My Biker Bodyguard

by Turner, J. R.

  "That's the way I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh." He tipped the cup back, swallowed a mouthful of beer, and belched. "You checkin' out Jess, right?"

  He'd expected this. Dirty Dan wanted to use the cover story they'd given Jess, but Mitch needed to shadow her everywhere she went. Others would likely assume he'd taken an interest in her. If not Jess herself. And how far off were they? Not much. "What makes you think I'm interested in her?"

  "What doesn't? You're lucky you ain't pitchin' a tent." He sucked more beer.

  Mitch hoped he'd learn more about Jess before the biker passed out. Yet, drunk or not, J.D. was sharp and Mitch had to be careful. "Naw, she's just a kid."

  "Nope, she's all grown up, and everyone knows it but her ol' man." J.D. gave him a sidelong glance. "And so do you."

  They both watched Jess smile and talk with those who came near the table, her hand never leaving Dirty Dan's shoulder. Mitch asked, "What's the deal then?"

  "Look." J.D. sat up, his bloodshot eyes intent, his gaze direct behind the haze of alcohol. "That family's been through hell and back. Her junkie ma took off when Jess was six, just a week before Dan got sent up for five years."

  Mitch covered his surprise. He only knew that Beth had left Milwaukee and remarried a few years later. There had been a passing comment about Alcoholics Anonymous, but not enough to make him imagine her as a junkie. Recalling Beth dredged up the memory of her pale, fear drenched, and blood spattered face. He forced the nightmare image away.

  J.D. continued, "It damn near killed him when he found out. He turned it around though and finally got her back. Do you know how hard it is to do that when you've been in the life?"

  Mitch knew, better than J.D. could guess, but played dumb and shook his head.

  "I'm only tellin' you this so you'll know what you're up against, if you're serious." He gave Mitch a once over. "Don't gotta answer that, but I'll tell you anyway."

  "I wanna know." And he did, just not for quite the same reason J.D. thought. The more he knew about Jess, the easier his job would be. He'd take all the help he could get.

  "Foster care really messed her up. It took all of us to get her feelin' safe again. The system sucks for kids."

  "And now?"

  "She ain't goin' nowhere, though she don't know it. Her old man promised to stay legit, but she's gonna be here until he's too old and tired to get into trouble."

  "That could be a long time." Mitch watched her throw her head back and laugh. What a shame.

  J.D. grunted. "It's weird when you think about it. All these years we've been teachin' her to look after herself. The tougher she gets, the more Dan don't wanna let her go. It ain't no secret he wouldn't give two nickels for himself if it weren't for her."

  "It's good they got each other."

  "It ain't just that." He stopped to gulp more beer. "Let me tell you somethin'. I took a bad spill a while back, broke my leg in three places. Damn docs don't know nothin' about pain. I ended up havin' to boost their damned painkillers on my own, just to get through the day. Jess caught me poppin' percs in the bathroom. I still don't know how she found out."

  "What did she do?"

  "What else, man?" J.D. grinned at him and drained the last of his beer. "She beat the tar outta me."

  Mitch barked a surprised laugh. He shouldn't have been, but he was. Growing up in this neighborhood, surrounded by the cream of crime, she would definitely need skills. "What'd she do? Put you in a full-nelson?"

  J.D. crumpled the cup in his hand and tossed it at an overflowing trashcan. He missed. "I wouldn't come up on her in a dark alley if I were you."

  Mitch pretended to find that funny and chuckled.

  "Don't laugh, man. I'm serious. She's been bullyin' us for a long time." He smiled, his gaze drifting toward Jess again. "It's our fault though."

  Mitch asked, "Why?"

  J.D. grinned sideways at him. "What kinda bikers would we be if we let one of our own grow up not knowin' how to fight dirty?"

  Mitch laughed genuinely then. He understood why folks came to these cookouts. Great food, great drink, and even better talk.

  J.D. slapped him on the back and stood. "I'm gonna take a piss and pass out. Don't do anything I would."

  "Thanks for the warning." Mitch watched the man weave to the house, pausing only to respond to something Dirty Dan said with a drunken, one-finger salute. It seemed the way they showed affection–first an insult, then a finger.

