I mentally laughed at the thought of some hillbilly driving a Barcalounger down the freeway. Feeling compelled to defend bikers in general, however, I tried to do just that. “I think most people get in their cars, buckle their seatbelts, and leave for their destinations with the understanding that they’re safe. Subsequently, they drive carelessly, under the false impression that the vehicle will protect them from harm. Most experienced motorcycle riders, on the other hand, are extremely defensive in their manner of riding. They must be. They’ve got to deal with the careless drivers. The motorcycle might not provide the structural protection that an automobile does, but a cautious rider makes up for it in his ability to avoid the situations that the driver of a car won’t even notice.”
“You’re saying drivers of cars are less attentive than motorcycle riders?”
“Generally speaking? Yes.”
“I disagree.”
“Based on what?” I asked.
“Based on the fact that I think you’re mistaken.” She leaned against the back of her chair and gave me a look like she didn’t believe a word I’d said. “I don’t know where you get your facts, but I see motorcycle riders doing dumb shit all the time. Splitting lanes on the freeway. Riding wheelies. You name it. I’ve seen it. Then when I see a guy squashed on the freeway, I just shake my head and say, it was only a matter of time.”
I cleared my throat. “I said a ‘cautious rider’ avoids accidents.”
“Is there such a thing? A cautious rider?” She laughed. “That’s an oxymoron, isn’t it?”
I wasn’t going to convince her to like motorcycles. As I contemplated which direction to divert our conversation, the waitress approached the table with a plate in each hand.
“The fish special for you,” she said, carefully placing one of the plates in front of Reggie. She turned and handed me the other plate. “And the grilled octopus and shrimp for you.” She glanced at each of us. “Anything else?”
Reggie started to speak, and then took pause.
“Bring each of us a glass of wine, if you would, please,” I said. “Whatever she’s drinking is fine.”
“I’ll be right back,” the waitress said with a smile.
Reggie eagerly gulped down what was left of her wine and reached for her fork. “Sorry I went on that tirade. I just. I don’t know. I really don’t care for the entire motorcycle thing like I thought I would. I’ve never been one to sugar-coat my responses, either. I’m like the first base umpire. I call ‘em like I see ‘em.”
“Are you a baseball fan?”
“Not really,” she said. “That’s just a phrase my dad always said, and now I find myself saying it.”
“The police officer?”
“Detective,” she said, correcting me. “He investigates all reports of bikers riding wheelies on the freeway.”
“I don’t ride wheelies.”
Smirking ever so slightly, she cut off a section of fish and lifted it to her mouth. “You’ll stay out of his crosshairs, then.”
I tried the octopus. Pleasantly surprised at the smoky flavor, I pierced another section and paused. “Is your father a baseball fan?”
“The biggest,” she replied. “When he’s not ridding San Diego County of wheelie-riding scumbags, he’s watching baseball.”
“Who’s his team?”
“The Padres. His father was an original season ticket holder. He started watching them in the 1960’s. He took my father to all the home games. He fell in love with baseball, and his home team. Now, when the Padres are out of the playoffs, he’s done watching for the season.”
“Sounds like a real fan.”
“He is,” she said. “Believe me. He lives and breathes baseball.”
“What does he do in the off-season?”
“He watches golf.” She acted as if she were vomiting. “The most boring sport in the world.”
The waitress delivered our wine. Reggie and I continued our conversations throughout the meal and well beyond, focusing on nothing in particular.
It was not what I expected. It was, however, exactly what I hoped for and everything I needed.
She tilted her half-empty wine glass in my direction. “How were the octopi?”
“They were much better than the shrimp,” I responded. “Not that the shrimp were bad. The octopus was fabulous.”
“Did you know octopodes is the correct plural term? No one uses it, though.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe it’s because it sounds weird.”
I found it interesting that she knew the Anglicized Latin plural term, octopi—which was acceptable in the English language—was grammatically incorrect. The word octopus is Greek, not Latin, leaving the only true acceptable plural term as octopodes.
“How do you know things like that?” I asked.
“I retain useless information.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “I have no idea why. Things just stick in my head. From school. Reading. Studying.”
“The American people assumed the word was Latin,” I explained. “Because it resembled words like syllabus and alumnus. So, they used what would be the Latin plural term, octopi. The word octopus, however, is of Greek origin.”
She drank her wine, studying me the entire time. Apparently, she wasn’t accustomed to men who retained as much useless information as she did. When she finished her wine, she leaned toward the center of the table.
“Come here,” she said.
I moved close enough to taste the sweetness of her wine-laced breath. “Yes?”
“Let’s go to my place,” she whispered.
“You’ve had quite a bit to drink,” I said. “You sure you’re up for this?”
“Three glasses?” She leaned away and gave me a stink-eyed look. “Pfft. That’s nothing.”
9
Reggie
A six-ounce glass of wine is said to be standard. Even so, some establishments serve a five-ounce glass, allowing them to pour five glasses per bottle instead of four. The seafood restaurant we ate at offered what I guessed to be an eight-ounce glass.
