5. Nash
“You like meatloaf and mashed potatoes?”
Mica nodded. Her mouth was full and she was chewing as she smiled at him. He really liked her smile. He liked her hair, which he now noted was more of a sandy brown color. He’d been up close and personal with her out at that clearing just a little while ago and he’d noticed so many more things about her then. Like the line of her neck and that silky smooth spot where her pulse beat steadily. How the cuff of her ass fit perfectly against his rough hands and the sound of her moans rippled through his mind like a fuckin’ lullaby.
Nash chuckled and shook his head in a futile attempt to clear his mind. “I hate meatloaf. My moms used to cook it every Sunday when she came home from church. Pops and my brother ate it like it was caviar or something better.”
“So, you never ate it?” she asked when she’d finished chewing and used a napkin to wipe her mouth.
In that moment he wished she would’ve ordered any of the more than sixty dishes on the menu. Any of them, but the meatloaf.
“I did,” Nash admitted. “Didn’t have a choice. Pops didn’t play that leaving food on the table game. If Mama cooked it, we ate it. Case closed.” She was watching him intently, waiting for him to finish his story. He didn’t want to, but he’d opened the door on this topic, so he knew he was going to tell her, no matter how it made him feel.
“I liked the ketchup sauce Mama made. My Grams used to make a meatloaf that was big as a Thanksgiving turkey.” He rubbed a hand over his chin as that memory warmed a part of him that had been cold for far longer than he’d realized. “Hers had a spicy beef gravy. I liked the ketchup sauce better. That may be because I drown most of my food in ketchup anyway. Mama used to hate when I did that.”
“Used to?” she asked, her eyes already holding the sadness she was prepared to feel when he answered. The pity he normally despised from others but settled over him in a weirdly calming way.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “My parents died when I was thirteen. My brother was ten. There was a fire in the basement of the church where they were at a leader’s fellowship. They were both so dedicated to that church. So deep into whatever feeling they got from being there.” The only feeling he could relate to now and whenever he let himself relive this part of his past, was anguish. “They’d been using space heaters on the days the church was open except on Sundays because it was hard raising money to pay for oil for the furnace. The cord from one of the heaters short-circuited. Electrical fire started in the hallway and eventually burned the whole building down.”
Mica reached a hand across the table and let it rest on top of his before saying, “I’m so very sorry.”
His gaze fell to her hand, the smaller, lighter one resting over his. Her nails weren’t long, but they were manicured and painted with a pale color that almost matched her complexion. She wore no rings. This simple touch, her touch was warm, comforting. He liked it.
“Thanks. It was a long time ago,” he said with a shrug because he desperately needed the melancholy that had washed over him to disappear. “Anyway, I haven’t eaten meatloaf since the Sunday before she died.”
Mica nodded.
Then she picked up her fork and cut a piece of the meat on her plate. Good, that line of conversation was over. He was relieved and picked up his fork preparing to dig into his chicken pot pie.
“Take a bite,” she said and he looked up to see that she had extended her arm across the table. She was holding a forkful of meatloaf in front of him.
It had a ketchup sauce and he could smell the tangy tomato base. His stomach growled and he brought his gaze back to her. “What are you doing?”
“It’s really good,” she said. “I like the ketchup sauce, too. You should try it.”
It smelled good, which was shocking since they were in a diner and not sitting at Mama’s dining room table.
“Come on. If you don’t, I’ll have to eat all of this by myself and I hate to even think about how many calories that will be.”
She moved the fork toward his face again and he considered how silly they must look with her attempting to feed him in a public place. But then he also thought of how damn pretty she looked sitting across from him with those penetrating eyes, the pert nose and that luscious full mouth that he knew he’d taste again.
Thoughts like that would easily take this already weird-looking situation to that intense place they’d been out in that clearing when he’d barely been able to keep his hands off of her. So, to get this over with Nash leaned in, took the food from the fork, and chewed, hoping like hell he wouldn’t regurgitate it. She used that same fork to scoop a puff of potatoes from her plate and slip it into her mouth. Now, they both chewed and watched each other.
