BAKER

by Scott Hildreth

  “You? Superstitious?”

  “A little.”

  I was more than a little superstitious, but didn’t want to be criticized for it. She dipped her bread in the stew, took a bite, and then cocked her head to the side. “What superstition keeps a guy from going on a date?”

  “Shark teeth.”

  She scrunched her face. “Sharks teeth? Like shark’s teeth, a newt’s brain, and the eye of a toad? Voodoo?”

  I choked on the cheese dumpling. Hearing her say voodoo was too much. After a few drinks of water, I regained my composure. “The story is kind of gross, are you sure you want to hear it?”

  She plucked a shrimp from her stew and held it over her plate. “I love gross stories.”

  “My first actual date was with a girl I met at a record store. She was really pretty, but had really jacked up teeth. They went in every direction, like a shark’s teeth. I thought she was cool, so I asked her out.”

  It was close to the truth. She was pretty, and had a disastrous set of teeth. Her incredible body, however, was what drew me to her.

  “We went to a movie. About twenty minutes in, she offered to…” I gestured toward my lap. “You know.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Blow me.”

  “In the movie?” she whispered.

  I nodded. “Mean Girls.”

  “You took her to see Mean Girls?”

  “I thought she’d enjoy it.”

  She twirled her hand in a circle. “Continue.”

  I didn’t think it would be appreciated if I told Andy all the details, so I condensed the story significantly, only hitting the highlights. “Let’s just say thirty seconds later that I had to make a trip to the bathroom to try and stop the bleeding. But, I couldn’t. I ended up in the emergency room.”

  “Holy crap.” She stretched her lips thin, exposing her perfectly white teeth. After clacking them together a few times, she grinned. “From the teeth?”

  “All three thousand of them.”

  She draped her hair behind her ears and then gave me a funny look. “I guess I’m confused as to where the superstitious part comes in.”

  “Maybe a little more than a little superstitious.”

  “I’m intrigued,” she said with a smile. “Tell me more.”

  “I decided if that date went so poorly that I had to go to the emergency room, that dates weren’t meant for me, and that they were cursed. So. I haven’t been on one since.”

  She stirred her soup with her spoon slowly, seemingly less interested in eating. After a moment, she looked up. “Interesting.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve never sent anyone to the hospital” she said flatly. “I try to use my lips and tongue, not my teeth.”

  “Not that.” I let out a laugh. “Dating. How can you be single?”

  She set her spoon on her plate, brushed her hands over the tops of her tits, and stood. “Look at me. A good long look. Then, ask yourself if you really need to ask that question.”

  She was wearing a dress that complimented her figure completely. Her hair was down, but not completely straight. It was wavy, like she’d worn it several times in the past. Her high cheeks and narrow nose were easily overlooked, making her full lips a point of concentration for anyone who met her. When combined with her eyes, it was enough to make any man stop and stare.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “But thank you.”

  I admired her as she sat down and began to pick the shrimp from her soup. After dunking what was left of her bread into the coconut milk broth, she lifted it to her mouth and then paused. “Here’s the rest of the story.”

  “What story?”

  She poked the piece of bread into her mouth. After swallowing, she continued. “Nobody’s perfect. You know that, right?”

  “All too well.”

  “Well. I’m not even close.” She grabbed another bread ball, poked the entire thing into her mouth, and continued as she chewed. “I think I had self-esteem issues when I was young. So, I let anybody who wanted to bone have at it. I was the girl in school that was commonly referred to as a slut. It started after my parents were gone. I never blamed what happened between them for my deficiencies, but it played a part in me being who I was.”

  “How old were you when they split up,” I asked.

  “Thirteen.”

  “There’s a reason hotels don’t have a thirteenth floor.”

  “They don’t?”

  “Nope. It’s bad luck.”

  “I’ll agree with you on that one.” She bit into one of the fried cheese balls and rolled her eyes in pleasure. “So, anyway. I was a little tramp. Then, we moved to Syracuse when I was in eleventh grade. When we did, I decided to change. No more sex unless I was in a relationship. I met a guy. We got serious. Everything was perfect. At least it seemed like it.”

  “What happened?”

  “Everything.” She tossed the remaining piece of food onto her plate. “He lied to me. About everything. I thought he had a job, but he didn’t. He was a drug dealer. I thought he was faithful. But he wasn’t. He stuck his dick in half the city’s women. I thought he wasn’t abusive, but when I confronted him about lying, he beat me. Not a little bit, either. He tied me up and left me in our apartment.”

