Biker with Benefits

by Mickey Miller

  “No,” I say, defiant.

  “Harm, I’m not going to tell you again.”

  I run my hand over his chin and tip my head up to look at his eyes, so dark in the hallway’s shadows.

  “Jax, you don’t tell me what to do. Got that? Let’s go. I have a plan.”

  Jax seems shocked that he’s being pushed around by someone a foot shorter than him and half his size, but before he can protest, I grab his hand and lead him back into the master bedroom. I shut the door right as the officer’s footsteps hit the third floor.

  He probably heard me slam the door.

  “Do you know how to hang?” I ask.

  He squints. “Hang? What do you mean?”

  A fist bangs on the door, and my pulse speeds up.

  “Hang! Get out on the balcony! Hang off it! Just don’t let him see you when he checks the room! Go!”

  I push him with all my might, and he acquiesces, heading out to the balcony. I slam the sliding door shut after him.

  “Open up! Police! I know you’re in there!” the officer bellows again, knocking rapidly on the door.

  “Last warning.”

  Adrenaline and excitement rush under my skin, masking the fear at what I’m about to do.

  “Last warning before I take the door down,” the voice says. “Please. I don’t want to have to do this.”

  Taking a deep breath, I summon all of my energy and let myself cry. I wait a moment, until at least one tear has streamed down my face, and then saunter toward the door and open it.

  “Oh my gosh, Officer!” I drawl desperately. “Thank God you’re here. My boyfriend just broke up with me and I came up here to . . . Just thank you!”

  His eyebrows draw together in confusion. I move in for the kill, trying to hug him in just my shorts and bra.

  Backing up, he puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me from touching him.

  “I’m sorry, miss, but no touching.”

  I make an exaggerated frown. “Wha—the police? What are you all doing here?”

  “We got a call that there are some underage teenagers at this party, so we came out to investigate.”

  “Oh no! That’s not good!” I sniffle and blink a few times, letting the sadness of my nonexistent boyfriend’s breakup seep into me.

  “I haven’t noticed anything for a while. I’ve been up here.”

  “Yeah, you do look pretty red-faced,” the officer agrees. He’s young—in his mid-twenties—and seems smart but maybe a touch naive.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll just have a look around the room, miss.”

  He eyes the master bedroom as he stands in the archway. “Just have to make sure we run through all the standard procedures.”

  “Of course.” I sniffle.

  I follow him as he walks into the master bedroom.

  He sees my shirt on the floor and eyes me. “You sure there’s no one else here?”

  “No,” I say sarcastically. “I like to sob like this in front of an audience.”

  Squinting, he moves around the room, checks the bathroom and the closet, and eventually gets to the balcony.

  Trying it, he realizes it’s locked and puts his hands on his hips. I can tell he’s thinking about ending his search.

  Tilting his head, he locks his gaze on mine. I don’t mean to let it happen, but a micro smile crosses my face at the thought that my plan has actually worked.

  Unlocking the balcony door, he slides it open and my heart starts to throb like crazy.

  “You checking to see if anyone is out there?” I ask.

  “Nope,” he winks. “Just getting some air.”

  I follow him out to the balcony, where he looks out onto the pool area and signals to a couple of his cop buddies.

  “Should I be looking for someone out here?” he asks.

  My mouth hanging open, I muster a shrug and say a silent prayer for Jax. If he’s still hanging off the balcony, he’s got a high chance of getting caught.

  The officer squints. “Why is there a tied-off sheet hanging from the bottom bar of the balcony?” Squatting down, he looks up at me. “You sure there was no one in here with you?”

  “All right, you know what?” I seethe. “Stop checking me out, Mr. Officer.”

  He stands up. “Excuse me.”

  I step up to him. “Yeah. You’re just using this whole search as an excuse to take advantage of a girl who just got dumped.” I gesture to his body cam. “Is that thing on? Because I’d like to see what you’ve been focused on this whole time.”