“How old are you?” she asked after a few moments.
“Thirty-five,” he replied after taking a gulp of water from the glass in front of him. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five,” she answered without hesitation.
She’d finished a good portion of her food but had just wiped her hands on her napkin and tossed the napkin onto the plate, signaling she was done. She lifted her glass of iced tea and took a sip.
“You make bikes and I deal with numbers,” she said. “I just received my MBA in finance.”
“So, the ten-year age gap, together with our cultural and career differences, mean you don’t want me kissing you again,” he stated, before she had the chance to go through the full speech he was assuming she’d thought of during their meal.
“We have cultural differences?” she asked. “What might they be?”
There was an edge to these questions, something he hadn’t heard in her tone before, but Nash didn’t care. If they were going to talk about this, then he wasn’t going to half step.
“You’re from Paris. Probably went to the fancy schools there and then, I don’t know why, but you came here to work,” he added with a shrug. “I’m just a greaser, working in the same shop for the past ten years. So, what kind of future do I have? What could I possibly offer you?”
She shook her head as she sat back in the seat, folding her arms neatly across her chest. The action pushed her breasts upward. Those perfectly alluring palm-sized breasts. He clenched his teeth so hard, focused so intently to keep from licking his lips at the sight.
“I’m just a woman. Yes, I was born in Paris and you’re right, I did go to fancy schools. But my mother raised me on her own and my father…well…he was a good guy who had his own business but wasn’t really there for me.” She stopped then and looked down for a moment.
When she looked up at him again, she was shaking her head. “I’m not different from you just because of where I came from or because I’m biracial and I hate that you’re looking at me like you want to say something to that effect but would rather dress it up by saying we have cultural differences.”
For a moment after she finished Nash could only stare at her. He didn’t know what to say, or rather he did, he just wanted to make sure he said it correctly and so that she understood his every word.
“I have never, in any way, shape or form, been prejudice or a racist. I treat everyone the same—fairly—until they give me reason not to. So, I’m not going to waste my time feeling offended or even getting angry at your assumptions because I’m guessing that there have been people that made you feel that way before. But know this, when I decided to kiss you, it was because I thought you were an extremely desirable woman. I didn’t give a damn about who or what race your parents were, or what either of our career choices were.”
There. He thought as he sat back against the seat and stared at her, chew on that. For starters, he hadn’t any idea where all that she’d just spit out had come from. Not once in the short time they’d known each other had he given her the impression that he felt any type of way about her race or ethnicity. He’d been Black all his life, had only ever lived here in Destine and thus had grown up getting a good dose of the ignorant treatment from those who thought they were better than him—whether because of race or social standing. He’d gotten into fights with the white boys who thought they could intimidate him, had squared off against the cops who pulled him over for no other reason than the color of his skin and sat in jail a couple of nights for that episode as a result. He wasn’t a boy scout, nor was he an angry muthafucka who didn’t have any respect for himself or a pretty woman.
He also didn’t have a damn clue how a biracial person dealt with any of the shit he knew had to be thrown their way from those same judgmental people. That’s the only reason he was giving her accusatory tone some grace.
“Well, what do we have here? Hey, there pretty lady? This rough guy giving you a hard time?”
Nash didn’t have to look up to see who had joined them. Henley was already pushing his way onto the seat beside him. Mica arched a brow as she stared at his brother and Henley extended his hand over the table.
“I’m Henley. This guy’s my brother but it’s not my fault,” he said, following with his wide grin and quick chuckle.
“Hello. I’m Mica,” she said, albeit a little stiffly. Her gaze moved quickly from him to Henley before she offered a slow smile and accepted his hand.
Nash wondered if she might be the first woman that didn’t instantly fall for Henley’s charm. For all that Nash was the serious and focused older brother, Henley was the laid back, party-all-the-time one. Along with his charm, Henley was also the brash and cocky brother. He was a handsome dude, only an inch or two shorter than Nash with an athletic build.