  I felt sick, for more reasons than one. I wasn’t a mirror image of her former ass hat boyfriend, but I was close. I was a criminal and I wasn’t completely truthful.

  I’d never beat a woman, and I’d beat any man who did, but that didn’t excuse me from my other faults.

  “I’d say I’m sorry, but it’s not near enough,” I said.

  “He said he’d kill me if I left him, but I came out here to go to school anyway. Holly came too.” She laughed and pushed her plate to the side. “Her and her husband. He fucked some skank at Hooters and they split up right when I was graduating college. I guess when you get right down to it, I’ve got a hard time trusting men.”

  The last thing on earth I wanted to do was cause her harm. I couldn’t see any way to keep from it, though.

  “I’m sorry you went through all that,” I said. “I really am.”

  It was all I could think of, but it wasn’t enough, and I realized it. Knowing that she’d been through everything that she described – and somehow managed to graduate college and carry on with life – spoke volumes of her character, strength, and worth as a human being. I admired her from a whole different perspective because of it.

  “It’s just life. I’m a big girl.” She picked up her butter knife and wagged it at me. “I can say this: there’ll never be another man that treats me like that. Not unless he wants his dick cut off.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “You’ll need a bigger knife than that.”

  She laughed out loud. “That’s no shit. I’d need a chainsaw for that tree trunk of yours.”

  I finished my bread and nodded toward her plate. “Are you done?”

  “I’m stuffed.”

  “Too full for dessert?”

  “Right now? Yeah.”

  Goose had prepared pave, a Brazilian layered cake. It wasn’t what I needed, and I doubted it would cure how she was feeling. There was only one thing I knew she wanted for sure, and it wasn’t something I’d ever been interested in providing anyone with in the past.

  In fact, until that night, I viewed it as off-limits.

  I pushed myself away from the table. I’d been dying to see her in a pair of jeans anyway.

  “Do you have some jeans you can change into?”

  “In my purse?”

  “No. At home.”

  “I mean. Yeah. Why?”

  “Because,” I said. “We’re going for a motorcycle ride.”

  “Seriously?” Her eyes shot wide and she leapt from her seat. “I thought it only held one person?”

  “I’ve got another one downstairs that’s supposed to hold two.” I said. “I’ve just never tried it.”

  “
You’ve never given a girl a ride?”

  “Nope.”

  “Superstitious belief?”

  “No. I’ve never met anyone worthy,” I said. “Until now.”

  THIRTY-ONE - Andy

  The weather in San Diego allowed people to enjoy riding motorcycles twelve months of the year. Proof of their popularity was apparent on the highways, which were peppered with them every day of the week. The truth surrounding their fascination remained a mystery to me.

  Until I got on one.

  A motorcycle wasn’t a means of transportation. It was an experience. Being on it gathered all of what had gone wrong in my life and cast it into the wind as it rushed past us. Baker made a huge mistake by giving me a ride. Getting me off it wasn’t going to be as easy as asking.

  He was going to have to get a court order.

  There were no walls. The world was my window. The road ahead an open door. For once in my life, I was truly free.

  We spent most of the night riding to nowhere. Had we been in a car, it would have seemed mindless. On the motorcycle, I viewed it as one of life’s true blessings. Biker gangs who wore matching vests and rode in large groups along Southern California’s highways were no longer something I feared. Their fellowship made perfect sense to me now. In one sense, at least, I felt I had become one of them.

  A person addicted to the freedom of riding.

  Just past midnight, we pulled into the alley behind Baker’s building. As we approached the ramp that led to the parking garage, the door opened automatically. Once inside the concrete enclosure, I closed my eyes and allowed the sound the echoing exhaust to massage its way into my soul.

  We came to a stop amidst a massive collection of motorcycles and cars. Baker secured the motorcycle, hung his helmet on the handlebars, and turned around.

  He patted the fluff from his beard with the palms of his hands. “So, you liked it?”

  I nodded eagerly as I fumbled with the helmet, unsure how to get it off. Baker grinned, reached for it, and unstrapped it.

  “It’s not as easy as it looks,” he said.

  “Show me.”

  He lifted the nylon strap, poked it through the two metal rings, and threaded it back under one of the rings. “Just like that.”

  “Okay. Next time, I’ll know.” I lifted my gaze to meet his. “There’ll be a next time, right?”

  “If you want to.”

  “I want to.”

  He got off, and then reached for my hand. “Addictive, isn’t it?”

