by Max Henry
He looks up, his eyes wide at first, and then his lips spread into a slow smile. “Found you.”
“I believe I found you,” I correct, snatching up a sugar pack to ease my nerves. “How long have you been sitting here?”
He swipes the screen of his phone, which sits on the table, and hums. “About three hours.”
“Must be a good café.” I look indoors at the cabinets filled with savories and cakes.
“Good for why I picked it.” He spins the phone on the table, the corners knocking the glass ashtray beside it every so often.
“And why did you pick it?” My throat tightens, my heart beating with an aching intensity. The sugar pack weaves through my fingers at breakneck speed.
“Exactly this.” He chuckles quietly to himself, smiling down at the phone as he brings it to a stop under his palm. “I wanted to see you again, and well, here you are.”
I drop the sugar, staring wide-eyed at him. He’s been here for hours, waiting, watching, and hoping to see me again. What if I’d still run the same route as I used to? How long would he have waited before he gave up? “It’s been close to a week since I saw you at the store,” I point out. Not that anyone’s counting.
“I know.”
“And you’ve been here since—”
“Couple of days after,” he interrupts.
Wow. “How long did you plan to keep coming back?”
“Until either I saw you walk into the store again”—he motions to the corner shop we’d met at down the end of the street—“or until they put a restraining order out on me for bein’ a public nuisance.” His lips curl up at the corners, his eyes bright with his humor.
King’s been here, days on end, just to chance seeing me. I can’t even comprehend it. He’d do that . . . because of me? “I thought you were from Lincoln?”
“I am.”
And he rode six hours to do it. “How’s your arm?” I reach out to take his left hand, turning it over so his arm does, too. A reddened line with small black stitches shows. “It was bad. You lied.”
“Nothin’ a bit of needlework didn’t fix.” He prods the scarring, making me wince as I withdraw my hand, rubbing away the tingling sensation left in the wake of our touch.
“So . . .” I fuss with the sugar pack, stuffing it back in the numbered holder that’s in the center of the table. “What should we talk about?”
He picks up the half-drunk cup of coffee and swirls the contents. “I guess you could tell me how your week’s been?”
I smile and drop my head. “You don’t want to know.”
“Yeah, I do.”
I look up, expecting a teasing smile, but instead I find genuine interest. He sits with his arms braced either side of his coffee while he waits on an answer. “My papa,” I explain. “He’s not well. I live with him and look after him.”
“I thought you were staying with friends?”
Damn it. “That’s not exactly what I said . . .”
“Still . . .”
“I guess I just didn’t want to have to talk to you about him at the time. I don’t know.” I run a hand over my hair in frustration and finish by pulling my ponytail through a semi-closed fist. “Our relationship isn’t the best; I resent being there most of the time.”
I avoid his gaze and stare down at the table instead. He’s bound to make all sorts of assumptions about how heartless I must be to say such a thing. I’ve just admitted I’d rather be anywhere than taking care of Papa—well, almost anywhere.
“What’s wrong with him?” King takes a sip of the coffee and then runs his tongue along his top lip to catch the droplets in his moustache. He doesn’t care about what I said.
I breathe a little easier. “Cancer.” He eyes my hand as I spin the sugar holder around to read the special that’s advertised on the back.
King studies me for a moment, his fingers twitching on the tabletop. “You don’t seem very affected by any of it.” He snatches up his pack of cigarettes and lifts his eyebrows as if to ask if I mind.
I shake my head. “He’s not a nice man. He doesn’t deserve to have anyone care that he’s dying.” I look around the café at the other patrons while a strange silence falls between us. “Anyway. I’d rather not talk about him. Tell me how your week was.”
“Busy.” He lights the cigarette between his lips and then swirls the coffee again, studying it as it coats the walls of his mug. “Can’t really tell you much more than that.”
“Tell me about yourself then,” I say, eager to know as much as I can.
He smirks, squinting down at the cup as the liquid settles to the bottom. “What would you like to know first?”
“Why did you join a motorcycle club?”
He grins, cigarette poised between his lips. “Straight for the hard-hitters, huh?” Normally I’d balk at the habit, but on him, it seems almost natural that he would smoke.
“Straight to the one I’m most curious about,” I reply.
King downs the last of his drink and pushes the mug to the side of the table. “I joined because I felt like I belonged.”
“Simple.”
“It’s the truth of it.”
“You like it?”
He holds my gaze again and smiles. “I’m wearin’ the colors, ain’t I?”
I grin, ducking my head. Touché. He’s so easy to talk to—so relaxed. Such a contrast from how my days are normally spent.
“How long you been in America?” he asks as a waitress comes to collect his cup.
“Almost four years.”
He holds a hand up to the girl to indicate she should wait. “You like anythin’?”
“No, I’m fine.” I look up to the girl and smile. “Thank you.”
She returns to the kitchen with the dirty dish, leaving King to pick up where he left off. “You came here for your father?”
“Yes and no. He didn’t tell me he was sick at the time.” I catch King’s eye and give him a sad smile. “I probably wouldn’t have come if I’d known, and I think he knew that.”
