Page 125 of Devil’s Disciples

“You’re abnormal.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“I’m perfectly normal.”

“You’ve told me stories about having sex with ten different guys over the course of one summer.”

She shrugged dismissively. “So.”

“That’s not normal.”

“It was at my high school,” she said snidely. “Not everyone goes to a private school.”

“Attending a private school has nothing to do with it.”

She gazed down her nose at me. “Private schools lead girls to believe that blowjobs are a replacement for sex, and they’re not.”

I chuckled. “So, if I want to keep him around, I should ride his dick?”

She looked at me like I was insane. “I didn’t say that. You should ride his dick because riding dicks is much better than not riding dicks. If you don’t hop on it quick, he’ll ride off into the sunset, never to be seen again.”

I had no idea if she was right or wrong. Bikers, in general, were free-spirited. It didn’t mean Cash would be incapable of commitment. I feared if I had sex with him that I might not see him again.

“I’m too old to be screwing random guys,” I said. “I want a relationship.”

“He’s thirty, Kimberly. He’s not going to want to be in a relationship. A thirty-year-old man wants a twenty-year-old girl.”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe that.”

“I may be wrong.” She raised both brows. “Even if I am, he’s still a biker. He doesn’t want a relationship. He’ll fuck you, and then he’ll push you away. It’s what they do. You better get that dick while you can.”

One of my employees had been in a relationship with a biker for a long time. I hadn’t heard her mention him for a while and wondered if he was still around, or if he’d pushed Tisha away.

I hoped Jennifer was wrong. I stared back at her, wondering if, for once, she was right.

* * *

After wiping his plate clean with the corner of his bread, he poked the last remaining piece into his mouth and leaned away from the table. “You’re not a chef, or anything, are you?”

What he was wearing resembled what he’d worn the other three times that I’d seen him: Jeans, a tee shirt, and boots. The gray shirt was free of any logos or sayings, and clung to his body tightly, leaving nothing to the imagination.

The fitted shirt, when combined with his whisker-free jaw and tight-fitting jeans, made him look less rugged, but no less harmful. He had an unmistakable presence about him that warned anyone with an ounce of common sense to turn the other direction.

I wondered if that, at least in part, was one of the things that drew me to him. I peeled my eyes away from his handsome face and met his gaze. “No. I’m not a chef.”

“Maybe you should be. Woman, you can cook.” He patted his flattened hands against his stomach. “I can’t believe you made that bread from scratch.”

“Bread is as simple as it gets,” I said. “Sugar, salt, flour, and yeast. That’s it.”

“It tasted more complicated than that.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Well, that was as fine of a meal as I’ve ever eaten, and I’ve eaten from California to Connecticut, and from Seattle to Sarasota.”

Hearing a man pay such a compliment to my cooking made me swell with confidence. I’d spent my adult life cooking for someone who expected everything and appreciated absolutely nothing. The change was welcomed.