“Mica. That’s a pretty name for a beautiful lady. You and I should definitely get to know each other better,” Henley continued, rubbing his thumb over the back of Mica’s hand.
Not at all pleased by the sight, Nash gritted his teeth and moved to dislodge Henley’s hand from Mica’s.
“She works at the dealership and we’ve been gone long enough. We have to get back,” he said, then pulled out his wallet so that he could leave some cash on the table for their bill.
“Aww, nah. I just got here. We can order some dessert. Maybe a hot fudge sundae with two spoons,” Henley said.
“Fuck no,” Nash snapped.
“We should go back to work,” Mica added. “But, first, I need the restroom.” She stood and walked away before either of them could say another word.
The moment they were alone Henley let out a long whistle. “Where the hell did you find that piece?”
“I told you she works with me,” Nash said pushing Henley out of the way so he could stand and put on his jacket. “And she’s off limits.”
“Oh,” Henley held his hands up in mock surrender. “It’s like that, huh?”
Nash looked at his brother long and hard, taking in the new clothes he was wearing—slim fit jeans, fresh leather boots, turtleneck and suede jacket. He was certain they were new clothes because Henley liked to look perfect all the time. His brother’s answer to that was to never wear anything twice. In a normal world Nash wouldn’t give a damn, but in this world, knowing his brother, he knew to worry. As Henley had reiterated yesterday, he had no job and no intention of getting one. Which led to Nash’s next question.
“What are you doing here? Who are you meeting up with?”
Henley had taken a seat again and was acting like he was reading the menu. “I came here to eat.”
“You traveled twenty minutes out of town to get something to eat. Try again,” Nash said before yanking the menu from his brother’s hand.
Henley sat back and frowned. “Man, you need to get laid real quick. You always this damn uptight?”
“When I’m not getting a straight answer? Yes.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll answer your question even though I don’t have to answer to you. I’m a grown man, remember.”
The jury was still out on that one, but Nash didn’t bother to comment.
“I got a business meeting.”
Nash frowned. “A drug deal?”
“What you a cop now? Last I checked you were still scribbling your drawings on papers and locking them in that closet in your bedroom,” Henley snapped.
“I’m working a legal job, making a decent living. That’s what a grown man does, Henley. You’re getting’ too old to be hustlin’ in these streets doing who knows what to make a quick buck.”
“Oh no big bro, I’m not into the quick bucks anymore. I’m about to make a big score.”
Nash almost asked for more information, but he stopped. Henley had been running the streets, dealing drugs, robbing people, and places, and stealing cars since he was thirteen years old. Nash and his uncle had done their best to try and keep him on the straight and narrow, but after his parents’ death, Henley hadn’t been interested in anyone telling him what to do. Now, years and jail time served by them both, hadn’t changed his brother’s train of thought. Nash was getting tired of this shit.
“Whatever, man. You don’t learn lessons, that’s your problem,” he said zipping his jacket and looking back to see that Mica was coming towards them.
“Don’t worry ‘bout my lessons, big brutha. Worry about that hot little number you’ve got there. Cause I can promise you, if you don’t take care of her, I certainly will.”
“No. You won’t,” Nash said tightly. “You won’t get anywhere near her. Do you understand me?”
Henley grinned, looking around Nash as he waved to Mica.
“Like I said, I’m a grown man. I don’t take orders from you or anybody else.”
Nash turned away from Henley then, not bothering to issue another warning. For as tough as Henley was, he ultimately knew not to fuck with Nash, not since the sacrifice Nash had made for him.
“The new ownerof Bellamy Motors and the executor of Bell’s estate is a Mr. Michel Monroe. I finally got that weasel Finksburg to at least give me that information,” Earl said as he stood at the head of the table in the lunchroom.
