by Faye, Carmen
"Is that suit fitted?" she asked, deciding that, after three months, enough was enough. She had to start somewhere.
He glanced at her in the mirror. "No," he offered.
"You should have a few tailored. At least three, better with five. Perhaps Thursday we can stop by a tailor. I know a good one," she offered.
"If you think it's necessary to do my job properly," he agreed, conditionally.
"Probably not necessary for you, but highly desirable for me. Your arms and chest need more room, and your abs, much less," she described with a slightly lower tone in her voice while watching his eyes in the mirror.
It was a good performance with well-executed innuendos, especially with the addition of her low, husky voice. After she said it, though, her gut tightened and doubt descended brutally. Was that too much? Too little? Could he tell she was flirting?
"You are, after all, a reflection on me," she added after only a breath of hesitation, allowing her to retreat from the contrived flirtation back to the safer area of professionalism. She looked away from his eyes in the mirror and frowned. Shit, I can't even flirt with him! What am I? A schoolgirl?
"I understand," he nodded and began again to pay more attention to the road than to her.
Fuck! He didn't understand, not at all, she cried in her head. Three months of drooling over this man and her mouth became dry the instant she wanted to open up! How could she bed and woo powerful men, several men, in fact – hell, a different one every day -- and not be able to flirt with her driver?
CHAPTER THREE
By the time they reached her bank, so she could deposit her tip, she was a mental disaster. He opened the door for her while his eyes searched the area rather than looking at her. She sighed. He was doing exactly what she paid him to do and was doing it very well.
In the bank, she made the deposit so the funds would be available for her stock trades when she got home. She stopped at the glass door, knowing the refection on the outside would hide her and just watched him for a while, standing out there by the limo, patiently waiting for her to return.
Cole Porter rode with the Chrome Horsemen, a strong motorcycle club in the area. She knew they had influence, connections, ran drugs, and performed the occasional heist. They were definitely outlaws. They also hired themselves out as security, which was where Cole came in. She put in a request for a new driver, because her last one wanted to move on. Her manager, Antonio, called the Horsemen and Cole showed up the next day -- kind of like a call-badass.
Other than that, she knew nothing about him. So why was he so fucking attractive to her?
It wasn't just the chiseled features or his other physical attributes. Those were enough to wet her appetite, but not enough to explain her level of desire. And she didn't want to fuck him – well, not just fuck him. She wanted to go out with him, to spend some time with him. She wanted her hand in his hand. She wanted to be a real woman with him.
It was a silly dream, really. There was no way she could ever be a real woman with anyone at this point, not without leaving the call girl thing, not without going all-in. She sighed and pushed the bank door open, telling herself to be satisfied with her stolen moment and to get a grip.
On their way home, he checked on her a few times with his eyes in the mirror, as if he could see something was wrong. On the freeway, he assessed her again and then said, "Tomorrow I'm got to take a ride up the coast." His deep voice vibrated her nipples, but his tone wasn't overly friendly. Casual, really. He had never discussed his personal life, though other drivers tended to. It wasn't against the rules, but he was never one to do it. Never.
"Yes?" she asked, her body trembling, waiting.
"Have you ever ridden, Nicole?" he asked. "It's amazing. In a car, you watch the world go by like it's on a screen, like you aren't exactly real enough to touch or be touched by the world. But on a bike, you are inside the world, flying through it. Real."
And there it was. She had an opening. His comment was personal, even a little poetic, but not unprofessional. She could just nod her head and everything would stay exactly the same between them. No harm, no foul, see you Thursday, have a nice ride. That was the last thing she wanted to do, however. "Would you mind me coming along?" she asked, and her gut turned into a heated knot. There was no taking that back, no twisting it to be professional. It was done. The line was crossed.
"Do you have your own bike?" he asked conversationally.
"No, I can't ride even if I did," she admitted, feeling that, for some reason, he was looking for a way out -- back to safer waters.
"Guess you will have to ride behind me then," he said. "I'll pick you up at ten?"
"Ten would be good," she agreed and then bit her lip, holding in her excitement.
I have a date! A real date!
CHAPTER FOUR
It didn't take Cole Porter three months to realize he wanted Nicole in deep ways. Within his first week, he knew that if she ever hinted, just a little, at something between them, he was going to cross that boundary for her. Just make the effort, he silently promised, and he would ride right on through.
She made that effort today and Cole had it on his mind all the way home that evening. He decided to keep it light with her. It wasn't about just fucking. No, there was a connection with her, a hard connection, and he wanted to explore that connection. Find out what it was -- see where it led them.
When he got to the club’s bar, a fight was in progress between two guys who had been at each other for months. He was glad to see they were finally going to work things out. He noticed that Hank, behind the bar, wasn't exactly thrilled, however. It was his job to clean things up, so that was no surprise. Cole looked around at the damage already done and decided cleanup was going to be more than a few hours of work at this point.
