It didn’t take him long to find Sex Machina’s setup. A huge black and silver trailer served as the backing for a large gazebo-like white tent, the space beneath bristling with bikes, gear and guys—most of whom were working on the machines. On a table beneath the tent stood the four pastry boxes and box of coffee, all of it looking wiped out.
“Luc!” Luc turned as he heard Mike’s call, and all the guys’ heads in the Sex Machina area turned as well, their gaze pinning on him. But Mike was calling from the Midway area of the rally, and—and he was alone.
Where were Patrice and Jerome?
“Hey, Mike,” Luc began, alarm instantly galvanizing him, but the boy hurried up to him, waving his hands as if to ward off his concern.
“Sorry, man, I saw you and knew you’d freak if I didn’t come over—Tante Patrice is this way. Tattoo shop.”
“What?” Luc set off with Mike and the boy kept explaining, his words coming faster at Luc’s sharp question.
“Not like that! It’s, like, painted on. Not permanent. Apparently, they do it to set the image down and it’s become like a side gig for people who aren’t yet sure they want a tattoo. Tante liked the ink of the girls who worked there and she asked if she could try out a design, and, well…” Mike shrugged. “You know how she is.”
Luc stifled a groan. It was exactly the kind of thing his aunt would adore. “Tell me she’s not getting a skull and crossbones.”
“Dude, I have no idea,” Mike laughed. “I told her we’d cover it. Jerome is off with Chantal on her bike.”
That did make Luc stop. “Her bike?” His great aunt and uncle were over eighty years old, and their bones seemed to get more fragile every year. If Jerome fell… “You can’t be serious.”
A bike louder than the general cacophony around them revved its engine, and Luc looked up, squinting into the sun. Sure enough, there was Chantal cruising their way—minus her helmet and jacket, but with a definite addition to her gear: the small, helmeted figure of his great uncle, folded up into a motorcycle sidecar.
“She said you gave her the idea,” Mike said as Luc stared.
“I…” Luc cut off as Chantal seemed to realize he was there. She angled the bike their way and reached them a moment later, killing the engine as Jerome also recognized Luc and started speaking in rapid French, his hands waving with excitement.
“Slow down—slow down!” Luc instinctively moved toward his great uncle as Chantal did, and the two of them collided in front of Jerome, the same zing of awareness leveling Luc that had snagged him the first time they’d touched back at the bakery. He covered his confusion by reaching out to steady his great uncle’s shoulders, while Chantal undid the chinstrap on Jerome’s helmet.
The old man never stopped talking.
“Magnifique! Formidable!” he gushed, his enthusiasm so obvious that Luc had to laugh. They helped him out of the sidecar in time for Patrice to toddle out of the Ink Emporium’s tent, and when Jerome saw his wife with a beautiful multicolored butterfly tattoo on her thin white arm, the old man looked like he might explode with joy. “Patrice!” he gasped, in patent awe.
Luc stood back as the two of them fell together, speaking rapid French, and realized Chantal was by his side—while Mike had split. Kid was even smarter than Luc gave him credit for.
“Thank you for showing them a good time,” he said, fishing in his back pocket for Chantal’s phone. He handed it over.
“Thank you for putting my entire team into a food coma. And for this,” she said, waving the phone. “I’m the worst about leaving it behind.”
“It looks like it’s already a full house here.”
“Yeah.” She looked up the Midway, then pocketed her phone and reached for her bike. Luc walked with her as she pushed it toward the Sex Machina shop. “Most of them are good guys, your aunt and uncle are safe. And that tat…”
“Will wash off, right?”
“Eventually.” She grinned and shrugged. “Hopefully her boss isn’t an asshole about ink.”
Luc blinked, suddenly wondering if Chantal had any tattoos…and where. His body reacted immediately, and his next words were out before they could stop them. “Never had any myself, but I’m not against it. What about you?”
Chantal turned and looked at him with her own measure of heat. “Not that I show to just anyone.”
“Well, I did just put your team into a food coma.”