  Worked for Mitch.

  Alone, he took the opportunity to assess, again, the perimeter. In another ten minutes or so, he'd have to find a reason to go out front, check the downstairs windows and doors. He hoped the son-of-a-bitch would show up, give him a chance to take care of everything at once: protect Jess, get revenge for Beth, and get a name. He wanted nothing more than to wreak some justice on the man behind the threat.

  Jess watched him, trying not to be blunt about it, but her attention rolled toward him like a radar. These might be bluecollar, salt of the earth folks, but they were much more aware, more assessing than most of the rich, pampered and polished set he dealt with these days.

  Yet he didn't doubt he could talk his way out of any suspicions they raised. After all, he did come from the same stock. But he didn't want to be put in that position. He'd told enough lies, all for good reasons. Once the truth came out, though, he worried Jess wouldn't see his reasons as good enough.

  Mitch nodded and she turned away, giving him a good view of her back. Dirty Dan's head rested on the picnic table. Apparently, he'd fallen asleep. Still, she kept that hand glued to his shoulder as she spoke to a gal with black braids.

  He looked over the others scattered in small groups around the yard. These women were all much older, much harder. Had the girls he'd known back in New York looked this rough? He didn't remember. Too many years in California, too many jobs watching over the well-heeled set had helped him forget.

  He studied Jess. Her tank and faded jeans fit well. The traditional biker boots and black belt made her look hip, rather than tough. Her dark-gold hair, freed down her back, appeared softer, less wild and wind-blown than the women surrounding her. She could fit in anywhere.

  He stood to do another security check. Jess might be a tattoo artist, but the only tattoo he'd spotted on her had been a small black sun at the base of her spine, revealed when she'd been bent over the keg in the garage. He'd wanted to hook his fingers in the back of her jeans and see the rest. He still did.

  And that, babes and bikers, is a problem.

  Chapter Three Jess woke to birds singing, the sun shining, and a glorious breeze drifting off the lake and through her open window. She felt like crap.

  All night she'd tossed and turned, exhausted, emotionally overwhelmed, and needful. If ever in her life she'd suffered hyperactive hormones, this was it. Did other women get this way after a long dating drought? Or should she run away to the circus and start her own one-woman show.

  She could hear the barker now.

  "Come see the world's most sexually frustrated woman! She bitches, she moans, she complains–until a MAN shows up. Ladies and Gentlemen, you'll see drool and stupidity like never before!"

  She'd be a hit.

  With a grunt, she disentangled herself from the sheets and stumbled to her private bathroom. A shower, a shampoo, three minutes of cold water, and she went back into her room, feeling much better. Until she saw Mitch leaning over her bed, gazing out the window. Would he never leave her alone?

  He straightened, his gaze going from her bare feet, dripping legs, and barely covered thighs, to where she gripped the damp towel across her breasts. She might as well have been naked.

  His presence felt like an invasion. Hiking the towel higher on her chest she didn't think, just reacted. "Get out of my room!"

  The closest thing not nailed down happened to be an old, feathered Mardi Gras mask. She pitched at it him, but it merely floated to the floor at his boots.

  He bent and picked up the mask. "Sorry, I didn't know
where you were."

  "Who died and made you my keeper? What the hell does it matter where I am?" She barreled after him, snatched the mask out of his hand and slapped his shoulder with it. "Just get out."

  Wearing that awful, adorable, crooked smile, hands up against the flapping feathers, glitter, and plastic, he backed out. "Okay, okay. Chill out. I'm going."

  Jess slammed the door on his grin. She leaned against the purple-painted wood, breathing hard. A feather, dislodged from the mask, floated in front of her face. She huffed. It twirled, then coasted to the floor. "Great, just great."

  Who the hell did he think he was anyway? Coming in here, in my bedroom. If Dad had caught him…

  She groaned and flopped face first on the bed.

  You moron! You should have yanked him in bed and made so much noise Dad would have come running.

  She could just picture her father's face. Bullish with fury, he would have grabbed Mitch by the ears and dragged him down the stairs, kicked him through the front door, and told him never to come back.

  What am I going to do now?

