LOVER COME BACK_An Unbelievable But True Love Story

by Scott Hildreth

  Chapter Forty-Three

  My motorcycle was normally parked beside my Craigslist SUV, which sat in my assigned parking stall in the underground parking garage. In the other assigned stall, Jessica’s vehicle was parked.

  On a Sunday evening, I moved the SUV into the parking lot to make room for me to work on the motorcycle. Parked beneath the basement lights, I adjusted the carburetor, set the tire pressures, and checked every nut and bolt for tightness.

  The MC’s poker run was fast approaching. Jessica was excited to participate. I was equally excited for her to attend. Our turnout for the event normally exceeded a thousand bikes. Expressing the feeling associated with hearing the rumble from a thousand motorcycles was impossible.

  Witnessing it was breathtaking. Participating in it was a life changing experience.

  When the mechanical work was done, I waxed the painted surfaces to a high gloss. After polishing the chrome to a mirror-like appearance, I admired my work.

  Satisfied the bike was ready, I went upstairs and ate dinner. The next morning, Jessica took the children to daycare. An hour later, while I was drafting my upcoming novel, Finding Parker, she returned.

  She handed me a cup of coffee. “Where’s your car?”

  “It’s in the parking lot,”

  “I saw it out there last night,” she said. “But it wasn’t there this morning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s not there.”

  The SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, would be an easy vehicle to steal. All General Motors products were. A screwdriver was all that was required to drive one of them away.

  I knew all too well what the risks were in having a GM vehicle that was desirable to thieves. In my twenties, I had a highly-modified Oldsmobile Cutlass. After spending thousands of dollars getting it painted, installing a high-horsepower engine, and reupholstering the interior, it was stolen.

  The theft left me feeling vulnerable. It reminded me that despite my honesty, not all men are honest. My intimidating personality, the permanent scowl I wore, and the sleeve of tattoos did nothing to deter a thief that had no idea who he was stealing from.

  A month later the vehicle was recovered in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Having it returned did nothing to diminish the feeling of helplessness I suffered in having it taken.

  Upon getting the car home, I promptly sold it.

  Then, immediately following my release from prison, I traded a motorcycle for a Chevy Suburban. The extensively modified four-wheel-drive resembled a monster truck. Fitted with a lift kit and forty-four-inch tires, the vehicle wasn’t something I wanted, but it was more valuable than the motorcycle by thousands of dollars.

  The trade would allow me to sell the Suburban for three thousand more than the motorcycle, coming out much further ahead than if I’d simply sold the motorcycle outright.

  The massive truck was far too large to fit beneath the garage door opening of the underground garage, so I parked it in front of the loft, in the busy street beside the bar.

  The next morning when I went to work, the vehicle was gone.

  I rushed to the remote farmhouse of the three-hundred-pound thief who traded it to me. Certain that he had traded the vehicle, kept a spare key, and later returned to take it back, I pounded on his door filled with a plan to administer vengeance.

  He answered the door wearing nothing but boxer shorts. As he wiped the sleep from his eyes, I began my verbal assault.

  “You motherfucker,” I howled, my right hand resting on the knife that was clipped to my right pocket. “Did you really think you could steal that truck without me coming here to get it? Where the fuck did you put it?”

  The look on his face hinted that he had no idea what I was talking about. The ten-minute-long conversation that followed confirmed it.

  He hadn’t taken the vehicle.

  I apologized and left feeling foolish and, once again, vulnerable.

  It was found in Wal-Mart’s parking lot a year and a half later.

  Now facing what would be my third vehicle theft, I looked at Jessica and shook my head. “I’m sure you just missed it.”

  “Missed it?”

  “You drove past and didn’t see it.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Scott.”

  I didn’t think she was an idiot. I simply thought she was blind. I went downstairs. Upon entering the parking lot, my mouth fell open.

  Someone had stolen my vehicle.

  Again.

