Page 16 of Thug

She gave the shorts a quick look while twisting a stray lock of blonde hair around her index finger. A dozen golden bracelets were clustered around her right forearm. On her other wrist she wore at least six more, and a chunky oversized watch. Her left thumb and right ring finger bore rings that glistened when she waved her hands, and she waved them a lot.

With a hand on one hip, she looked me over. “They look cute,” she said in an unconvincing tone.

I glanced down. A built-in belt that doubled as a bow dangled awkwardly over the zipper of the hideous shorts. My torso and upper thighs looked like an aquamarine birthday gift.

“If I wear this to work it’s going to be an invitation for rude comments and suggestions about unwrapping me,” I said. “I can’t do this.”

“High-waisted paper bag shorts are the big thing right now,” she assured me. “You might be surprised by how much people like them.”

High-waisted paper bag shorts may have been “in”, but they’d be “out” before I ever accepted them as part of my attire. Much like California, Arizona received the latest trends long before the rest of the nation. Often, the styles and patterns pushed by the clothing companies would never make it to the Midwest. If we didn’t accept them as being fashionable, they’d simply fade away.

I couldn’t play a part in clothing the nation in something so ghastly. I laughed at the thought. “Not where I work.”

“Where do you work?”

“I own a bar,” I replied. “A biker bar.”

“Oh.” She seemed surprised. In a good way. “Really?” Her eyes lit up. “Bikers are hot.”

She didn’t seem the type. I smiled, nevertheless. “No argument from me on that.”

Her focus shifted to her many bracelets. “Have you ever dated one?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve dated several.”

She looked up. “Do you ever have any problems with them?”

I’d been fortunate. I really hadn’t had any problems to speak of. The relationships just ended for one reason or another. Generally, it was because the men simply moved on to someone else. By the time it happened, I was generally ready for a change, anyway.

“Not really,” I responded. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Necessity smothered her like a coat of thick paint. She wasn’t just wondering. It was apparent she was speaking from experience. I raised my brows in wonder. “Have you had problems with them?”

The hair twisting thing started again. “With bikers?”

For starting the conversation, she wasn’t extremely talkative. I didn’t give up easily and bikers were kind of my thing, so I pushed on. “Yes.” I gave her a mental scowl. “With bikers. Have you had some problems in the past?”

“Well…” Her brown eyes fell to the floor. “I’ve been going out with one. He’s okay. I guess he has been until now.” She looked up. “He’s ghosting me.” She fidgeted with her bracelets. “I met him about a month ago. I thought we hit it off. I guess not.”

I wondered if he was some douchebag on a motorcycle or an actual biker. There was a vast difference between the two. “What kind of motorcycle did he ride?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It was really loud. The neighbors hated it.”

She may have been gorgeous, but a wealth of information she was not. I guessed she was good at one thing and paying attention to details wasn’t it. I flattened the repugnant blue material against my stomach and let out an apologetic breath. “I’m sorry for all the questions, but there are bikers and there are guys who ride motorcycles. There’s a big difference between them. I was wondering which he might be. It doesn’t matter.”

“He was the real deal,” she replied, seeming to get upset the more she spoke about it. “He rode in a club, and everything.”

“Were you guys actually, like, seeing each other?”

“Yeah. I thought it was going pretty good between us. We saw each other almost every night for a month.”

I hated to be the bearer of bad news, but a “real deal” biker not responding to a text message wasn’t a catastrophe. There were times when I didn’t see or hear from my man for a week or more. With bikers, it seemed women were more of a convenience and much less of a necessity. Sadly, the club always came first. It was highly unlikely that her picturesque figure, blonde balayage, and golden accessories were cut out for dating bikers, anyway.

“I’ve dated a bunch of bikers,” I said. “If he’s a hard-core biker, having him not respond to a text isn’t that big of a deal.” Hoping to lighten up the mood, I chuckled. “You might want to get used to it.”

“I’m not used to being stood up.” Her face contorted. “We had a date last night, and he didn’t show up. It sucks.”