Her beautifully arched brows lifted. “There is that. You often successful at bribing people with food?”
“I am,” he said. “The things I’ve done with an éclair are criminal in three states.”
“Hmm. I don’t think I’d want to live anywhere where pastry is a crime.”
Luc shrugged. “Probably not. But you should probably try the éclair to see if the charges had merit.”
At that Chantal laughed outright, her face breaking into a wide grin. “Okay, that sounds like a challenge. When?”
Luc glanced up at the sky, gauging the sunlight. “When are you done for the day? I need to get Panama City Beach’s oldest bikers back home before they go buy a Harley, then I’m all yours.”
Her smile was as sweet as spun sugar. “I might just hold you to that, Luc Martin. Tonight at seven?”
He shook his head. “Make it six-thirty, if you can. Sun sets just after seven, and that’s something to see. Text me and I’ll shoot you the address.”
She gave him an odd look, but nodded. “You’re on,” she said. Then she returned her attention to her bike.
Chapter Three
It was almost five o’clock, and the rally was gearing up for the opening night festivities, but all Chantal could do was keep sneaking glances at the time. Unlike most everyone she knew, she still wore a watch—too hard to check your phone screen while you were riding, and she’d gotten used to the weight over the years.
Now she grimaced, unsurprised to see a mere fifteen minutes had gone by since the last time she’d looked at it. Seriously, it was just a date with a nice guy—nothing to get excited about.
And yet, she was.
“Asshole in twenty.”
The warning was so gruffly delivered that it took Chantal a second for it to register, but her head mechanic Neil Murdoch was never one to mess around when he was working on a bike, and his terse voice was no-nonsense. She turned, frowning, and caught sight of the trouble right away. All six foot four of it. Granger.
“Who let him back on the grounds?” she grumbled. “I thought he’d be out of our hair for awhile.”
“Charges from the Houston rally must not have stuck.” That observation was from Danny, a custom airbrush artist who even now slid in front of his precious tools. How the hell Chantal had ever found Granger exciting, she didn’t know. But that’d been five years ago. They’d broken up well before he’d become the flaming idiot he was now, all busted-up boots and torn leather jacket and attitude, his rally setup half given over to selling tee-shirts and gear featuring the lowest common denominator of crude humor.
Granger didn’t even own his rally setup outright, just worked for the Vegas-based company who let him pretty much do whatever he wanted as long as the sales kept coming through. That allowed him to hire his drinking buddies and keep his groupies close, the whole lot of them on a perpetual high.
Granger’d also been trying to get Chantal back since the moment she’d come to her senses, and the only time she was free of his stalking was when he was locked up.
Guess today wasn’t her lucky day after all.
“Granger,” she called out, taking the offensive and striding out into the main thoroughfare of vendors. Her voice was loud and firm, and more than a couple heads popped up. She wasn’t going to tangle with the guy in private, and she especially wasn’t letting him near her bikes.
He stopped and swayed a little, and she grimaced. Not yet five and he was already lit up like a firecracker. She hoped it was only alcohol on board, but she knew from past experience it was probably a fair amount more
.
“Chantal,” Granger gritted out, staring at her. His eyes were feral and his fists clenched. “You rat us out back in Houston? Manny said you did.”
That stopped her. “What? No,” she said, her voice radiating more emotion than she wanted it to. But she’d been on the wrong side of the law too often herself, and she wasn’t a fan of ratting anyone out without good reason. And good reason generally meant she had to see something with her own two eyes, or feel like staying silent was more of a betrayal than coming clean. “And for what, anyway? Last I knew you were in Houston, and we left days before you guys did.”
“We didn’t leave at all.” He glared. “Not after the shit we got into with the local cops over a couple of shot-up signs. Bleeding heart liberal assholes.”
She cocked him a look. “In Texas?”
He bristled, and she held up a hand.
“Look, dude, it doesn’t matter. We’re square. I didn’t say anything to anyone about you—that’s not what I do. You looking for a fight, you go somewhere else.”