  In talking to the maintenance men, I learned the vehicle was parked out of the field of view for the security cameras.

  I returned to the loft feeling the same vulnerability I’d felt the previous two times. Having one’s vehicle stolen leaves the victim much more than carless. The cowardly act left me feeling, at least on that occasion, weak.

  “Well?” Jess asked.

  “Someone stole it.”

  “How?” she asked. “The parking lot is gated. You need a clicker to get past the gate.”

  “They make remotes that will break the code to the gate.”

  “Who does?”

  “Companies that cater to thieves.”

  “That’s dumb.”

  It was dumb, but it was true. Frustrated, I sat at my stool and called the insurance company. Then, I called the police.

  “What are you going to do for a vehicle?” she asked.

  “What’s your dream vehicle?” I asked.

  “One of those four-door Jeeps? Why?”

  “Get on the internet and find the one you want,” I said. “That’s what we’ll do to replace it.”

  “Really?” she shrieked.

  “Really.”

  Two weeks later, I flew to Phoenix, Arizona and picked up the exact vehicle she wanted. When I returned home, her appreciation was expressed in the form of tears.

  To me, it was nothing more than a vehicle with a removable top. To Jess, the Jeep was a way of life.

  It was her motorcycle. A means of cleansing her soul of the horrors from her past.

  From that day forward, her hair was never the same.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  I refrained from telling my followers on social media about Jessica. Considering the input from a few followers who knew about my relationship with her, I decided to take their recommendation to heart.

  You can’t tell the book world you’re in a relationship, I was told. If you do, you’ll fail.

  I entered the Indie Author world about the time it was getting started. I saw C. D. Reiss, Meredith Wild, and Vi Keeland as inspirations, but there was one clear difference.

  I was a man.

  According to those few followers who were in the know, part of my success, if not all of my success, was based solely on me being a man. At the time there were very few Indie Authors, and even fewer male romance authors.

  My sole income was what I received from writing books. The thought of causing my own failure filled me with fear.

  One evening during the previous winter, a friend in the industry had told Jessica and I her beliefs.

  The women who read your books want to escape through the stories you write. Furthermore, that escape is enhanced by you being a male author. You can be in a relationship, but you can never announce it to your followers. Shoving that in their face would lead to complete failure.

  I believed her. Jessica did not. Based solely on my fear of failure, I put my foot down, assuming the person who had spoken with us based the knowledge on nothing but statistical fact. So, for the eleven months that Jessica and I were in a physical relationship, I kept it a secret. I felt I needed to consider the advice of anyone who may be able to assist in my continued success. I chewed my lower lip while attending online functions and acted as though the woman I loved didn’t exist.

  Over the course of that time, Jessica’s heart was breaking. I didn’t realize just how much I was hurting her. After a few tear-filled discussions one evening, I understood to what extent my selfish decision had affected her.
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br />   When I sat back and took a long look at myself, I saw a man who was willing to lie for the betterment of his career. I’d always considered myself to be brutally honest. My actions were in clear contrast to my beliefs. As I worked on completing the manuscript of Finding Parker, I stayed off social media entirely.

  Upon completing the manuscript, Jessica offered to make the cover for the book. In addition to being a licensed cosmetologist, she’d gone to college to be a graphic designer. To date, my book covers were rudimentary at best. Jessica fashioned a cover that put my previous covers to shame.

  We decided to tell the book world of our relationship when I released the cover. I was either going to sink or swim. I had no idea which one it might be.

  I rolled the dice. I released the cover of the book on my Facebook page. In doing so, I told the world of my relationship with the woman I loved. The post was ‘liked’ by someone. And then, another. And another. Minutes later, a hundred people had liked it. Then, several hundred. The number escalated to over a thousand.

  I realized something on that evening.

  Jessica – and our relationship – were widely accepted by the book world.