  Not lie in bed and whine about it that was for sure. She dressed quickly in a pair of cutoff denim shorts and a pink tshirt with a Tattoos and Tails logo across the front. Another Kooch original. Sitting on a Sportster, A Harley-Davidson hog used a tattoo gun to write the name of the shop in fat graffiti.

  She dragged a brush through her damp hair and glanced in the mirror. Okay. If I'm gonna stick to the plan, get Mitch all hot and bothered for me, I need to do something more than the usual scrub and brush. Especially after that fiasco.

  At the small vanity, she unearthed tubes and bottles of stuff she hadn't looked at since their New Year's eve party. One of J.D.'s old girlfriends had once tried to help her figure out all this stuff, but the couple had broken up before Jess could learn enough to do it on her own. Most of the time, she didn't much care she'd been raised by men, but on days like today, she hated not having a mother.

  Thirty minutes later, she'd washed her face three times and had only succeeded in making her face red from hot water and soap. Her hands shook and she kept screwing up the blush and eye shadow, looking like a hooker, or worse, a clown. Threering circus, here I come!

  She applied lip gloss, a touch of mascara–very proud she didn't poke her eye out–and left it at that. Any more and she'd mess it up again. She eyed her hair warily in the mirror.

  No, uh-uh. I'll end up bald.

  She snatched her keys off the dresser, dug through the jeans she'd worn last night for her cash, and ran down the stairs.

  The first to see her was J.D. He sat on the sofa nursing a cup of black coffee. He looked up with a smile on his face, then did a double-take. His grin widened. "Well, well, well."

  "Shut up, J.D." She kept going, afraid she'd lose her nerve.

  Going off half-cocked was not her usual approach. If it was true though, that you could catch more flies with honey, she might still drag the truth out of Mitch. She had a better chance with him than her father. This new plan of hers could end up with a double prize. He gets a one-way ticket back to the golden state and she gets the truth. Perfect.

  Unless I totally blow it like I did last night.

  The kitchen was empty, thank God. Her father was still sleeping. He usually attended the church of extra Zs on Sunday mornings and she had no intention of interrupting his prayers.

  Mitch stood on the deck wearing his black leather jacket and a pair of faded jeans. She registered the worn spot slightly below his left shoulder before she banged through the screen door. In a rush, she asked, "Wanna-go-to-breakfast-with-me?"

  He smiled. "Not mad at me?"

  Jess rolled her eyes. "Puh-lease."

  Gathering all her courage, she grabbed his hand and pulled him to the garage. Thankfully, she had to release his hand to hit the button for the door protecting her Mustang. Her palms had begun to sweat and she didn't want to gross out the King of Cool. The door rumbled up and she ducked beneath, impatient to unlock the passenger side for him. "Get in."

  "Yes, ma'am." He appeared too big to fit, but he made it into the seat.

  Behind the wheel, Jess peeled out in reverse, barely making the clearance beneath the still rising door. Mitch's heat, his undeniably tasty scent, filled the interior. As soon as she got the front end pointed down the alley, she rolled her window down, in dire need of lust-free oxygen.

  "You can slow down now." Mitch said as she spun onto the busy through-street. He tried to open his window while plastered to the door. "I don't think they're after us."

  She chuckled, then giggled. You're losin' it. Breathing deep, she took the next turn slower. "I think we lost them."

  He smiled and let go of the dash. "Good. Glad it's safe. I was getting a little too attached to the car."

  Jess patted the dashboard. "She's hard to resist."

  The fresh air helped ease the feeling she'd implode with sexual TNT. Now all they needed was some music. "Check out the sound system. Pop in a CD."

  Mitch pushed a button and in seconds, Lynard Skynard told them to turn it up, and Jess did as he asked. Sweet Home Alabama pumped through the speakers, perfectly equalized, perfectly loud.

  She drove up Lake Drive, enjoying the clean wind, the bright sunshine, and blaring rock-and-roll. Weaving through traffic, she found the George Webb diner on the east side. Her treat, her restaurant. If he didn't care for her choice, he could take her somewhere else next time.

  Next time.

