Chapter Four Bishop #3
When I had suggested playing with her, I hadn’t stopped long enough to think about what she was going to look like bent over the pool table.
If I’d had any idea what a vision of pure sex she would look like, I would have tucked my tail between my legs and headed for the hills.
Samantha’s tight-as-hell pants gave me a great view of her perfectly rounded ass cheeks— the kind that when you were fucking doggy- style, you wanted to smack until you left a red handprint.
When I leaned forward, I saw how her almost double-D tits were spilling out the front of her shirt. There was no doubt I was going to end the night with balls as blue as some of the ones on the table.
When Samantha called, “Blue ten. Corner left pocket,” I couldn’t help noticing the irony. After she knocked the ball effortlessly across the table and into the pocket, my mouth dropped open in utter shock.
“Why am I thinking that wasn’t beginner’s luck and you’ve been hustling me?” I asked.
She batted her eyes innocently at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think I’ll start calling you Fast Eddie.”
“Ah, after Edward Felson?”
My jaw dropped open in surprise . “You know Fast Eddie, the pool hustler?”
Samantha laughed. “Actually, it’s more like I know my Paul Newman, and since he played Fast Eddie in The Hustler and The Color of Money, I know the character.”
“I see.” Closing the gap between us, I asked, “How did you learn to play pool?”
“Uh, uh, uh. I believe by the rules of your game, I’m the one who gets to ask the question.”
I grunted in frustration. “Fine. Ask away.”
Samantha drummed her blood-red nails on the edge of the pool table. “Hmm, this is harder than I thought it would be. I feel a little pressure to not ask some bullshit question.”
“You can always forfeit and let me go.”
“Oh no, you’re not getting off that easy.”
“Damn. At least I tried.”
After momentarily closing her eyes, she opened them. “Okay. I have one.”
“I can’t wait to see what you came up with.”
“What’s something you’re good at that I wouldn’t be able to guess?”
With a smirk, I replied, “I don’t think you really want me to answer that.”
While I expected her to roll her eyes in exasperation when she got my meaning, she surprised me by pursing her lips. “I would think you being good at fucking would be a given. Right?”
I laughed. “Damn straight.”
“So, what’s something else— something that sets you apart from your MC brothers?”
After thinking for a moment, I answered, “Boxing.”
“Interesting.”
“I like to think so.”
“Do you do it as an amateur or professionally?”
“Professionally. Or I used to.”
“Why aren’t you doing it anymore?”
“Whoa, I thought this was a one-ball, one- question kinda thing?”
Samantha hopped up on the table edge as if she was settling in to hear a long story. Swinging her legs back and forth, she said, “I’ve never known any real- life boxers before, so you can’t fault me for being intrigued.”
I tapped the bottom of my cue stick on the floor.
I had never talked to anyone outside the club or the gym about boxing.
None of the women I had dated, or I guess I should say fucked, gave two shits about it.
Mama Liz wanted nothing to do with it, considering that it was a blood sport that got her baby boy injured.
But for reasons I couldn’t possibly imagine, Samantha seemed seriously interested.
“The main reason I’m not doing it so much anymore is I’m ready to do something else. It doesn’t hold the same excitement for me that it once did. I guess you could say I want to do more with my life than beat the shit out of dudes.”
“I think wanting to do something else besides fighting is totally understandable— if not commendable. I’m just not sure how you’ll be able to do that with the lifestyle you’re in.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Isn’t throwing punches all part of being in an MC?”
“Ah, I see you’re subscribing to the shitty image most people have of bikers.”
“I’m sorry if it sounded like I was stereotyping you. I guess I’m just ignorant when it comes to what real MC men are like.”
Leaning in closer to her, I said, “Since Marley is considering joining an MC, it’s probably a good idea if you take the time to really know what you’re talking about. We’re not all gun- wielding hellraisers who terrorize towns.”
“You’re not?”
From her tone and expression, I didn’t know whether she was serious or teasing me. “Last time I checked, we get along pretty well with most of the people here in town— you know, the law-abiding ones.”
“Bishop—”
“As for a weapon, I would ask you to pat me down to check for one, but I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
“No. It wouldn’t.”
“At least I offered.”
With a genuinely apologetic look, Samantha said, “I’m sorry if I insulted you and your club.”
I shrugged. “It’s okay. It’s not like I’m not used to it by now. Even before I patched in to the club myself, I saw the way some people treated my dad. Then as soon as they heard I was John Malloy’s son, they treated me differently. That kinda shit happened from the time I was in school.”