  Nervous, I released Finding Parker. It was my first release in almost six months. The book was a contemporary romance novel about a college graduate who was an orphan. He developed a friendship with a wealthy and very eccentric man who acted as a father figure to him.

  Through that man, he found himself in a very unique relationship with a girl.

  The book didn’t have my trademark elements of wild sex and violence, nor was it sprinkled with expletives. It was soft and tasteful. It could be read by high school students in the classroom. It did, however, appeal to a broad audience. An audience which I hoped included my followers.

  Because of the depth of the father-son relationship in the book, I dedicated the book to my father.

  The book was an instant success.

  To me, Finding Parker was proof that I could succeed without tricks, lies, or lure. To Jessica, it was the point in time where she became part of two of the three worlds in which I lived. The only one she may have felt excluded from was the world of the motorcycle club. She had met the men, but she had yet to attend a function where she rode with them.

  She wouldn’t have to wait long to feel accepted in all three worlds.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Despite being late in the summer, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. It was fifty degrees and cloudy, with a chance for rain. Even for a seasoned rider, the day wasn’t a good one to spend eight hours on a motorcycle seat.

  After checking the weather forecast on my phone, I peered through the wall of windows and into the cloudy sky. “Probably not a good idea for you to go on this one, Baby. Sorry the weather went to shit.”

  She stepped through the bedroom door. With her hair up and a bandana tied across her forehead, she looked like an Ol’ Lady of a one-percenter.

  “I’m going,” she said. “I don’t care what the weather’s like.”

  I gestured toward the cloud-filled sky. “Look.”

  “There’s windows in the bedroom. I’ve seen it. I’m going.”

  I shrugged. “Okay.”

  We rode the forty minutes to the clubhouse. After eating breakfast and having a cup of coffee with the fellas, we waited anxiously for the event to start.

  She scanned the countless motorcycles that were neatly parked for as far as the eye could see. “Does everyone leave at once?” she asked. “This will be a mess.”

  “We’ll be up front,” I said. “Leading the group. Side by side, there will be two columns, until everyone’s out.”

  Her eyes widened. “That’s a long line of bikes.”

  “Miles and miles,” I said.

  “What about traffic?”

  I gestured toward the four Sheriff’s cars that were parked at the side of the lot. “They’ll lead us out of town. After that, we’re on our own.”

  The corners of her mouth curled into a smile. “This is so exciting.”

  Half an hour later, the cool morning air was thick with the rumble from the exhaust of that very sea of motorcycles. Most found the sound deafening.

  It sounded like comraderie to me.

  Various motorcycle clubs, nationalities, and ethnic groups converged in one place. For a day, they set differences and past arguments aside. They rode for a cause. On that year, to raise money for suicide awareness.

  The police cruisers pulled out of the parking lot. King raised his hand high in the air. “Let’s roll.”

  Side by side, we exited the parking lot. We followed the police escort for the first few miles. Then, with a wave of their respective hands, the officers freed us of our confines.

  Parked cars lined the highway, as if pulling over for a funeral precession. Children waved. Mothers cringed. Fathers dreamed.

  Within an hour, contrary to the forecast, the sky cleared. We rode for seven hours that day. Jessica never complained once. In fact, she was disappointed when the ride ended.

  Afterward, we ate the traditional barbeque. Men told stories of their experiences during the days’ events, and of past events and rallies. We attended a silent auction and waited on the announcement of who won the poker run. Although Jessica believed it would be us, we didn’t win anything except a beautiful day of riding.

  One by one, and in small groups, the motorcycles left the lot. All that was left was the men of the MC.

  “Anyone up for some moonshine?” King asked.

  “I’ll try some,” Jessica responded.

  King raised his clenched fist. “Stearman Field!”

  We rode to Stearman Field. After lining the runway with Harley-Davidsons, we sauntered inside and sat as a group. Seated at half a dozen large tables, we sat with the sun in our faces. We talked, laughed, and drank our way into the evening.

