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“Sure,” I say, letting my clenched fists unfurl with an effort. “We’re done.”
“For the record,” he snaps. “It’s not us. I’d never work with the Cartel.”
“Oh, no,” I say, flashing him a smirk. “You’d never do anything underhanded, would you, Jase?”
Panic flickers across his features as he starts his engine, his mind going back to when we were kids, to the betrayal, and then his tires kick up red dust and he spins around, surging back toward the road.
“Long drive for that,” Lance mutters.
Garrote snorts. “That went well, kid,” he says. “Could’ve been a shootout.”
“Maybe I would’ve preferred that.”
“Maybe,” Garrote says. “But probably not. Not with a bullet in your head. Are we going, boss?”
“Yeah,” I sigh, popping my neck from side to side as I walk toward my bike. The beast sags under my weight, but holds firm. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
I start the engine and the three of us head back to the road, my head surging with thoughts of the Cartel, of my town, as rubber gallops across tarmac and the town of Aslado, population fifty thousand, rises up out of the dusty yellow-red.
Its buildings are red brick and its roads wide and grey, our MC owned bar – The Harpy – sitting just opposite an electronics store that we also own and, next to that, a park that’s filled with dog walkers and couples hand-in-hand on this blazing Friday afternoon.
I go into the bar, the place smelling of leather and rubber and beer and whiskey, and get myself a soda and then go and sit outside, on my own, my jacket thrown across the back of my seat as I let my mind turn to the Cartel problem.
“Need some company?” a woman says, off to my side.
I glance up and take in the sight of her, maybe mid-twenties with both arms covered in tattoos, pieces of metal sticking out of her lips and ears and tongue and nose, the wide-eyed look of a junkie about her, and wearing so little that it takes no imagination at all to envision what she’d look like naked.
Not that I would.
Because she’s not her.
Whoever her turns out to be.
I’ve always thought I’d just know when I saw the woman I wanted to be with, truly be with, for the rest of my life, the queen of my MC empire, a woman I could share my hard earned millions with and build a family with.
And yet it’s been forty-two years and I’ve never met a woman that inspires anything close like that inside of me, and this one definitely doesn’t.
“No,” I say, as politely as I can muster. “I don’t.”
Her upper lips curls and I see the offended look in her eyes, but it passes quickly as she drifts over to a table of Chariots, because of course that’s what she does.
That’s what women like that do.
I sigh and take a sip of my cool drink, my eyes roaming over the park.
I have to put my glass down when I see her.
Otherwise I’ll squeeze too hard and it’ll shatter into pieces in my hand, cutting me, cutting me even harder and deeper than the sight of this woman already does.
Savage instincts rise in me as she turns the page of her book, biting her lower lip and folding her legs, her concentration intense.
Her blonde hair is wavy down to her shoulders and she wears shorts and a baggy summer top with printed flowers on it, her legs pale and not thin, but not large as she sits there, an All-American look about her, a girl-next-door-look about her.
But there’s something in the way she bites her lip, a uniqueness of character, a – dammit – a just-her look that triggers something primal and long dormant inside of me.
I can imagine squeezing onto those womanly hips – hips so unlike the too-skinny boniness of some of the club girls – and pumping my seed inside of her, grinding my hot wet manhood until my offspring makes a home in her womb.
I can hardly believe it.
It’s her.
The woman I’ve been waiting my whole damn life for.
Forty-two years.
And she’s finally here.
I stand up, leaving my drink behind, and head across the sun-scorched street toward the park, preparing to introduce myself to the woman of my dreams.
She looks up when my shadow falls across her, and I see that her eyes are a startling leaf green, light and open, the eyes of a woman who’d make an amazing mother.
Chapter Two
Kelly
The textbook is about the structure of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and as I read I try not to let my mind run away from me, galloping into the future and showing me tempting vignettes of me teaching a post-grad class one day.
Or maybe even publishing a popular book on poetry, a side-gig to my main employment as an English literature professor.