The bottom line? I drank an entire bottle of wine. I had no idea how drinking that much would affect for most people, but for me, it was a huge problem. I was what women described as a lightweight, and men described as a cheap date.
I was drunk.
Drunk, and ready to fuck.
Calm on the outside, but mentally frantic to rid Tito of his tight jeans, I fumbled to get the key in the lock. The warm evening air wafted a hint of his cologne into my nostrils.
Instantly gratified beyond measure, my eyes fell closed. My mind drifted to the idea of a night filled with earth-shattering sex. Three sexual positions into my sexual daydream, I lost grip of my keys.
They landed at my feet with a clank!
Tito knelt and picked them up. “Here, let me help you.”
He wedged himself between me and the door and opened it, bringing us one step closer to my goal. I stepped inside and glanced around the living room. In a few nights, half of the furniture I possessed would be burned at a celebratory bonfire. For the time being, however, each piece was a potential platform for sex.
I weighed the benefit of sex in a comfortable bed versus being fucked on one the pieces of living room furniture.
My eyes became fixed on the green pleather couch. It was the single most hated piece of furniture in the entire home. Modeled after the 1950’s original, the Danish-modern lime green piece was hideous, to say the least.
I spun toward Tito, who was standing immediately to my left. The sudden movement caused me to lose my balance. I stumbled—more planned than accidental—hoping that he’d catch me.
He did just as I hoped.
Unlike Jared, Tito’s muscles were hard, like steel. My eyes fluttered momentarily at the feeling of being cradled in his strong arms.
For some women, a one-night-stand is nothing more than a dick fix. One rung up the sexual ladder from masturbating while Selena Gomez’s Good for You plays in the background. A
true fuck ‘em and forget ‘em scenario that rarely includes the exchange of phone numbers, and never included the use of a real name—at least not entirely. Kissing and foreplay were prohibited. It was too intimate. Too personal.
I wasn’t one of those women.
By no means was I a slut, but I’d had my share of one-night-stands. In my opinion, nothing was off-limits—nor should it be.
Kissing, hugging and oral sex was welcome. The use of toys, candles, bath bombs, and the preparation of a post-sex meal was a common occurrence.
A quickie caused me to feel like the slut I swore I wasn’t. Having an intimate night filled with kissing, caressing, sex, and a bath allowed me to convince myself it was a perfect date that simply didn’t work out.
Cradled in his arms, I ogled him with drunken eyes. “Kiss me.”
Without argument, he complied.
Be it the wine, bottled-up anticipation, or the kiss itself, I’ll never know. Nevertheless, a tidal wave of emotion rushed through me. My purse fell to the floor. Pawing over every inch of his body, I searched for the right place for my hands to land. Eventually, they came to rest against the taut muscles of his back.
The kiss continued, growing more intimate with each beat of my heart.
If Tito’s ability to kiss was any indication as to what the night held, letting him go would be difficult, if even possible.
At that moment, I had no intention of releasing him. Instead, I’d allow him to use me as he wished, making me his real-life sex doll for what remained of our night together. When he was finished, he’d leave satisfied.
Rubber-legged, I’d stumble to my bed, nestle myself between the 1,800 thread-count sheets, and fall asleep armed with memories I’d later use to tell stories that would cause even a seasoned sexual veteran to gasp.
My body melted into his. He continued to kiss me like it was the last opportunity he’d ever have to do so. Paralyzed by euphoric bliss, my eyes fell closed.
His thick cock throbbing against my hip brought me out of my dream-like state. On the brink of a desire-induced internal inferno, I fumbled to find his belt.
The well-aged denim of his jeans was all that stood between me and a night of sexual bliss. I giggled to myself at the thought of him bending me over the green sofa and satisfying me to no end. Desperate to release his stiff dick of its confines, I frantically wrestled with the buckle of his belt.
Our lips parted. His hands pressed against my chest, pushing me away.
It wasn’t a “get away, you crazy bitch” shove. It was more a delicate “step aside and let me get that for you” push.
Watching him do it would be far more satisfying. I took a step back and prepared for him to release the beast. He wiped the edge of his index finger across his lips. In anticipation of what was to come, I did the same.
My gaze fell to his crotch.
Much to my surprise, his hands weren’t unbuckling his belt. In fact, they were doing the opposite.
He repositioned his bulge and buckled his belt. “I should probably go.”
“Go!?” I gasped. “Whaaaaat?”
“You’ve had too much to drink,” he said, his voice nearly inaudible. “Let’s leave it at a kiss.”
My pussy was soaked. Mentally, I’d already fucked him a dozen times. Prepared for an all-night debate to support my sexual cause, I crossed my arms over my chest. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“You can barely stand,” he said.
“Pull my pants down and prop me against something,” I reasoned. “I’ll be sober in no time. Probably after no more than a few strokes.”
“We’ll have to do it some other time.” He leaned forward and kissed me softly. “I’m sorry.”
Incapable of formulating a reasonable response, I stood on wobbling legs and watched as he sauntered to the door.
He opened it and glanced over his shoulder. “Thank you. I had a good time.”