Patch-holders watched the struggle with calm interest. As for visitors and hang-arounds, some looked nervous, some looked amused, and some left.
Cole glanced at the clock. Most street fights only last around thirty seconds. A down-and-dirty fight like this took a lot out of a man in a hurry. This wasn't paced boxing; this was all out, bloody war. It was quite possible a fresh corpse would be the result and neither of combatants wanted to be that corpse.
"Hey Cole," a hard-looking half Mexican named Rat said as Cole passed by going for a beer.
Cole nodded to him. "Just a sec," Cole offered, but Rat was already back to watching the fight.
Just as Cole reached the bar, the combatants drew knives. Cole didn't see who drew first, but they were both bladed now and slashing at each other; blood was drawn in short order.
Suddenly, the explosion of a shotgun filled the air and everyone, including Cole and the combatants, looked for the source -- discovering Big Jim, their president with the smoking gun.
"Monday night?" Big Jim inquired, his voice holding the feel of amused disdain in its thunder roll, "Really? This shit is going down on a Monday night? Anyone see who drew first blood?"
"Cap did," Rat pronounced, followed by general agreement from around the room.
"Then Cap is the winner. Done. You two do this under this roof again, over this same tired shit, I'll be the winner. Understood?" Big Jim cited.
Both combatants, Cap and Phil, nodded with heaving chests, though Cap was a bit happier about it.
"Fine," Big Jim said. "Phil, pay the man. You owe him. Pay up. This shit is over."
Phil was about to protest, but then saw that Big Jim wasn't actually in as good a mood as he was projecting and decided against it, closing his mouth.
Big Jim looked around the room, and locked eyes with Cole, "Cole, glad you are here. Talk to me in my office. I have a favor to ask." Then Jim turned, shotgun on his shoulder, and lumbered toward the back of the bar.
"Good fight, though," Rat said, sounding a little disappointed as he turned around on his stool to elbow up on the high table in front of him.
Cole smiled and clapped his back. "I'll hook up with you in a minute."
<
br /> Rat nodded and Cole headed for Jim's office.
Big Jim wasn't called that for giggles. He was six-seven and built like a well-shaped tank. He made defensive linemen take notice. He ducked coming into rooms and straightened up with all eyes on him. His voice, though controlled most of the time, could literally shake windows.
He wasn't the best president the Chrome Horsemen ever had; he wasn't the brightest, wasn't the smartest, and his decisions weren't always profitable. Many examples over the last six years could be recounted as moments where Big Jim failed in these areas. However, he was unanimously thought of as the most loyal president the club had ever had.
Big Jim, without a whisper of doubt, cared more for the Horsemen than for his own life, his own wealth, or his own reputation. His loyalty won such a return in kind; everything else didn't really matter.
When Cole came through the door, Big Jim's chair was still creaking from his weight coming to rest into the padded leather.
"Prez," Cole greeted him, nodding with respect, and sat down in one of the visitor chairs in front of the massive desk.
"Cole, do you have any plans for tomorrow?"
"Shit, Jim," Cole said with honest disappointment. "Actually I do have some plans, which are important to me. What's up? Maybe I can help anyway."
"Hot date?" Jim asked with a grin.
"Hotter," Cole replied.
"I need something dropped off north of here. I need someone I can trust without hesitation to do it for me. It's important. Really important and I can't tell you what it is or why."
"Will it fit in a saddlebag?" Cole asked.
"Barely, but it will fit," Jim replied.
"Then I don't need to know the other answers, just an address and a time," Cole told him.
"What about your plans?"
"As it happens, my plans were for a ride up the coast with a young woman behind me. I figure I can either leave her at a bar or restaurant long enough to make the last leg of the delivery and then we're free the rest of the day."
Jim mulled that over, "The delivery is to a public dock, to a yacht that will likely cast off as soon as this is done. So, it doesn't really matter what your lady friend sees, but caution would suggest your first plan is reasonable."
"Would caution also suggest a gun?" Cole asked.
"Caution would," Jim allowed, "but I don't feel it will be required. The drop is to be made between three and four in the afternoon. No later, no earlier; eyes will be watching."
CHAPTER FIVE
Cole nodded. It was rare that such clandestine activities came from Jim, but if he felt such cautions were required, it was a good bet they were. Besides, Cole didn't have much curiosity in these matters.
"Consider it done," Cole told him.
"I will and do. I'm really glad you are the one that can help me out with this," Jim said, sounding like a weight was off him suddenly.
"I would have broken the date," Cole told him, adding, "If no one else you felt right for the job was available."
"I'm glad you don't have to," Jim said. "Payment for this, by the way, is two grand."