Two weeks had passed since Nash had submitted his designs to Blackbond and he’d been unable to think of anything but what was going to come of that situation. Well, that’s not totally true, he’d thought a lot about kissing Mica again. What he hadn’t wanted to think about—and now felt slightly guilty for—was Earl’s next move. Henley had warned him, but that was before his brother had also pissed Nash off by coming on to Mica and being the same person he’d been all his life. Mica had remained closed up in that office day after day so Nash hadn’t had an opportunity to ask her the status of the finances.
Truth be told, Nash figured she was hiding from him and he was damn sure steering clear of her. A smart move he thought, but now, listening to Earl’s irritated voice, had him thinking he might need to put his attraction aside and get to the bottom of what was happening here.
“Is this guy a relative of Bell’s?” Kandra Taylor, one of the salespersons asked. “I mean usually businesses and estates are left to relatives or very close friends.”
“Who knows,” Earl said with a wave of his hand. “Regardless, Finksburg believes the guy will be here by the end of the month for a meet and greet.”
“That sounds nice,” Rock said with a sarcastic grin.
Earl frowned, his steely gray eyes holding an especially icy glare today. “It sounds ridiculous. I don’t need a meet and greet with some hand-me-down owner and I don’t need that nosey little accountant here either. I can run this place just fine.”
“The question is, can you continue to do it well enough to keep these doors open,” Nash said, his tone level and his gaze focused directly on Earl.
As there were only three people sitting between Nash and where Earl stood, the man was in his face instantly. “You got a problem with how I’m running this show? Go ahead and say it, Waters! Say what you’re thinking so I can have a reason and witnesses for when I fire your sorry convict ass!”
Nash stood from his seat slowly. He didn’t tower over Earl, but he did have at least fifty pounds over the shifty bastard. That made the man back up, but only slightly at first as he glared back at Nash in an attempt to act like he wasn’t afraid of him. Nash took another step forward and another, until Earl’s continued retreat had him stumbling. “Don’t fuck with me, Earl. I don’t give a damn what your title is or how much power you think you have. You’re not ready for me. Not on any level.”
Webby came to Nash’s side and took hold of his arm before he said, “He’s not worth it man. Just walk away.”
“Yeah,” Earl said as he took another few steps back, away from Nash. “Listen to your little friend before you regret it. Go on in your corner and fix some bikes. That’s what I pay you for.”
“I don’t believe in regrets,” Nash told him. “But I do believe in returning favors. Bell gave me a chance here so I’m going to stick around until the very end, doing everything in my power to keep this place afloat for him. Not for you. Never for you.”
Earl turned away from Nash, resuming his place at the head of the table. “That’s why I called today’s meeting. We’ve got to cut a few things to get us in prime financial position.”
“What else are we going to cut? We’re already down to a skeletal staff. The sales department is working sixty-to-seventy-five-hour work weeks. We’ve stopped carrying the popular bikes that were bringing in the best sales and hell, we don’t even have the vending machines in here anymore.”
This was from Otto, the oldest of the sales team, a man that had started working here within the first few years of the opening. This meant he wasn’t afraid to push back against Earl either, as evidenced by the way he sat back casually in his seat, his beefy hands folded over the hard mound of his stomach.
“I think we should cut out that service plan and stop spending time and money fixing so many bikes,” Earl told them.
Nash immediately frowned. He knew where Earl was going with this. The man had been trying to cut out their entire department for the last year.
“Wait a minute, you want to cut the service department?” Rock asked. “The MC clubs in the area depend on us to offer timely and quality service. They have for years. Besides, with the Ride Rendezvous coming up in the next couple of months, every biker in the DMV area will want their bikes tuned up. You can’t cut our department. Not right now.”
Nash agreed with everything Rock said. Not only was there loyalty between the clubs and Bellamy Motors, there was a great deal of money that came in with the Ride Rendezvous. Not only did the local clubs stop by for maintenance and upgrades before the weekend-long event, but the event itself brought hundreds of out-of-town bikers in. Those bikers would also be interested in whatever new bikes they had on display. Nash was always present at the Rendezvous talking to the riders and making sure they knew all that Bellamy Motors had to offer, like the drop-off and delivery service he’d implemented for repairs or detail work for those who didn’t live in Destine.
