorcycle was taking it way beyond her expectations… which was why I was kinda surprised by her reaction to my tattoos. They were clearly okay, although the bike wasn’t. Not in her eyes. If I wanted to be with her, the bike would have to go.
Over my dead body .
It’s a reaction I’ve experienced before on many occasions, and as I get out onto the sidewalk again, I wrack my brain, trying to recall the last woman I dated who was actually enthusiastic about the prospect of being seen with a biker. It takes me a moment, but I honestly can’t think of one, and I wander over and unlock my helmet, pulling it on before I mount up and start the engine, and then smile to myself as I set off for home.
The journey from Concord to Hart’s Creek doesn’t take too long, but it’s just long enough for me to remember the last time I was in this position… riding away from someone who’d felt right, but who’d turned out to be the exact opposite.
Her name was Bellamy. She was a stunning brunette, with sultry eyes and captivating lips… and I let things go a lot further with her than I did with Kenna. In fact, it was only when I was getting dressed, looking down at Bellamy’s naked body, still lying sprawled across her bed, that I realized she was all wrong for me. Like Kenna, she’d made a remark about my motorcycle when I’d arrived at her house a few hours earlier, but it was less personal. Or it felt that way at the time, when she studied my bike, then glanced out at the quiet street, and sighed, saying, “I hope my neighbors won’t mind that.”
I doubted they would. It wasn’t as though I was doing wheelies up and down the street at three in the morning, and I shook my head as she invited me in.
“Sit over there,” she said, pointing to the couch before she brought me a beer.
I don’t really like beer, but before I got the chance to tell her that, she sat beside me and told me she’d already ordered our pizza, and it would arrive in ten minutes. That set the tone for the evening, and at the end of it, although I tried to tell her I couldn’t stay, it really wasn’t an option.
“I want you,” she said, holding out her hand. I felt it would be rude to actually say ‘no’, so I let her take me upstairs and positively drag me to her room.
I won’t say it wasn’t enjoyable. It was. And while I’m all for women telling me what they want and how they want it, there are ways of doing that… ways that don’t sound like I’m being issued with a series of demands. Demands that might have consequences if I question them, or – God forbid – refuse to obey.
Even as I was getting dressed, telling her it was impossible for me to stay the night because I had to work the next day, she was instructing me to remove my pants and get back into bed. I ignored her, deciding that nothing was worth that level of subservience. Not even those captivating lips…
Again, I hadn’t given her my number, and again, I was grateful for that.
Prior to Bellamy, I dated a woman called Robyn. We went for drinks one weekend, and then dinner the next, before she invited me to her place for our third date… once again, remarking on the bike as I pulled off my helmet.
“I didn’t realize you were a biker,” she said, letting me in.
“Is that a problem?”
“I’ve never really liked them.”
“Bikers or bikes?” I asked.
“They kinda go together, don’t they?”
I felt that familiar sense of disappointment… because I liked Robyn. Okay, so I didn’t really know her, but I liked what I’d seen so far. She had dark blonde hair and green eyes, and the most exquisite body, which she thrust in my direction not long into the evening. We’d kissed at the end of our first date… and our second. But this went beyond kissing. It went beyond my wildest expectations.
We’d been drinking, and we took the wine to bed with us, Robyn quite rightly pointing out that I couldn’t ride home, before she pushed me onto my back, rolled a condom over my dick, and gave me a very good reason to stay.
Hours later, we fell asleep, mutually satisfied, and although I could still recall her doubts about my bike, I wondered if I might have met someone for whom I was willing to make an exception… for once.
I dismissed that idea the next morning, when I woke to find the bed empty. That wasn’t a problem in itself. Neither was it an issue that she was in the kitchen, wearing nothing more than a t-shirt. In fact, I kinda liked that…
What I didn’t like was that she started talking… and she didn’t stop. That’s not an exaggeration. I’m serious. She literally didn’t stop talking.
How had I slept?
Did I want eggs for breakfast?
Would I like bacon with them?
Would I like coffee?
She had tea, but only fruit tea… would I prefer that?
Did I wanna stay for the day?
I wouldn’t have minded, but she didn’t let me answer. She just went on… and on. Sure, it could have been embarrassment or nerves making her mouth run away with her, but I got the feeling it was more than that.
I was also a little scared she might suggest that now we’d had sex, we should start planning the wedding… or at least the engagement. Or maybe who was gonna move in with who.