  Clenching his jaw, he holds my gaze. “Miss, you’re just lucky I’m going to let you off with a warning today. Aiding minors in drinking is something we at Blackwell PD take very seriously. Now get the hell out of here and go home. I’m sure your daddy is wondering where you are this time of night.”

  A vein in the officer’s neck is pumped up. I decide that the jig is up, and he’s right.

  Besides, I have no idea where Jax is.

  He could be camping up on the roof for all I know. But if anyone can get out of this jam, it’s him.

  I consider verbally coming after this officer. Instead, I opt for sugar instead of spice.

  “Well, thanks for going easy on me, Mr . . . what’s your name?”

  “Officer Hanks.”

  “Officer Hanks. Thanks. Oooh, that rhymes,” I giggle.

  The slightest of smiles crosses Officer Hanks’s face, though he rolls his eyes.

  I go inside, grab my shirt, and head downstairs, Officer Hanks behind me.

  A few guys are handcuffed on the couch, not looking too happy.

  “This one’s free to go,” Officer Hanks booms from behind me to the officer standing at the front door.

  “Ah, a lucky one, eh?” he says.

  Relief pours through me, and I look over my shoulder. Officer Hanks winks and tips his chin up at me.

  Back outside, I start walking down the block away from the Maleks’ house. I wonder if Sebastian or Mason or Cole waited up for me.

  They were so insistent on me not being with Jax. It was almost . . . weird. It was out of the realm of normal protectiveness. Maybe they know something I don’t.

  After I walk for a block, I reach the edge of the gated part of the community, and I frown. A few people from the party are still leaving, walking down the sidewalk, but no one I know.

  A car passes by that looks like Sebastian’s, but it keeps on driving and hope leaves me.

  This is becoming my MO. I’m the girl who doesn’t have a car and needs to beg for rides. Why doesn’t Blackwell have Uber yet?

  Am I really going to walk the three miles home at this hour? Is this what my life has come to?

  I see a tree stump and sit down on it. At least I don’t have my guitar to worry about, since I left it in Sebastian’s car. But seriously. This is getting old.

  As I stew on the stump, I blow out a loud, frustrated breath to no one in particular. My life has become a pointless cycle of tiny gigs, walking everywhere, and barely scraping by.

  I need a change. Something big.

  My eyes gloss over—for real, this time—and I wipe away a tear.

  I feel so adolescent. Still at the whim of other people to get rides where I need to go. Still getting in trouble with my stepmom for simply doing the things I want to do, like playing guitar and getting a ride home from a cute guy.

  My heart sinks as I think of Jax. We haven’t even exchanged phone numbers yet, which seems odd. Maybe he’s just not the smooth type? How has he not been with a woman in years?

  My tears fade as I think about how good it felt to have him on top of me, pressing his heavy weight onto me. So sensitive and overly caring. When he gave me a ride the first night, I thought that was all he wanted to do with me—have me go for a ride on him, so to speak.

  Turns out I was the one making faulty assumptions.

  My thoughts scramble at the loud revving of a motorcycle.

  Jax pulls up in front of me, still shirtless and wit
h a big smirk across his face.

  “Hey there,” he says.

  “Hey, stranger.” I beam, standing up.

  “You ever ride on the back of one of these things before?” He smirks.

  “Maybe,” I say, biting my lip playfully as I jump on his bike and grab hold of him.

  8

  Harmony

  We pull up in front of my house.

  Peeling my body away from Jax, I get off the bike.

  “This was a surprisingly fun night,” I say.

  A slow smile spreads on Jax’s face. “Likewise.”

  “So, good night,” I say, and take one step toward the house before Jax grabs my hand and pulls me toward him.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he growls, wrapping his arms around my hips and kissing me.

  Butterflies flutter in my stomach as his hot lips press against mine. I rest my hand on his shoulder, returning his kiss. He grips me tightly and our dual desires cut through the heat of the night.