“I’m not looking for anything but you.” With one of his whip-fast attitude changes, Granger slid forward, and Chantal took a quick step back, her hands going up. “What, you scared of me now? We used to get pretty jacked up you know, have some fun. We could do it again.”
“Not anymore.” She shook her head firmly. “Got my own shop to run, now. So do you. Neither one of us has any time to get jacked up.”
Granger grunted, straightening as well and shoving his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. “You know, I liked you a whole lot more when you weren’t such a stuck-up bitch. You better hope you didn’t rat us out back there in Texas when we were only having a little fun.”
Chantal winced. Granger’s idea of fun often involved unregistered guns and minor property damage. He’d not been stupid enough to get caught doing anything, but he’d been suspected in any number of incidents. Nothing ever stuck to him, though, including the brains God had given him as a baby. “It wasn’t me, Granger. And we’re done here. You go do your thing, I’ll do mine.”
“Who’s the guy?”
Once again, the change of conversation would have thrown her, if she hadn’t spent over a year up close and personal with the man and his lightning quick conversational pivots. She knew he was talking about, and knew what it meant. Now that Granger’d shown up at the rally, he was keeping a close eye on her.
Anger riffled through Chantal. “No one you need to worry about. Local guy, brought food for the guys.”
“That better be all he’s doing,” Granger said ominously.
A voice shouted his name, and they both turned to see two of Granger’s lieutenants, dressed in similar biker thug fashion, their arms slung around three girls that they’d had to have hired for the rally—no one that pretty hung out with Granger’s crew unless they were being paid.
Granger’s face broke into a wide smile, and he looked back at Chantal. She kept her face neutral. She sure as hell wasn’t jealous, but she knew better than to show him her contempt.
“Gotta go, Chantal,” she said, exaggerating her name again to the point she did kind of hate the sound of it once more. “You run along and be good. I’m watching you.”
“Have a good one, Granger.”
She walked him stalk off, was unsurprised when Murdoch stepped up behind her, his hands busy with a length of chrome pipe he was polishing. “He’s gonna be trouble eventually,” he said, unperturbed.
Chantal shrugged. “We’ll deal with that when it happens. For now, as long as he keeps his ass on the other side of the rally, I don’t care what he does.” She turned back to Murdoch, pointed at the pipe. “Let’s get that installed and see how ridiculous it looks.”
Still, the spell of the day had been broken, and when six o’clock rolled around, Chantal went through the motions of getting ready for her date with much less excitement than she’d planned. Stupid Granger and his stupid redneck gear shop. He’d never been good enough working on the bikes to make that last, but buying and selling gear—and skimming the profits, no doubt—paid enough to keep him and his boys tricked out in the low-slung crotch rockets they brought along to look cool to the tourists.
Stop thinking about him.
Now Chantal stood in the bathroom of Murdoch’s RV, staring at herself in the mirror. She’d traded out her gear for more feminine clothing—though that ended at her jeans, since she’d be taking her bike. But her boots were understated, her jeans faded, and the polka-dotted camisole styled top was…pretty, she decided. She even brushed out her hair before wrapping it into a wind-protective sheath, glancing over to the helmet she’d picked out for the night. Gleaming black, with angel wings on either side. Helmets weren’t supposed to be cool in the biker world, but Sex Machina’s were all works of art.
She stepped down out of the RV, surprised to find her bike already waiting for her, tricked out with more wings on the gas tank and fender—gorgeous temporary decals Sex Machina had recently begun selling.
“Murdoch…” she said, eyeing the bike. “That’s getting a little too cute.”
“It’s advertising. The chicks will fall in love with it and if anyone asks, you give ‘em your card.” To emphasize the point, he handed her a stack of Machina business cards, which she grudgingly stuck in her pocket. “You’re practically a moving billboard for us. We get more women every stop.”
“Fine.” She pulled on her helmet, but Murdoch didn’t leave. Instead, he just stood there grinning at her.