“No?” His eyebrows peak. “Why did you come then, if you say you don’t get along?”
“He said he’d help me go to a good college.” I fidget with the earbuds hanging at my front. “I don’t think that’ll happen now, though.”
“What would you have studied?”
“Hadn’t decided yet. What would you have done if not the club?”
He traps my hand under his, pulling it away from my chest and placing it on the table. The connection scorches. “Probably what I did before the club.”
“Which was?” My throat tightens. Did he feel that too?
“Carpenter’s apprentice. I had a year to go before I was certified in the trade.” He stubs his smoke out in the ashtray.
“You gave your job up to join the club?”
King shakes his head. “I could have kept doing it; a lot of the members work normal jobs.” He sighs and shrugs. “I just wasn’t feelin’ it any more—thought my time would be better invested in club business.”
We carry on swapping basics on ourselves, ending an afternoon where we started out as strangers as friends. I want that more than anything with him—friendship—but I want to know we have the chance to take things further, too. Each time he reveals something about himself, the more my assumptions about him are validated.
He’s kind, giving, and seems to always think of others before himself. He tells me about his family, about the tragedy that tore it apart when he was young, but of the strength of his parents and how he looks up to them.
He’s more than leather, skulls, and tattoos.
He’s fascinating.
I order a milkshake and sip on it while King recounts some of his favorite classic movies. His features light up when he describes a particular scene, his hands moving in grand gestures with the soft chink of the metal on his cuffs as he does. I try to suck the last of the milkshake through my straw, but every time I do it makes a horrible gurgle.
; After half a dozen attempts, King’s lost where he was at in his story and looks at me while he chuckles. “You okay there?”
I finish the drink with one loud pull and smile. “I’m sorry. I was trying so hard not to interrupt you. You looked so passionate about . . .” I’ve forgotten the name of the movie, after all that.
“Platoon.”
“Right.” We both laugh.
“I’m enjoying this,” King says. “I haven’t sat down and just talked with anyone in ages.”
“It has been nice,” I agree. Too nice. “But . . . I better get going.” The sun isn’t as bright as it was when I sat down, slowly slipping behind the houses across the river. “Papa will need his dinner made soon.”
“How about I see you again next Friday?” King asks. “If you’re keen, that is.”
“I’m keen.”
“What’s your number?” He reaches for his phone, sliding it before him. “I could message you when—”
“I don’t have a phone.”
He stares. “What?”
“I don’t have a phone,” I repeat. “Too expensive for how often I use it.”
“Really?” He leans back in his seat and throws an elbow over the back.
“Really.”
“What about Facebook? Instagram?”
I shake my head.
“Twitter?” He lifts an eyebrow.
“Nope.”
“Are you serious?” King leans forward again, both elbows resting on the table. “Do you not have anybody who you keep in touch with? Any friends in Cuba you want to keep track of?”
“Not really. I call Mama once a week or so, but that’s it.”
“How?” he asks. “I mean, if you don’t have a phone.”
I point over my shoulder at the corner store. “They sell international phone cards. I buy one when I can afford it and walk down to the public phone at the library.”
King gawks. Clearly I’m some freak of nature in today’s tech-addicted world. Everything I’ve said is the truth though; there isn’t anybody I want to keep in touch with other than Mama.
“How do I contact you then, about next week?”
“You don’t. We just meet again at the same time.”
“And if you can’t make it?” His gaze narrows on me.
He has a point. Lincoln’s a long ride for him just to discover I don’t show. “Give me your number. I can call you from the payphone.”
He looks around and pats down his pockets. “Hold up.” King pushes out of his seat and dashes inside the café. He returns a short time later with one of their loyalty cards, and passes it over. “My number.”
“I’ll ring you the night before if I know I can’t make it.” I smile as he holds out his hand to help me up.
“Done deal.” He gives me a tug that sends me crashing into his hard body. Cheeky.
I place my hands on his shoulders to brace myself and try to back away when his hands on my hips hold me firmly in place.
“You’re a pretty woman, Elena.” He reaches up to sweep my bangs out of my face. “Real pretty.”
My cheeks are on fire. It’s going to happen, I can feel it. “You’re not so hard on the eyes yourself.”
He devours me with his gaze and leans a little closer. “Take it you wouldn’t mind if I kissed you then?”
I shake my head as a smile plays on my lips. “Not at all.”
He slips a hand to the side of my neck and guides my head as he leans in to close the space between us. His lips play mine, teasing and testing how far I’ll let him take this. I open my mouth to him, angling my head a little to let him in deeper as his free hand roams the curve of my back.
I’m cocooned in him, safe and secure in his hold. His taste is bitter from the coffee, but the gentle sweep of his tongue across mine, the soft caress of his lips over mine before he widens his mouth again to take me harder . . . it’s everything I didn’t realize I was missing. I can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing while he’s so close.
King grumbles as I pull back. I’d lost myself in our moment and hadn’t given a single thought to the fact any one of these people around us may be on Carlos’s pay roll. “Can I meet up with you again?” I can’t bring myself to let him go yet, even though I know that would be the wise thing to do.
“You name the place, babe, I’ll be there.”