Still processing the loss of my brown-eyed biker, I stood with my drunken mouth agape and stared. The clunk of the door closing behind him was a reminder that our night together was over.
My quest for what I was after, however, had only begun.
10
Tito
I set the 300-dollar bottle of scotch down beside my chair and took a seat. “Where’s Braxton?”
Hap rocked his chair onto the rear legs and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Hasn’t made it yet.”
“I can see that.” I chuckled. “I was wondering where he was. He’s normally here by now.”
“He keeps his whereabouts a secret.” He glanced at the bottle of scotch and then whistled through his teeth. “That’s a 300-dollar bottle of scotch.”
“I’m well aware.”
“He’s never wrong,” he said dismissively. “You should remember that when betting against him.”
“No one is right 100 percent of the time,” I argued.
“He is. At least when he offers to make a bet.” He dropped his chair onto all four legs. Following a moment of what appeared to be deep thought, he looked at me. “Can’t recall that he’s ever lost one, really.”
“Now’s a fine time to tell me.”
He laughed. “Couldn’t get a word in edgewise the other day. You two were bickering like an old married couple.”
“We weren’t bickering.”
He lowered his chin slightly. “You’ve been in a piss-poor mood since you lost that hat. You were bickering.”
“We were having a discussion.”
His look went stolid. “It’s high time you and I had a discussion.”
I raised my brows in wonder. “About?”
“About the fact that my lips are parched.” He nodded toward the cooler and grinned. “Pass me a beer, Kid.”
I handed him a bottle of beer. “Drink too many of those things, and you might end up losing your physique. A guy’s got to watch it at your age.”
He glared. “It’s fucking noon.” After a lengthy stare, he twisted off the cap and threw it at me. “I’m not a lush. I’ve got a one-day a week relationship with beer. When you get to be my age, you’ve got to watch several things. One is carb intake, and that’s why I drink Ultra. The other is having snot-nosed neighbor kids coming over and raising my blood pressure.”
I reached in the cooler and retrieved a cold beverage. “At my age, I can drink as many of these things as I—”
“Save it, smart ass,” he said with a wave of his hand. “What I want to hear is how you came about buying that high-dollar bottle of scotch. That gal wanted your wiener and that’s it, huh? She was using you, just like Brax said.”
“I don’t have a wiener.”
“Prick, willie, pecker, schlong, dong. Call it whatever you want to call it.”
I took a drink. “Cock.”
His brows pinched together. “That’s kind of brash, isn’t it? Cock? Sounds like a term out of a porno movie. ‘Hey lady. Why don’t you grab a fistful of my big cock?’ Hell, that sounds rude. You don’t really call it your cock in front of women, do you?”
I thought about it for a moment, and then shrugged. “I really don’t call it anything in front of women.”
The unmistakable sound of Braxton’s SUV accelerating from a stop warned of his arrival. Hap nodded toward the street. “There’s Brax now. We’ll ask him what he thinks about this.”
“We don’t need to ask him—”
“We’re a family, goddamn it,” he snapped. “If we can’t talk about matters openly, they’ll end up eating us up inside.”
“Nothing’s eating me up inside,” I insisted. “And, we don’t have a matter to discuss.”
Braxton parked, but left the vehicle running.
Hap gestured toward the driveway. “Looks like someone’s pissed off.”
Appearing to be in a heated discussion with someone, Braxton was talking on the vehicle’s hands-free phone. His brows were knitted together, his hands were waving in all directions, and the veins in his neck were pr
otruding.
After several minutes, he shut off the vehicle and opened the door. Wearing dark jeans, dress shoes, and a sport coat—which was casual dress for him—he glanced at each of us, and then sauntered up the driveway.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Had some business I had to take care of.”
Hap gestured toward the beer cooler with the neck of his bottle. “Sunday’s supposed to be a day of rest.”
“I can’t decide when the phone rings,” Braxton responded. “When I do, I’ve got to resolve whatever it is that presents itself.”
“I need to present you with something,” Hap said.
Braxton opened a beer and took a drink. “What’s that?”
“A couple of things, actually,” Hap said. “One, The Kid won’t discuss his dick in front of women. Second thing is this: there’s a bottle of scotch beside his chair, which means that gal wanted to use him for nothing but sex. He refuses to discuss that, too.”
“I haven’t refused to discuss anything,” I argued.
Hap peered beyond me, toward Braxton. “Hey, Brax. What do you call your wiener? When you’re talking about it in front of a woman?”
“Depends on the woman,” Braxton responded as if the topic were a matter commonly discussed.
“Give me an example,” Hap said.
Appearing to give the subject some serious thought, Braxton took a long drink of his beer. He lowered the bottle and glanced at what remained. Seeming satisfied, he looked at Hap. “In a doctor’s presence, I’d call it a penis. In the presence of a timid woman, I’d probably refer to it as a dick. If she was more open-minded and a little mischievous, I’d call it a cock.”
“Didn’t realize cock was such a common term,” Hap said.
Braxton looked at me. “Is that what you call it?”
“Unless he’s in front of a woman,” Hap interjected. “Then, the topic’s off-limits.”
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