  The thought gave her a thrill as she twisted the wheel, swerving around a Sunday driver to get the last spot available. Maybe, if Mitch didn't have concrete plans, he wouldn't mind settling down in Milwaukee. They exited the car together and she tried to drive the hope away. Careful. Don't set yourself up for a let down.

  She locked the Mustang and led the way inside, determined to enjoy the morning and not think ahead. Whatever it turned out that he wanted here, she'd deal with that then. Who knew? Maybe she could convince him to give up whatever he was into and go legit, like the rest of their crew. She relaxed.

  The bright red and white interior reminded her of the fifties. Mitch would be James Dean, only more rugged, but just as good-looking. Who would she be? Definitely not Marilyn Monroe. Jess didn't kid herself. The only thing sexy about her was the Mustang. She so badly lacked any femininity. Without a mother, her girly side was nothing but a scarecrow, and there wasn't anything attractive about that.

  She slid into a booth across from Mitch. His smile unnerved her. She knew good looking men often flirted with women out of habit, rather than real interest. Maybe she'd read more into his attention than was really there.

  They both ordered coffee, pancakes, and bacon. Mitch surprised her. She'd never had a date, if that's what he could be called, order the same thing. It gave her a strange sense of familiarity, as if they were life-long buddies.

  I don't want to be his buddy.

  Jess added cream and sugar to her coffee, giving herself something to look at other than him. The diner was busy, but not packed, and the sense of privacy at their booth didn't help settle the wicked tremble in her belly. She'd be lucky to get a bite of food in her. "So, what's California like?"

  "It's great." He sipped his black coffee. "What about you? You lived here all your life?"

  She nodded and eyed him. Short answer, new question– perfect misdirection. When she'd dated Jack, the cop, she'd learned a few tricks. If Mitch knows my dad at all, he should know we've never lived anywhere else. Two can play at his game though.

  His knee brushed hers under the table. She didn't move, didn't try to break the connection. If she wanted him gone, then she had to remain inviting, not wimp out like she'd done last night. If she wanted him gone? How quickly that had changed. "Where you headed next?"

  "South." He lifted an arm to drape it over the back of his seat, but then lowered it, as if he had thought better of doing so. "What about you? You ever think of traveling, getting away for a while?"

 
She shook her head. "I couldn't leave the business. Besides, I've got everything I need right here."

  He looked surprised. "Everyone needs a vacation once in a while."

  "Not me." She was such a liar. She ached to get away, to see the world, to stretch her legs on earth she'd never walked on before, to wake up to a view that was as foreign to her as chopsticks. "If you can't find what you want right where you are, you don't need it."

  He leaned over the table with a mischievous grin, his dark brows raised, eyes intense, voice lowered suggestively. "You don't believe in going after what you want?"

  Please, someone save me from taking what I want, right now, right here.

  "Here you go," the waitress said, balancing their plates.

  "Thank you." And Jess meant it a lot more than the waitress could guess.

  The waitress pulled a pen and pad from her pocket. "Anything else I can get you folks?"

  Jess bit back a request for Mitch ala Mode and glanced at her cup. "More coffee, if you get a chance."

  "No problem." She turned to Mitch. "What about you?"

  He covered his cup with one big-knuckled hand. "I'm good."

  "Be right back." She left.

  Jess attacked her pancakes with butter and syrup, keeping her hands and mind occupied. Mitch lifted a fork full of pancake, but froze. The very air stiffened around him.

  "What?" She looked at his plate. Did he find a cockroach or something?

  Mitch didn't answer. His fork fell to his plate with a clatter. "Go to the bathroom."

  "What?" The beginnings of a smile soured on her face. He was serious. "I don't have to go."

  "Go, now." He scooted to the edge of the booth, yanking her hand and forcing her own fork to fall from her fingers.

  "What the hell is going on?" Her heart stuttered on a wave of unexpected adrenaline as she tried to pull her hand back.

  "Too late." He cursed and lunged across the table, knocking her coffee over. She got a glimpse of the shoulder holster beneath his coat as the lapels parted and his big hand emerged with an even bigger pistol. The worn spot on his jacket.

  His free hand shoved her head down, aided by the brick wall of his chest. She hit her forehead on the edge of the Formica table top and cried out in pain.