“You got something else to say?” she finally asked.
His grin only got wider. “Only that if you’re gonna be out until morning, go ahead and bring us breakfast from the dude’s shop. Because swear to God, that’s the best food we’ve had all summer.”
“I’m not going to be spending the…” She scowled at him. “What are you, my mom?”
“I want beignets!” came Danny’s voice behind one of the bikes.
“Anything with chocolate and that cream filling stuff!” came another call.
“And hey, bring us some—”
“I’m outta here,” Chantal cut them off.
The entire crew of Sex Machina was still laughing as she roared away.
Luc heard the bike long before he saw Chantal, but he didn’t move from his spot on the picnic table, merely looked over to the parking lot to watch her roll up. She spotted him too, he suspected, because she angled her bike his way and cut her speed until she cruised to a stop. A moment later she’d pulled off her helmet and shrugged out of her jacket, and he blinked.
The Chantal Green he’d seen in his shop and at the bike rally had been gorgeous, tough, and edgy. But without her jacket and heavy leather boots, wearing some kind of cute polka-dotted top and tight jeans, her long blonde hair falling over her shoulders, this Chantal Green could have been any beautiful girl, anywhere.
She could even be the kind of girl who might like to watch the sunset from the same spot more than once.
Pushing that thought away, Luc slipped off the bench as she walked up. “No problem finding the place?”
“Not at all—I’ve been here before, but not to this particular park. It’s a lot less…commercial than the other parts of the beach I’ve seen.”
“That’s why I like it.” He held out his hand before he could catch himself and she slipped hers into it, equally unselfconscious for the first second, before they both tensed. Then the moment passed and he tugged her toward the beachhead trail. “It’s not far.”
“You have a place all picked out?” Her voice was teasing, and Luc fought the blush, but dammit, he really didn’t care what it took to get Chantal down to his favorite strip of sand. He just thought if she could see it…
Okay, maybe he was being an idiot.
“Yeah,” he said, laughing at his own embarrassment. “Found it a few years back when I came home. Never knew this park was here, til then. Now it’s sort of become my place.”
“Sounds…oh.” They crested the
small dune and the vista spread out before them—the nature preserve on the right, dunes to both sides, and miles of pristine beach spreading along the blue-green water. “Wow, that’s pretty.”
“Wanna go down to the beach? We can stow your boots at the dinner table.”
She lifted her brows as she swiveled her gaze back to his. “What dinner table?”
“Come on.”
There were a few people on the beach down by the water, but after they crossed the bridge, Luc angled right to where the dunes had finally built up again, since the last major hurricane had blown through more than ten years earlier. He’d brought down a small picnic table and hid it in the dune area, and, surprisingly, no one had taken it back out again. Which meant it was still perfect for this evening.
“Oh, geez.” Chantal sounded more confused than happy, and Luc surveyed the picnic gear more critically. Had he gone overboard?
Hell, probably. He dropped her hand and lifted his to rub the back of his neck. “Too much?” he asked.
“Are you kidding?” Chantal stepped up to the table and touched the edge of the plastic cloth he’d laid down, then grazed the open cooler with its bottle of sparkling wine and the sandwiches and desserts—éclairs, of course—he’d brought from the shop.
Piled on the seat were a couple of lightweight beach blankets if she wasn’t the table kind of person. But maybe she wasn’t a picnic type of person either?
Then she turned at him, and he was startled to see her eyes blinking quickly, as if she had sand in them. “It’s great,” she said. Was her voice actually wobbly? “Really great. It’s—fantastic.”
He grinned, feeling foolish but not really knowing why. “Beach?”
“This stuff will be okay here?”
“Yeah. This late in the day, most of the hardcore sunbathers are done. No one will bother it.” He kicked off his shoes—his khakis were frayed from many such walks down by the water—and chuckled as Chantal leaned over awkwardly to grab her own boot. “Here. Sit,” he said, gesturing to the bench.
Forgetting Jack Cooper: The Outlaw Edition Page 3