Fitz: Motorcycle Club Romance (Savage Saints MC Book 10)

by Hazel Parker

  “You probably would too.”

  “Me?” she said snorting. “No way. There might be one percent of the population of men who would be OK with their girlfriends or wives making more than they do. And of that one percent, probably ninety-nine percent of them are the dramatic types that would drive me insane. No, I’ll probably need to date someone who knows what my life is like as a banker. And those types are usually hard to please. It’s rare that you would find someone who is so content with so much and isn’t just of the ‘gimme, gimme, gimme’ variety.”

  She’s basically opening the door for you and begging you to enter, Fitz.

  “So I guess what you’re saying is that you feel like it’s most likely that you’d date a banker?”

  “Well, that’s the curse of me,” she said. “I need a man who either makes as much as I do and knows what my world is like, or I need a man who doesn’t make as much as me and isn’t the dramatic type. But I don’t want the obsessive, type-A personality that loses their shit every time a sale falls through or quarterly earnings only reach ninety-eight percent of their target goal. I want someone who can stay calm and steady through the—”

  “What are you doing this weekend?”

  I blurted out the question before I could overthink it. What further proof did I need?

  If I happened to fall flat on my face, if I happened to guess wrong about the situation, then what had I lost? A business partnership with someone in an industry that I was anticipating leaving before the end of the year? That seemed like a minor sacrifice to try and ask someone who very much seemed into me.

  “Thinking ahead already, huh?” she said, flashing a smile and biting her lip. “Work, probably. I don’t have anything outside of work planned if that’s what you’re asking. How come?”

  “Well,” I said, shuffling my body posture so that I could face her as I spoke. “Seems to me that you are an interesting person with a lot of great thoughts. I would love to get to know you better, perhaps...perhaps even in the context of a date.”

  Amelia no longer tried to keep her facial expression hidden.

  “I was wondering when you’d get the goddamn hint, Thomas,” she said. “I was afraid I’d have to come out Sadie Hawkins style and ask you out myself. Yes, that sounds delightful. You do know, of course, that whatever plans we make are subject to cancellation at any moment.”

  “Of course. I do work at the same company as you do. I am envious that your boss is Ben, though.”

  “Remind me who yours is?”

  “Gerald.”

  Amelia deliberately made a retching sound and leaned forward, as if she were going to throw up.

  “How that man is still alive, I have no idea,” she said, almost in awe of Gerald’s ability to keep going. “Every time I go in there, I think the man is going to have a heart attack where he sits.”

  “Someday, I don’t doubt that that will happen,” I said. “But that’s neither here nor there. Let’s—”

  “Plan for Thursday? How would you feel about Thursday?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why? What’s on Thursday?”

  “I have...I have other commitments.”

  “Like a date?”

  The idea of calling anything with Marcel or the rest of the club a date was laughable. But so, right now, was the idea of bringing Amelia anywhere near the club. I might have leaned toward more stoic blue-collar in my demeanor than I did stressed white-collar, but bringing her to that club, especially on a meeting day when Uncle would be there…

  Yeah, my intelligence wasn’t just in the logical and the puzzles before me.

  “No, no dates,” I said. “I’m not seeing anyone else right now. And I’m going to guess with some risk based on Friday—”

  “I want to go out with you precisely because you are not Jordan,” Amelia said with an eyeroll. “Christ. I’d say I’d feel bad for the guy, but after I told him everything, he still tried to message me on Tinder!”

  “Do you have the messages?”

  “No. I cut him off as soon as I got home. It was…”

  She shuddered.

  “Look, I’ve got to get going upstairs,” Amelia said, abruptly rising from her chair, though it wasn’t exactly something I wasn’t used to. “But you know where I am and how you can reach me.”

  “At the cafe here for breakfast and lunch. Got it.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes.

  “You want me to email or call you?” I said. “And have Rothenberg spy on us?”

  “They’re spying on us right now,” she said, holding a finger up. “But I get your point. Come talk to me, and we’ll finalize plans. If nothing else, we can meet here at like eight on Friday?”

  “Deal,” I said.

  Amelia nodded to me and left. It was a very quick exit for what had felt like a special moment, but again, that was just how our world worked. People believed in the economy and efficiency of time, and to bankers, even a couple of seconds shaved off of conversation were seconds that could be used for something else. It was undoubtedly obsessive, yes, but it was also profitable.

  But for right now, I wasn’t caring in the slightest about what was profitable and what wasn’t. I wasn’t caring about what brought Rothenberg new investments. I was only caring about the fact that the girl that had caught my eye at work apparently had a thing for me.

  And now, just like that, we weren’t just co-workers. We were potential partners.

  Before I even got to the elevator, I got a text message from a number I didn’t recognize. Though I had no name attached to the number, I didn’t need to have someone spell it out for me.

  “Just realized flying to Shanghai on Thursday for a deal. Let’s do tomorrow night whenever we get off?”

  In true banking form, we were making it happen as soon as possible.

  “Sounds like a delight to me,” I said, smiling as I got on the elevator.

  For at least a couple of days, working at Rothenberg Banking would have some seriously sweet perks.

  Chapter 6: Amelia

  It happened.