  “Jax,” I mutter, pulling away. “I don’t even have your phone number.”

  He slips a hand into my front pocket and retrieves my phone. “We’ll have to change that, then.”

  I clumsily take the phone and unlock it so he can type in his name and number.

  Slipping the phone back into my pocket, he pulls me in for another kiss. My heart pounds as I feel the heat of his body pressed up against mine.

  Drunk on desire, I could do this all night.

  “Jax,” I whisper, my conscience kicking in. “It’s late. I’ll text you in the morning. Okay?”

  “Perfect. Night, Harm.”

  Walking toward my porch, I turn to watch him leave.

  The porch door creaks like it always does, and I head inside. The house is dark except for the glow of moonlight seeping in.

  I set my phone on the dining room table and grab a glass of cold water before bed.

  Chugging my drink, I nearly drop the glass when I hear my name spoken through the shadows.

  “Harmony Lane.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I spin to see my dad standing at the dining room table, rings under his eyes.

  “Dad,” I choke out, trying to hide my shock.

  “It’s almost three a.m. What on earth are you doing out until this hour?” he demands.

  I blink a few times, my eyes fluttering. My dad is supposed to be driving his truck across country tonight. “I, uh . . .” I clear my throat. “I went to a party with Sebastian and Cole after my show.”

  “Oh?” He arches an eyebrow. “Then who was it that dropped you off?”

  My dad is the nicest man alive. I’ve never seen him utter a mean word. But when he’s in his mad mode—it happens maybe once every three years—steer clear.

  And I can tell I am navigating dangerously close to mad mode.

  “Someone else gave me a ride home from the party,” I say, playing it off like it’s no big deal.

  My dad blows out a big, frustrated breath, running his hands through his graying hair.

  “Harmony, you can’t just come crashing in like this so late. I worry about you. You know that. And I don’t like you getting a ride with him.”

  I tilt my head and take a step toward my dad. “Him?”

  “I heard his motorcycle. And your mom told me all about how you were with him late last night too.”

  My stomach lurches.

  “You mean stepmom,” I say back. Ire swirls inside as I imagine the conversation they must have had, my stepmom tattling on me like a second grader telling on a classmate.

  “We’re not having the stepmom-versus-mom conversation right now,” my dad interjects, his voice firm. “She told me that you were with him last week too. Jax. The ‘Jax.’ He’s not the kind of boy I want you hanging out with.”

  Anger flares inside me, and I drop my gaze. Turning my back, I put my glass in the sink and mutter soft enough that he can’t hear.

  “It’s none of your Goddamn business.”

  “Excuse me?!” he shoots back, taking my phone from the table and clutching it in his hand.

  “Fine,” I say, louder now. “I said, I’m twenty-three years old. It’s none of your business who I’m dating—or not dating—or getting rides home with. Especially when Lisa is getting too drunk to give me rides home in the first place. That’s the whole reason I started hanging out with Jax, anyway.”

  His eyes flame in the shadows, and he flexes his jaw. “Don’t you dare say that! Harmony, you know how it works here. My house, my rules. If you want to act like a fool, get some applications out and apply for a real job.”

  I clench and unclench my fists, his words feeling like knives twisting in my stomach.

  “So music,” I fire back. “That’s not a real job?! Happy to know what you really think.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” He uses his pointer finger to emphasize his words. “Keep playing music. By all means. As a side thing. In the meantime, get a job somewhere—”

  “Oh, because Blackwell just has an abundance of well-paying jobs I can walk into at age twenty-three—”

  He cuts me off with a raised finger, anger written all over his face.

  Closing his eyes, he pinches his forehead with his forefinger and thumb. “I love you, Harmony. I just want you to be responsible. And happy.”

  “And not hang out with him,” I retort.

  “Jax is a known convict. He’s bad news. Everyone in this town knows that. And I do not want my daughter hanging around with someone like that. I need to check something. I’ll be right back.”