“Your department is leaking money,” Earl countered. “Expensive supplies and his paints are through the roof! We don’t need to offer the detailing anymore either.”
“So, I’m out of a job? Is that what you’re saying?” Webby asked as he stood so fast, his chair wobbled behind him.
“You’re going to start firing people?” Kandra followed-up. “I’ve got three kids in school, one on his way to college. I’m struggling as it is, Earl. If there are going to be lay-offs then I need to start looking for a job now.”
There was another grumble or two about looking for a job, or not wanting to look for a job. Nash heard them but he’d been staring at Earl, wondering what the man really had on his mind. Standing here, easily planting this fear and discontent into every employee was a calculated move, Nash was sure of that. These were exactly the reactions Earl had expected. The more people who ran out and found another job on their own, the less he would have to fire. Announcing more cuts, just months after he’d cut lunch hours, day care and other personal incentives the staff had become accustomed to was no coincidence either.
Earl had been cleverly inserting his cuts and changes into this company since the first day he’d walked through the doors. That had been when he’d decided to tint the front windows of the dealership, citing that rays from the sun were staining the floors and prematurely yellowing the white paint on the walls. Bell’s immediate reaction was that with tinted windows new customers wouldn’t see their bikes and hence would not come in to buy. Earl had eventually sold Bell on the idea by telling him it would save money that they could put into advertising instead.
Years before Earl’s arrival, Bell had met with a marketing executive who suggested commercials that would air in the DMV aiming at their core clientele and creating a bold social media campaign. She’d also suggested Bell continue his support of the local clubs by sponsoring a charity event each year, hence the Ride Rendezvous that had grown from a cook-out on the back lot of the dealership, scheduled the Sunday before Memorial Day to what it was now, an entire weekend celebration of the local clubs and all they did in the community, with proceeds going to at least three charities per year. The exposure had led to a steady increase in sales and service orders because the riders of those clubs were loyal. So, Earl’s mention of more marketing had been music to Bell’s ears.
In the time Earl had worked here, he’d fought like hell to stop the Rendezvous, and while Bell—as he’d grown sicker—had given in to most of Earl’s ideas and cuts, he would not let go of the yearly celebration. He said it was his way of giving back to all who had supported him. But Bell was gone now and Nash knew what Earl was going to say moments before he actually said it.
“If you don’t want employee cuts then we’ll have to do something bigger to keep money in-house,” Earl told them as he folded his hands in front of him. “We can cut that Rendezvous event out completely. We spend upwards of thirty-five grand for it each year and we’ve been giving away about eighty-five percent of our profit from the event.”
“Wait a minute,” Rock argued. He leaned over the table, smacking his palms down flat on its top. “The clubs look forward to the Rendezvous. Man, some of them actually depend on it to help with their private community outreach.”
“Let them have their own fundraisers then,” Earl snapped back.
“That’s not right,” Rock continued.
Nash knew that Rock rode with the Night Hawks, a club that started in Washington D.C., but had migrated to Virginia over the years. Rock never kept that a secret, especially since he often wore his club jacket to work and posted their club’s flyers about fundraisers and events in this very lunch room. Still, he doubted Earl gave a damn.
“Right or wrong, that’s the choice we’ll have to make,” Earl said.
“And what if we don’t want to make that choice? What if we wait until this new owner shows his face and tell him what works for this dealership, what it means to the community and all. Maybe he’ll veto these changes,” Webby suggested.
It was Earl’s turn to slam his hands on the desk. “I run this place! Not some joker who probably doesn’t know a Hayabusa from a freakin’ 10 speed bike! Now I came to you in the spirit of compromise, but I don’t need your permission. I don’t need to ask anybody what I can or can’t do with this dealership!”
Gritting his teeth, Nash realized Earl’s words were one hundred percent correct. He didn’t need them to approve or agree with what he wanted to do. He could do it anyway. Unless somebody stopped him.