  Holy shit, it actually happened.

  And now I can’t wait to see how this will fuck up my work, or vice versa.

  It seemed too good to be true. Good things just didn’t happen to me. When I wanted promotions, I had to wait for them. When I went on dates, they were with dudes that believed in acronyms over shared interests. When I went on a plane, it was never to relax, only to get stressed out from a work deal with some foreign entity that didn’t speak English very well.

  And yet now, I had a date with the one guy that I had a vested interest in seeing? I was going on a date with Thomas Fitzgerald?

  I had to remind myself not to go crazy on our date. I still prioritized my work over just one date, and even if Thomas Fitzgerald somehow turned out to be the man of my dreams, the one that I would walk down an aisle for, I still had to prioritize work in the short term. I had a ninety-nine percent chance of becoming executive director in the near future, but I only had maybe, say, a two percent chance of dating Thomas for longer than a few months.

  Harsh, but true. Investment banking was like professional athletics. Long hours, frequent travel, plenty of opportunity to cheat and roam, and very little stability.

  But if anyone was going to give me the chance to have it, it was Thomas.

  I just had to wait about thirty-six hours before I could finally learn if it was possible.

  * * *

  There was a certain feeling of deja vu that came from going on this date, especially since it followed very similar patterns to Friday night. For one, I ran late. Again.

  At least Thomas understood. When we agreed to grab drinks at nine, he knew what I meant by “roughly.” It meant “only if everything falls perfectly according to plan, and even then, it’s far more likely that we’ll get pushed back to nine-thirty or even canceled outright. It’s not you; it’s the company.” Jordan—I laughed thinking about that man—or anyone else woul
d never have understood.

  I didn’t get the chance to change out of my work clothes even when I did get to leave the office, which happened about two minutes before nine. I suspected that Thomas hadn’t either, and even if he did, he only would have thrown his jacket and tie off. There was just no reason for him to swap out the rest of his clothes when the bar we were going to was a little more upscale than normal.

  And, once more, I took an Uber over, for we had chosen a bar far away from Wall Street to avoid being seen by our colleagues.

  But everything changed when I saw Thomas waiting for me outside the bar of choice, a hole-in-the-wall called Winchester’s. For one, though he still looked professional, he didn’t look like he was trying too hard to impress me. He was checking his phone, like any self-respecting banker. His hair looked the same as it did at work. He had loosened his tie, but otherwise he looked the same.

  I got out of the car, a nervous smile crossing my face.

  “Hey,” he said.

  I couldn’t even begin to describe how nice it was to hear his voice just sound...normal. He didn’t sound like he needed to impress me. He didn’t sound like he was trying to tell me a scripted story. He just sounded like a man greeting a woman he was happy to see.

  “Easy drive over?”

  “Is there a such thing in New York?” I said. “Although, all things considered, it was pretty smooth and easy.”

  “Good. Well, let’s get a drink and chat. I know that we have to not be dead in the morning.”

  “That’s sweet of you to say. Most guys would just want to get blitzed so they can get in my pants.”

  Thomas laughed at the idea as if it were the most ludicrous thing he’d ever heard.

  “Even on a weekday?”

  “You’re really not of the banking type, are you?” I said admiringly. “And by the way, don’t change on me. Don’t you dare become like the rest of those assholes, or I’ll never forgive you or myself for it.”

  “Strong expectations,” he said with a laugh.

  But I didn’t laugh back. I needed Thomas to understand just how serious I was.

  “It’s OK to laugh,” he said back. “Really. We’re not at work.”

  “Are you calling me out?” I said, running my fingers through the end of my hair. “I don’t see that every day.”

  “Not calling you out,” he said. “Just giving you a gentle reminder that you can relax and have fun too.”

  “How do you do that?” I said in a half-joking manner.

  Thomas just rolled his eyes, placing his hand on the small of my back as he led us in.

  But just as we got up to the bar, my phone buzzed. I looked down. It was Ben.

  “Thomas, I know we’re on a date, but I really can’t—”

  “It’s fine,” he said, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Go ahead and take it.”

  I nodded, muttering fuck to myself as I slid back outside of the bar, transitioning from one mindset of semi-normalcy to the working woman that I was.

  “Ben,” I said.

  “Amelia, have you finished creating the IPO projections for SkillTime? You know I wanted to see that before the end of the night.”

  “Yeah, I submitted them—”

  “You sent me an email without an attachment,” he said.

  Oh, fuck me. Don’t tell me—

  “Can you please get back to the office and send them to me?”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. I really can’t get out of this one. And I can’t bring Thomas with me; people will see.

  “Yes, boss, no problem,” I said.

  I didn’t even consider fighting the question. There would legitimately be no good reason to do so other than to cause trouble for myself and Ben. Ben probably had bosses breathing down his neck. That was how banking worked; it wasn’t trickle-down economics—it was trickle-down breathing.

  I stepped inside, grabbed Thomas by the shoulder somewhat firmly, and pulled him away from the bar.

  “I have to go back to the office. I forgot to send an attachment,” I said with a sigh. “And the file is on the hard drive at the work computer. Obviously, security reasons won’t allow me to bring it anywhere else. Fuck me, I’m sorry. We can—”

  “Relax,” Thomas said.