  I squint as he walks to the back of the house and out of sight. I hear the back door open and then shut again a minute later. His footsteps get louder as he comes back into view.

  “Thought I heard something,” he says. “Harmony, I know this comes out harsh. But it’s coming from a place of love, I promise. I don’t want you hanging out with that boy. Here’s your phone.”

  I grind my teeth, wanting to give my dad a big piece of my mind. But it’s late, and my thoughts are too scrambled to have this argument.

  “I’m tired,” I admit. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “Of course, sweetie.” He kisses me on the forehead. “Good night.”

  The next morning, I wake up surprisingly early for having gone to bed so late.

  I hug my pillow and wish it could be Jax next to me.

  God almighty, that was a hot make-out session we had last night. Jax is so damn handsome—no, he’s definitely a step up from handsome. He’s just plain hot. As I stir awake, an idea for a song hits me, and I race to my desk to scribble it down.

  Three Year Girl, I write.

  My heart pounds as I write the words. They pour out of me like a stream.

  When I’m done, I’m a little drained. I haven’t felt like this writing music in forever. It’s been, since . . . well, since “Tomorrow Never Comes.”

  An eerie calmness settles over me, though I feel a rush of excitement as I reread the words I wrote. I’ll have to get my guitar and come up with a melody.

  Just then, I glance at my phone, remembering I need to text Jax first thing in the morning.

  Liquid heat fills me just thinking about him. Taking a picture of my journal to send him, I scroll through the names in my phone. I get to J, and there’s my friend Jackie, followed by Jessica.

  Squinting, I look closer. What the heck?

  Did I not save his number? No, I definitely did. I remember staring at it as I walked into the house last night.

  My jaw drops and despair fills me as the realization hits.

  Last night, Dad took my phone out back to “check something.”

  He didn’t check anything at all. Instead, he deleted Jax’s phone number.

  I force deep breaths in and out as my rage spirals upward.

  Guilt surges through me as I think about what Jax will feel when he doesn’t get a text from me. Not that it’s the end of the world, but I’m the kind
of girl who texts when she says she will. Especially with a guy like him. I rake a hand through my hair. If he’s telling the truth—and why wouldn’t he?—I’m the first girl he’s been with in years. The first woman he’s trusted to even come close to touching him.

  My breaths get shallow as I throw on shorts and a T-shirt and try to think of what to do next.

  9

  Jax

  “The hell has you all smiling today?” Angel barks the instant he walks into Le Ral’s.

  My gaze drifts up from the carrots I’m cutting to prep for the Saturday dinner crowd.

  The corners of my lips turn down, the smile falling off.

  “Don’t you worry your sweet little heart about that, Angel.”

  It’s been two days since I last saw Harmony. But just the thought of her gets me going.

  He walks up to me, grinning. “Oh, jefe, I always worry about you,” he says, putting his hand on my back.

  Le Ral’s is my second job. My day job, so to speak. Most days, I log a few hours here as a prep cook in the afternoons. Then I head to the pizzeria for the night shift. It’s a lot of work, but when I got out I vowed I would keep busy every day so I wouldn’t think too much. It’s always the thinking that gives me problems.

  “So you gonna stand there like an idiot or are you gonna unshell those avocados for tonight?”

  Angel fakes like he’s mad. “All right, all right, jefe. You still haven’t told me why you’re smiling, though.”

  I shrug and continue to chop up the carrots. “Just thought of a funny joke is all.”

  Angel comes back from the walk-in fridge with a box of avocados.

  “So what’s the joke?”

  “What kind of music are balloons afraid of?”

  “What kind?”

  “Pop music.”

  He represses a smile at the corniness of the joke. “That’s it? That’s not very funny.”

  I smirk. “Guess we just have different senses of humor.”

  We shoot the shit for the next hour while we prep the food for the line cooks. I’ve come to truly enjoy our chats—which usually run the gamut from women to sports to food.