It felt as though she might be leading somewhere like that, so I raised my voice slightly and told her something had come up, and I had to leave.
She was understanding, and waited while I got dressed before seeing me off. I noticed her grimace when I started the bike and knew I’d done the right thing. She hadn’t asked if I’d call, though. I think she just assumed I would. But as I also hadn’t given her my number, I never found out.
Because, even if I’d enjoyed the night before, the morning after was too much for me.
And therein lies the problem, it would seem. No matter who I date, or sleep with, or spend the night with – because one thing doesn’t have to lead to another – there’s always something wrong. They’re either too demanding, too demure – which has been known to happen – too ditzy, too draining… or just too dull. It’s never perfect. And I’m looking for perfect. I don’t care how long it takes me to find her, I know the perfect woman is out there, and I’m not gonna settle for anything less.
Besides, I’m not asking for much. All I’m looking for is someone I can have a conversation with, whose company doesn’t drive me insane, who doesn’t talk incessantly, who doesn’t mind the fact that I like to paint in my spare time, and who understands that my tattoos are a form of artistic expression. They’re nothing to do with me being ‘bad’, or ‘good’ or anything in between. She has to like my bike, too. I don’t ask that she loves it like I do, but liking it would be a good start. In fact, it would be a miracle if experience is anything to go by.
I shake my head, pulling into the garage behind the antiques store, switching off the engine, and sliding my helmet onto the rack, alongside Harley’s, as I think back to how one of my girlfriends – Gwen, I think her name was – once called it dangerous and juvenile. I’m pretty sure she was talking about the bike, and not me, although there’s no guarantee. Luckily, I’d already worked out we weren’t right for each other, but those two words were the nail in the coffin as far as I was concerned.
I’m really careful about my bike, and about riding it. And there’s nothing either dangerous or juvenile about that. Or me. Not really.
I lock the garage and go inside and up the stairs to my apartment, taking off my gloves and putting them into my jacket pockets before hooking it up behind the door. Then I wander into the living room and sit on the couch. I let my head rock back, wondering if I should have ignored my doubts, and stayed with Kenna. We’d have been in bed by now, if I had, there’s no doubting that. And she was hot. She was really hot. I doubt she’d have disappointed. But the thing is, it wouldn’t have lasted. It would have been another night of casual sex, and although I know this sounds weird, I’m getting sick of casual sex. It can’t be that I’m getting old. Twenty-six isn’t old… although I have to admit, I’ve been doing this for a long time. Maybe that’s the problem. I’m just tired of it. I’m bored with the same routines, with the same women… and always knowing they won’t be right.
They won’t be perfect… and they won’t be the one for me.
Although I know she’s out there somewhere.
She has to be.
I love the attic room.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was the only reason I took the job at the antiques store… but it was instrumental in the decision. When Bridget and Rob suggested I might like to work for them, I honestly wasn’t sure. My first doubt was that working for my best friend’s parents might prove awkward. My second doubt was that it would mean staying here in Hart’s Creek… and I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that. I’d been away at college for four years. I’d had a taste of freedom, and I wasn’t willing to give it up and move back with my dad. Of course, when they offered me the use of the apartment above the store, that put an entirely different complexion on things. I’d have freedom, the chance to earn a living – a lot of which I could save – and I could do what I wanted most of all. Namely, paint. Naturally, when I saw the attic room, I was sold. It’s got space, and light, and it’s the ideal studio. It’s where I spend most of my spare time, when I’m not out sketching… or wasting my time with women who aren’t right for me.
I shake my head, trying to forget about last night, and focus on the canvas in front of me. It’s another seascape… one of many. And I have to say, it’s going well. The only thing that’s a little disappointing is that I’m working from a photograph, and I’d much rather create something from real life. The problem with that is, Hart’s Creek is nowhere near the coast, and that’s a drawback. Still, I like the way the sky is coming along, and I stand back slightly, and nod my head, studying the clouds before checking my watch.
“Man… I need to go.”
As usual, when I’m up here, I’ve lost track of time, and I need to leave, or I’ll be late.
I wash my brushes, leaving them to dry, and take a last look at the canvas, smiling to myself, before I head down the stairs.
I haven’t eaten, but I don’t have time, and I grab my jacket, shrugging it on as I run down to the first floor and let myself out, pulling on my gloves as I go. It only takes a minute or two to pull on my helmet, lock Harley’s to the clip at the back of the bike, before getting it started, and then I’m on my way, heading out of Hart’s Creek, toward Willmont Vale.