Normally high pay like that for a delivery suggested high-risk expectancy, but Cole figured the trust level required with closed eyes and a blank slate memory after was reason enough, too. "Nice. I can splurge a little tomorrow after."
"After." Jim smiled warmly and then nodded his head as he leaned back in his protesting chair.
Cole walked up to Rat and sat down with a freshly purchased beer. "So, what's new in your world?” Cole asked his longtime friend and partner through some serious scrapes.
"Same shit, different week. Still not busted. Still making cash as a mule. Still have Angie crying every time I head off for the coke-road, begging me not to go, because she has a real bad feeling about this run. All the same." Rat shrugged his shoulders and looked over at Cole. "Something new with you?"
Cole thought about that. Having a woman on the back of his Lowrider wasn't new. Certainly. Why did it feel new? After all, she was a call girl. They would have a good time -- ride some miles together. Maybe they would have sex someday, but, undoubtedly, they would be friendlier. Girlfriend?
White noise filled him when he did that -- when he put the term girlfriend in his head at the same time he imagined Nicole's image. The term girlfriend when associated with her and her touch of vulnerability left him without words and uncooperative emotions flooding his body. This blank, static response was certainly new, but he wasn't going to try to explain that to Rat. "Nope, not a thing."
"Still on pussy patrol?" Rat asked.
"Yep," Cole nodded.
"I hear that's major boring shit," Rat told him.
"Yep," Cole agreed.
"Are you going to start adding more words to your responses or continue to sound like my dad?" Rat inquired.
"Nope," Cole said and then took a long drink from his bottle.
"What did Jim want with you?"
"Can't talk about it. Secret squirrel stuff. Very hush, hush, eyes only, have to kill you if I tell you."
Rat was suddenly very interested, "From Jim?"
"Don't, Rat. No further or I'll have to leave. Seriously," Cole told him.
Rat looked him over and then nodded, "Alright. Just surprising you know? Jim doing the secret squirrel."
"So where are Cap and Phil?" Cole asked, changing the subject.
"Cap is over at the bar, reliving the fight a few times with some of the youngsters. Phil left to go get his money. Jim is right; the fucker owed it to Cap. He should have paid months ago."
"Yep," Cole agreed. "Hard to feel that the job was done right, though, when it included fucking your main live-in girl."
"So Phil was taking out a discount for pussy? He still got the deck. The job was done right. Good craftsmanship from Cap all the way around."
"Suzy felt so too," Cole added with a smile.
"Suzy is a tramp and everyone knows it, including Phil," Rat said disgustedly. "Once a tramp, always a tramp. No dick good enough or long enough to alter their ways. There's no future with them and they will always betray you for money, drugs, or sex. End of story. Phil is a grown man and should have known that. Yet, what's he do? That tramp is still living with him. And she'll pull a dirty on him as soon as she feels like she can get away with it or move on after."
Something turned hollow inside Cole's chest at Rat's words. They were tried and tested words. Proven over and over again by multitudes of men. Was he going to be next in line -- walking in, blindfolding himself, declaring that she was different and he was different, and it wasn't going to happen to him?
Once a tramp, always a tramp. Cold facts to live by, especially in Cole's world. Fuck her, have a good time with her, take her for a few rides, but never trust her. Never. Trust her and she'll fail you. Every time. No exceptions.
"Yeah," Cole breathed and finished his beer in one long pull. "That’s about the size of it."
"Damn straight," Rat agreed, and motioned with his eyes and expressive hands, asking if Cole wanted another.
"No, but thanks, buddy. It is really good seeing you. Give Angie my best and I'll look in on her for you like always," Cole told him while getting off the stool.
"Good. She likes you coming by. And thanks for not fucking her, too," Rat offered with a wide smile.
"She'd cut me into hamburger if I tried. That little Puerto Rican scares the crap out of me," Cole told him, only half joking."
"Me too; that's why I like these coke runs. By the time she passes through her emotional period of relief and welcome-home sex when I get home, and remembers she’s mad at me for doing them, it is time to leave again. And her happy bed is nirvana."
"Nirvana – hell, Lord of Ninth Heaven -- isn't worth the risk. Hamburger man. I'm telling you. Hamburger."
***
Cole arrived at home and looked around. It wasn't a bad neighborhood. Chicago had plenty of worse. He was likely the worst element for several blocks. Children played in the stree
t without fear or worry regarding what colors they were wearing. Couples sat on their porches, enjoying sunset light. If you thought you heard a gunshot, it was probably a backfire.
Did Nicole fit here?
Questions like this, when they surfaced as they often did since he began this assignment, bothered him deeply. He didn't even know her! What he knew was her name, if that was her real name, and most call girls didn't use their real names, so it probably wasn't.