  Jess learned on that day that family isn’t always bound by blood.

  Sometimes it’s chosen.

  When the sun began to set in the western sky, I looked at Jess. “Need to get home pretty quick. Babysitter’s expecting us.”

  She finished her moonshine lemonade and wiped her mouth. After slamming the empty Mason Jar onto the table, she looked at King and grinned.

  He smiled in return. “Atta girl.”

  Jess glanced at me. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  She stood. She stumbled. She steadied herself against the table. At five-two and one hundred and thirty-five pounds, she had no business matching drinks with the fellas. But, she somehow managed to.

  “She’ll fall off the back of that bike, Scott,” Big O said with a laugh. “Let’s get some bungie straps and we can wrap them around you two.”

  “You’re not going to tie her to me,” I said. “She’ll be fine.”

  “She’s as drunk as a monkey,” he said. “She’ll fall off the back when you gas it at a light.”

  “She’s a biker’s Ol’ Lady.” I raised my index finger. “She’ll ride without aid or assistance.”

  Jess shot a playful glare to each of the men. “She sure will.”

  We made it home without incident. As I tucked Jess into bed, I couldn’t help but grin. “Did you have fun?”

  She flashed a drunken smile. “Best. Day. Ever.”

  Then, she fell asleep.

  That day, whether she realized it or not, she was widely accepted by the men in the club. She had met the presidents of other MC’s, loners, weekend riders, admirers, and even a few men who I’d had problems with in the past.

  She did so without embarrassing me, putting me at risk, or making a fool of either of us. She was accepted with open arms by all. She had also gone toe-to-toe with some of the best drinkers the Midwest had to offer.

  She was now a part of all three worlds in which I lived. I admired her as she slept. In a moment, my mouth curled into a prideful grin.

  There was only one more step I needed to take.

  The next day, we sat along the southern ext
erior wall of the coffee shop. Landon and Lily sipped their Frappuccinos. I sat beside Svetli and watched the cars pass. Hiding beneath her hat and sunglasses, Jess was seated at my side. As she recovered from the previous evening’s alcohol intake, I stole admiring glances when she wasn’t looking.

  She was undeniably beautiful. Beneath the surface of her skin, however, was the most beautiful part about her.

  Her willingness to accept me wholly and without reservation. Her wit. Her willingness to place the children first, and herself second. She was ambitious, had a great work ethic, and loved her job. She was nurturing. Genuine. Kind. Honest. Compassionate. She was also predictable, which brought me tremendous comfort.

  I had no idea women had the capacity to be predictable.

  I glanced at Landon. He was instructing Lily on how to remove the lid to her drink and lick the whipped cream from the inside.

  I looked at Jess. Nursing a hangover, she was gazing at the passing traffic through her mirrored Aviators.

  “Got a question for you, Baby,” I said.

  She turned her head to the side. “I hope it’s an easy one.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  She pulled the glasses down the bridge of her nose and looked over the tops of the lenses. “I’m ready.”

  “Do you want to get married?”

  She swallowed hard, and then choked on her response. “I mean yeah. I want to someday.”

  “Let me rephrase that.” I cleared my throat. “I want to marry you. Will you marry me?”

  She removed her glasses. “You’re asking me to marry you? Right now?”

  I smiled. “I am.”

  “Yes,” she blurted. “Absolutely. I will.”

  I clenched my fist. “Let’s make it official.”

  She glanced at my hand and met my gaze. “Seriously? On the day you propose to me?”

  Stone-faced, I held her gaze.

  She made a fist. As she pressed her knuckles to mine, she smiled. “I don’t know why I’d expect anything else from you.”

  On that afternoon, with the assurance of a fist bump as her only proof, we became engaged.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  We sat side by side on my parent’s loveseat. Although I made a constant attempt to erase the smile that was plastered on my face, I came far from succeeding. Jess also wore an ear-to-ear grin, making denying of our excitement impossible.