This is a journey I’ve made countless times, and the bike almost seems to know the way itself, making it a relaxing ride, which ends when I pull up outside Harley’s house… or rather her parents’ house. They’re not here, of course. They’ve gone on vacation, and I’m about to climb off of the bike when I look up and see her walking around the side of the garage.
She gives me a cute wave, knowing I won’t be able to hear her, and I unlock her helmet, handing it across, watching as she pulls it on, covering her strawberry blonde hair. I check the straps are tight, and she rests her hand on my shoulder, climbing up behind me. She fits neatly against me, her slim body molding to mine, her legs clamping tight to the outside of my thighs, and I quickly adjust the bluetooth, before saying, “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” Her reply sounds in my ear and I nod my head, waiting until she’s completely settled, her hands tight around my waist, before I walk the bike backwards and turn it around.
“Ready?”
“Sure thing.”
Harley’s confident on the bike… and that’s not just because she’s named after one. It’s because she’s lived around them all her life. Her parents used to ride when they were younger, and so did her brother, Ben. He’s my best friend, even though he’s moved to New York now, and Harley used to come out with us sometimes, mostly on the back of Ben’s Yamaha… although she always joked with him that she preferred my Kawasaki. And I can’t say I blame her. Now Ben’s no longer here, Harley comes out with me. Not all the time, but every so often, when neither of us is busy doing something else.
We mostly meet up on Sunday afternoons, like today, and I take the chance to do some sketching, while Harley will either read, or just watch what I’m doing. I’ve always enjoyed her company. She knows when to talk and when to keep quiet… when I’m concentrating, and when I could use some inspiration or distraction because things aren’t going well.
I guess that comes from having known each other for so long.
Neither of us has to try.
We just get it.
I take her to one of our favorite places, about ten miles outside the town, parking the bike alongside the creek. It’s pretty hot, and Harley pulls off her helmet, shaking her blonde head, before she removes the backpack she brought with her, followed by her gloves and jacket, revealing a pretty blouse above her jeans.
“That’s better,” she says, her baby blue eyes sparkling up at me as I lower the kickstand and dismount, pulling off my own gloves and helmet and unzipping my jacket.
Harley’s already opened her backpack, pulling out a blanket, which I help her set out on the ground, and we both sit.
“How’s work?” I ask her, pulling my sketchpad from the inside pocket of my jacket, before I remove it and lie it on the blanket beside me.
“Not bad.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Doc Singleton wasn’t in on Friday, so it was kinda busy.”
I shake my head. “I would’ve thought Doc Singleton being absent was an advantage.”
“It can be,” she says, smiling at me, as she kneels up and removes a few storage containers from the backpack. As usual, she’s brought a picnic, even though we didn’t arrange for her to do so. That’s another thing about her. She knows me well enough to realize I have a habit of forgetting to eat, and I lean a little closer.
“One day, I’ll bring the food.”
“No, you won’t.”
She never goes overboard, usually bringing sandwiches and potato chips, but as she removes the lids, my stomach grumbles at the sight of sliced cold cuts and cheeses, olives, tomatoes, crackers and wedges of watermelon.
“This looks amazing,” I say, and she rolls her eyes, her lips twisting upward.
“Mom left me with so much food, I had to do something with it.”
I reach over for a slice of salami, popping it in my mouth. “I’m not complaining.”
“Somehow, I didn’t think you would.”
The food is delicious, and we graze on it for a while, until we’ve both had enough, and I help Harley pack the boxes in the backpack, before she pulls out a book, rolling up her jacket to use as a pillow, and settles down to read. I pick up my sketchpad and rifle through my jacket pockets until I find my pencils, sitting beside her, and focusing on the scene in front of us. It’s one I’ve sketched many times before, but I like it. The way the creek twists here makes it more interesting, and for about twenty minutes, we sit in silence, both absorbed by what we’re doing, until I let out a sigh and Harley puts down her novel, like she knows that means something.
“Are you okay?” she asks, turning onto her side, balancing on one elbow and looking up at me.
It’s like she’s psychic, and I smile down at her. “My dad called yesterday morning.”
She nods her head. “I see.”
“You know what he wanted, don’t you?”
She frowns. “Let me guess… to grumble about you wasting your time painting?”