“That was a really shitty thing to do to a kid just because of who his dad was.”
Staring down at the floor, I replied, “Yeah, when I was young, I got my feelings hurt easily. By the time I got to be a teenager, I probably gave them a reason to judge me by having a chip on my shoulder.” When I dared to look at Samantha, she was looking at me with respect.
“How did you get over it?”
“I finally decided that I didn’t give a shit what people thought about us, because deep down, I knew who we really were.”
After Samantha and I stared at each other for a few seconds, I shook my head at her. “Damn, five minutes alone with you and I’m singing like a canary with all my secrets.”
Samantha chuckled. “I’d hardly say you’re giving away anything too revealing— like the club’s secret handshake.”
“True. It’s more like I don’t usually talk like this to women.”
“Let me guess. You don’t do a lot of talking period when you’re with a woman.”
“Pretty much.”
“I can’t say I’m too surprised by that.” She hopped down off the table. “So since you said you were always beating the shit out of guys, I guess it’s safe to say that you were pretty good at boxing, huh?”
“I won a lot of division titles back in the day.”
“Were you as good as Jose Legra?”
I widened my eyes in surprise. “How the hell do you know who Jose Legra is?”
“Don’t all women know their Cuban boxers?”
“Fuck no.”
“Truth is that I wouldn’t know my boxers if it hadn’t been for my father. He always watched the Friday night fights. Even if he was working, he would tape them. He was a huge fan of Legra as well as Luis Manuel Rodriguez, Kid Gavilan, Sugar Ramos—”
“The fourth greatest boxer named Sugar after Robinson, Leonard, and Mosely.”
Samantha smiled. “I’m not sure my father would have agreed with you on that one.”
“Give me a chance, and I would set him straight on that one.”
Samantha’s expression darkened. “He passed away.”
Fuck. I had a special gift for being an insensitive asshole. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”
“Well, I sorta know what it feels like to lose your old man.”
When she stared expectantly at me, I said, “My dad was killed six years ago.”
She surprised the hell out of me by forgoing the usual bullshit “I’m sorry for your loss.” Instead, she looked me straight in the eye and said something so few had ever said to me. “You must miss him.”
I nodded as the familiar ache of grief clenched in my chest. No matter how old you are or how big a man you think you are, there’s nothing like losing your father.
“I miss him each and every day. The years go by, but it doesn’t really get easier, even though people love to spout that ‘time heals all wounds’ bullshit. ”
“I know what you mean,” Samantha murmured.
Wanting to change the subject, I said, “Unless you have any more boxing questions, looks like it’s my turn.”
“Nope. I think I’m good. Of course, if you’re ever in the ring again, I’d love to come see you in action.”
“Seriously?”
Cocking her head at me, she countered, “What? Don’t I look like the kind of woman who would enjoy a good fight?”
I grinned. “Not exactly.”
Samantha wagged a finger at me. “Now you’re the one being stereotypical.”
With a snort, I replied, “Whatever. Most of the chicks have to be dragged by their old man to watch a fight.”
“Trust me. If you were going to be there, no one would have to drag me.”
The conviction in her tone had me licking my lips in anticipation. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Then she cut me off at the knees when she said, “I’m sure Marley would love to see you, too.”
Somehow among all the talk of boxing and flirting, I had forgotten all about him. On the one hand, I felt like a complete and total bastard for wanting him out of the picture so I could have Samantha all to myself, and on the other, I resented him for being Samantha’s boyfriend.
I wanted to believe he wasn’t good for her—that he probably cheated on her or mistreated her. But knowing Marley as I did, I couldn’t imagine him doing anything like that. He might be a tough talker, but he was a grown-up Boy Scout at heart.
To get my mind off Marley and lusting after his girlfriend, I leaned over the table and positioned my cue. Needing to prove myself, I said, “Orange five. Left corner pocket.”
“Going for a challenge right out of the gate?” she asked innocently.
“Damn straight.”
After sinking the ball with ease, I righted myself and met Samantha’s expectant gaze. I knew I needed to find a question that didn’t sound remotely like I was coming on to her. “So, what’s your family background like?”
Her eyes widened as if my question had taken her off guard. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, like I’m a little English and Scottish with maybe some German thrown in way back in there. But you look like you have an exotic background.”
“Ah, I see what you’re asking now. Actually, when it comes down to it, I’m more a mutt than anything.”
“Funny, that was what I was thinking, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to call you that.”