  I don’t know how the hell you can be so chill when I just canceled on us like this.

  “Go send the file and come back here. We’ll have our one drink, we’ll chat, and then we’ll call it a night.”

  Just...just like that?

  “You’re sure?” I said. “You’re not pissed off?”

  “Why would I be?”

  Because every other person in the company would have blown their shit if I had forgotten something as simple as that? Because every other person is hardwired to act like babies the second something doesn’t go accordingly plan? Because we’re bankers and not monks?

  “You’re ridiculous, Thomas.”

  “Nah, I’m just normal,” he said. “But one request when you get back here.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Call me Fitz. It’s a nickname I have. It’ll make me feel a little less...colleague-like and more like an actual date.”

  Fitz. So short and simple. Definitely not formal.

  But I like it.

  “Alright, Fitz,” I said, trying the name on my tongue. It was smooth. It was informal. I didn’t just like it—I loved it. “I’ll see you in about half an hour.”

  * * *

  What little good vibes had come from discovering Fitz’s preferred name and the minor banter that followed, however, were erased with the self-loathing that I gave myself for failing to do something so simple as add an attachment to the email.

  No wonder I was so on edge all the time. What other industry existed where your boss could call you after nine on a Tuesday and tell you to get back to work because you forgot to send an attachment and you weren’t allowed to remotely log on to get the file? What other industry sucked up your soul so much?

  What other industry, though, paid out and gave the prestige that this one did?

  Who gives a fuck, though? Seriously, you have a seven-figure bank account, and this is what you give a shit about?

  Maybe this is why you’ve been single for so long.

  Still, I put the thoughts behind me long enough to run upstairs, run past the first-year analysts struggling to stay awake at their desks, and to my own. I found the file in question, pulled up Ben’s email, and sent it over. As soon as I had confirmed via a double-check that the email in question had been sent, I hurried back downstairs to the Uber I had taken, whom I had requested to wait for me outside the building.

  I checked the time as I pulled back up to Winchester’s. It was just after ten, not too bad of an hour. We’d only have time for that one drink unless Fitz—he really did seem more like more of a Fitz and less of a Thomas—wanted to go crazy, but hey, it was just a first drink, right?

  I got inside and found him sitting at a booth by himself. Despite being alone in a bar where everyone else who was not at the bar had someone, he looked completely at ease, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. I began to feel an insidious form of envy for that—what did Fitz do differently from me that allowed him to be so relaxed?

  Why not ask him?

  “Hey, sorry,” I said, saddling up next to him. “Fucking work always seems to call at the worst possible time. I wish I had your calm demeanor.”

  “Well, it’s not always so calm,” he said. “I just feel like it makes sense to keep my cool for external appearances as much as possible. You know? Why panic people if I don’t have to?”

  Maybe that’s what Ben is looking to see. Maybe that’s all I need to do.

  “I don’t know where you learned that skill, but it sure as hell wasn’t in the banking world.”

  “You wanna know where?”

  “Sure. Martial arts? Sports?”

  But Fitz shook his head at all of those responses.

  “This might sound a bit strang
e,” he said. “But it’s on the motorcycle.”

  Now that was definitely something I had not expected. I probably would have guessed skydiving before he said motorcycle. Seriously?

  “Really,” I said, dumbfounded.

  The waiter came by, and I requested a gin and soda, mostly because I had just had my mind blown by Fitz.

  “Really. Not daily, but I rode it last weekend, for example, and will probably ride it again this weekend.”

  My jaw dropped. Whenever I thought of people owning vehicles, I always pictured them owning cars like Civics if they were single and vans if they were married. I figured that only people who lived outside New York City would have cars, let alone a motorcycle.

  And yet, here was a well-respected man in the world of finance, riding a motorcycle at least once a week?

  “Would you like to ride with me sometime?”

  “Me?” I said. “Oh, umm…”

  I wanted to.

  “No, no, I don’t think it would be a good look if I did that,” I said, knowing how pathetic my answer sounded. “I’m worried about crashing, and even if not, how would it smell, and it seems like a very dangerous thing, and, and—”

  “I’ve heard it all before, and it’s totally fine,” Fitz said. No, it’s not, but it’s sweet that you’re saying it is. “I’m not going to lie, all things being equal, sure, a motorcycle isn’t as safe as a car. But things are never otherwise equal. People suck at driving, they don’t pay attention, they don’t take the precautions that some—some—bikers do. I know some people who drive a little crazier than most, you could almost say they’re just, well, savage. But I’m cautious when I ride. And you would be too.”

  This just sounded like the owner of a pet tiger trying to explain why owning a pet tiger wasn’t actually dangerous and wasn’t actually bound to end in tragedy. It might have been true up to that point, but as one of the gospels of finance went, past results did not guarantee future outcomes.

  And yet, despite that, I had to admit, the idea of breaking free and riding a motorcycle sounded pretty fucking awesome.

  “Maybe when I’m retired in thirty years,” I said with a laugh. “If you still know me in thirty years and I haven’t died from the stress of this job, then I’ll ride a bike with you.”