“Here then.” Our place. Somewhere that holds only the memory of King, myself, and a relationship that holds no hope of ever being more than friends—no matter how perfect that kiss was.
King leans down to pull my bottom lip between his, letting it go to dot a small kiss on the point of my nose. “You better go.”
More than he knows. Everything about this is wrong, but I’m selfish, too weak to call a spade a spade and walk away. I’m too smitten with King’s attention.
“I’ll see you again next week.” I step away with my hand lingering on his chest. “Friday.”
He throws a tip on the table, and gives me a pat on the ass to send me on my way. “Get goin’, baby, before I decide to come after you for more.”
SEVEN
King
five weeks later
Elena and I meet the following Friday, and the one after, and then two more, simply because neither of us can get enough. And we talk. She’s careful not to let on much about her family, but aside from that, I learn every intricate detail about her: stories about her childhood friends, that she’d love to have a dog one day, right down to her preference of Coke over Pepsi.
And every time, she leaves me with a scorching fucking kiss. But they’re more than just kisses—they’re a taste of what’s to come.
Callum’s the only brother who knows I’m heading out to see a woman, but I’ve got him convinced I’ve managed to shack up with someone local. A lie I can live with. I get to keep Elena for myself without the pressure from the others to bring her in to ‘meet’ the guys, and without the ridicule that would surely follow when they found out how tame our meet-ups have been. But I like them like that. I like how easy she is to talk to, how she makes me laugh with her innocent questions about what life in an MC is like. I wish I could ask her more about where she comes from, about what it was like growing up in another country, but every time I try to steer the conversation in that direction she freezes up. Enough subtle questions over time and hopefully I’ll figure out why—what it is that she doesn’t want to tell me. Until then, I’m relatively content with what I get.
Her.
I get her.
The clouds cover the sun while I wait on Elena to show up for our sixth get-together. But who’s counting, right? I light another smoke and take a pull on the stick as I think over what Twig told me last night. Our contacts intercepted another planned ambush during the week. A few of our lifers rode over to check out the drop-off point for the run an hour before our guys were due to arrive—our demolition crew, we call them. Came back with word of Blood Eagles waiting two miles down the road at a shopping center, lined up in the car park, nearly out of view.
Fair to say, they pulled out of that exact run and reorganized the drop-off point with ten minutes to spare—close enough that whoever the rat was wouldn’t have time to relocate the Eagles.
Twig tells me that the suspects are narrowed down to four members, but he won’t elaborate any further. I guess there’s every chance they think I’m one of them.
My coffee’s half gone, and like clockwork, Elena jogs up those steps in her short fucking shorts and tight tank. She keeps a good body, but I honestly think I wouldn’t give a fuck if she didn’t. I like her for more than physical attraction. I like her mostly because when I’m with her it’s so easy to forget about the shit going down at the club. She makes it effortless to get lost in a daydream world where we’re just two lonely souls, looking for love. Makes the slap back to reality when I leave each time that much harder, too.
“Hey!” Elena’s eager greeting breaks me from my thoughts.
I stand and take h
er in my arms, holding her to me, despite the fact she’s tacky with sweat—I couldn’t care less. She’s beautiful, funny, and smart, and once a week I get to hold her and kiss her like nothing else matters. I’ll take her however I can get her.
She meets my lips with a surprised hum. Until now we’ve only kissed when she’s left, but after this last week’s shit with the Blood Eagles, I’m in the mood for more of her special brand of distraction than usual today.
“That was unexpected,” she says, pressing her fingertips to her lips as she takes a seat.
“Nice though.”
She smiles and fidgets with a sugar pack—a habit I’ve noticed over all our Fridays together. “Yeah, it was nice.” Her rich cocoa eyes find mine. “Tell me about your week then. What’s new?”
I wish I could share these things with her; it’d certainly alleviate the fucking burden. “Can’t, baby. Sorry.”
“What now then?” She cocks an eyebrow at me.
You can do it. “You tell me.” I gesture to her running shorts and fitted tank. “You had enough for one day?” I tried to do this last week, but choked. Just run with it.
“Ugh.” Elena pulls the sticky material from her stomach. “Yes. Definitely had enough.”
“Want to join me for a shower then?” My heart seizes, waiting on her reaction.
Her eyes go wide. “What?”
“Asked if you wanted to share a shower with me. Been ridin’ for hours before I was sittin’ here.” It’s hardly the best pick-up line, but it’s got to be streaks ahead of ‘Want to go back to a motel and fuck?’ I was aiming for funny, hoping she’d laugh . . . and then agree.
Not working so well, though.
“Are you staying somewhere?” she asks.
I normally ride home after our catch-ups, getting in around midnight. “Thought it might be a nice change. Any recommendations?”
She giggles and hides her face in her arms.
“What?” Her chuckle is contagious; I’m about to laugh, even though I have no idea what about. Certainly beats the sick feeling I had in my throat a minute ago.
“I can’t believe I sat down and you asked me to get naked with you.”
I smirk. “So? Worked, didn’t it?” She peers out from under her lashes when I duck my head to meet her eyes. “Didn’t it?”