“Close,” I say. “He actually wanted to grumble about me wasting my time painting, and working in an antiques store.”
“My parents own that antiques store, I’ll have you know.” She’s smiling, and I have to smile back, regardless of the memory of yesterday’s conversation. It was nothing new, but it still rankles that he won’t let me live my own life.
“As if I could forget. Without them, I’d have had to move back in with my father.”
“Would you?” she asks. “Would you have moved back in with him?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. I didn’t want to, and I think if that had been my only option, I’d probably have left town.”
She sucks in a slight breath and nods her head. “I thought you might.”
“As it is, I’m here, grateful for your parents’ generosity, and that I’ve got a roof over my head… even if Dad won’t stop bemoaning the fact that I chose to study fine art instead of law.”
“It’s not your fault you didn’t want to follow in his footsteps.”
I shudder at the thought. “Try telling him that. He’s sure as hell not listening to me.”
“Maybe he never will,” Harley says.
“You think we’re gonna spend our lives butting heads?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t see your dad changing his ways… and I don’t see why you should have to give up your dreams just to please him. You’d make yourself miserable.”
“I sure would,” I say, putting down my pencil so I can focus on her, smiling slightly as she tips her head, a hair falling across her face. I reach out and tuck it behind her ear and she bites on her bottom lip, gazing up at me as I shake my head. “Do you know… it would be nice if Dad could show a little faith.”
“In what?”
“Me. Or at least in my abilities. I’ve had quite a few commissions now, and although I know I’m not making enough from my paintings to earn a living, I still believe it’ll happen.”
“I’m sure it will,” she says, reaching out and placing her hand on my arm. “You’re really good, Pierce.”
“Thanks.”
She lies down again on her back, staring up at the sky. “I know your dad can be hard work,” she says. “But Mom and Dad trust you. You know that, don’t you? They didn’t give you the job or the apartment just because of your friendship with Ben.”
“I know,” I say, feeling myself blush a little at her compliment, although I remember how much her parents have done in the past, simply because of my friendship with Ben. When they moved from Hart’s Creek to Willmont Vale, around twenty years ago, they decided to keep Ben in the same school, rather than move him, just because they knew how much our friendship meant to us. We wouldn’t have stopped being friends just because they moved, but seeing each other every day made all the difference to us.
“If they didn’t trust you, they’d never have gone away for a month and left you in charge.”
“I get that.”
“Have you tried explaining it to your dad in those terms? Maybe if you didn’t focus so much on your art when you talked to him, and explained that Mom and Dad believe in you, he might come around.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be offended, but I tried that already. It didn’t go well.”
“Why not?”
“He made it clear he thought your mom and dad only gave me the job because they felt sorry for me, and that they gave me the apartment because it meant there would be someone at the store to keep an eye on things.”
“That’s not true,” she says, sitting up, and sounding so much more offended than I expected.
“I know. Your parents aren’t like that.”
“This has nothing to do with my parents. This is about you,” she says, defending me, and I have to smile.
“Okay… but you have to remember my dad tends to speak before he thinks. It comes of having lived by himself for so long…” I let my voice fade, thinking back to my mother’s death. Not that I really remember it. I was only five years old and my memories are limited to tears, confusion and an aching emptiness. It was a void my father never tried to fill. As I grew up, we drifted apart. Dad had ambitions for me, which I never wanted to fulfill, and so the gap widened, and I was drawn toward Ben and his family… and art.
“Are you okay?” Harley asks, lying back down, but turning onto her side again, so she’s facing me.
“I’m fine. But can we change the subject?”
“Sure. What do you wanna talk about?”
“I don’t know…” I gaze out across the creek, hoping for inspiration, and then look back down at her. “Why don’t I tell you about my latest disastrous date?”
She flips onto her back, letting out a slight sigh. “Okay,” she murmurs and I lie beside her, ignoring my sketchpad for now as I explain about Kenna and how clingy she was.
“With hindsight, my mood probably wasn’t helped by the call from my dad. That didn’t occur to me at the time, but even so… the woman wouldn’t let go of me.”
“And that’s a problem?” she says.
“It can be.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” she says, her voice laced with mock sympathy as she turns to face me, leaning up and looking into my eyes. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re just really hard to please?”
“No,” I say and she shakes her head at me before we both laugh, and I lean over and push her onto her back, which makes her squeal and giggle, and I laugh even louder, feeling more relaxed than I have in ages.