  I stepped over the seat and stumbled when I tried to stand. I steadied myself against his chest. “I don’t even know…if I said what I’m thinking, you’d probably think I was crazy.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  I looked at the motorcycle. It’s black and yellow paint was polished to perfection. Sleek and powerful looking, its appearance alone was an invitation to get a speeding ticket. I shifted my eyes to Baker. “It’s all I want out of life right now.”

  He coughed a laugh. “To go for a ride?”

  “Uh huh.”

  He folded his arms over his chest and gave me a look. “Why?”

  My response was gibberish, but it came easy. “Nothing matters out there. There is nothing else. It just. It’s cleansing. I feel like I had an orgasm, got a manicure, pedicure, massage, and had a hot bath all at the same time. And, the wind. The wind washes all of life’s bullshit away.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders. “That’s a pretty solid answer.”

  “So. We can do it again?’

  “We will.”

  I was giddy with excitement. “Tomorrow?” I blurted.

  He turned and draped his arm over my shoulder. “You want to go tomorrow?”

  I liked how he put his arm around me. It was sneaky, but cute. Two weeks prior, it would have seemed out of place. On that night, it seemed perfect. I nestled up to his side as we walked to the elevator.

  “I want to go every day.”

  “Every day might be tough, but we can go as often as it makes sense.”

  I rested my cheek against his shoulder. “Okay.”

  We walked to the elevator in silence. The smell of oil, gasoline, leather and his familiar cologne merged into one sweet-smelling scent. I matched his walking pace, and allowed it to filter into my nostrils, and my memory.

  It was something I never wanted to forget.

  With his arm still holding me at his side, we got on the elevator. As the doors closed, he turned to face me. His eyes smiled.

  And then, he kissed me.

  His arms wrapped around me, pulling me so close I could feel his heart beating against my chest. It wasn’t a powerful kiss in an aggressive sense. It was soft, meaningful, and extremely pleasing.

  The passing of time paused, allowing the kiss to seem to last forever. I felt my heart being tugged closer to his as our tongues danced to a song that he and I seemed to somehow both be listening to. At some point, the elevator came to a stop.

  As the doors opened, our lips parted.

  I studied his face. He was feeling what I felt. The proof was sprinkled throughout his steel-blue eyes.

  He brushed my hair away from my face and looked at me intently. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but those same eyes answered me before I could speak.

  There was nothing wrong.

  Everything, on that night, was right.

  THIRTY-TWO - Baker

  Goose finished washing the dishes, inspected each of them for imperfections, and put them in their respective places in the cabinets. After the kitchen was as tidy enough for him to accept it, he poured a cup of coffee and sat down.

  “I don’t know how you can drink that shit black,” I said. “You’re going to have ulcers before you’re forty.”

  “Coffee doesn’t produce ulcers.” He took a sip. “It’s therapeutic.”

  I lifted my cup of cream and sugar laced java. “If it’s doctored up.”

  “Adding cream and sugar to coffee is like adding cinnamon to a chili recipe. It ruins it.”

  “Who the fuck puts cinnamon in chili?”

  He gave me a cross look over the top of his raised cup. “People like you.”

  “On another subject. Dinner was a huge success.”

  “She like the coxinhas?”

  “The fried chicken balls?”

  “Legs,” he said. “They were supposed to look like legs.”

  “They looked like fried teardrops.”

  He stood, finished his coffee and then poured another cup. On his way back to his seat, he shrugged one shoulder. “It was the best I could do on short notice.”

  Goose was addicted to caffeine the way a heroin addict was addicted to smack. He needed it all waking hours of the night and day. He was the only member of the MC that would alternate drinks of beer and coffee at the same time.

  “Seemed to like ‘em,” I said. ‘She ate half a dozen of them.”

  “They’re a bitch to make. Good little fucker’s though.”

  “I appreciate it.” I tilted my cup toward him. “It went better than I expected.”

  He took a drink of coffee and then chuckled. “I know you didn’t go to a movie.”

  The shark-toothed blowjob story had made its rounds enough times that everyone knew my position on going to the movies. The men were also well aware of most of my superstitious beliefs. Most of them.

  “No. We went for a ride.”

  “What’d you take?”

  “The bumble bee.”

  “The old GSX-R, huh? Wouldn’t have guessed that.”

  The motorcycle we’d taken was a Suzuki hyperbike. Capable of going from zero to sixty in two seconds, it quickly became a favorite of mine when I wanted to put a smile on my face. As it seated two people fairly comfortably, it was an easy choice for the night’s ride.

  “It was easy,” I said. “Kept me from shuffling a bunch of shit around.”

  “If you’re keeping the girl, you need to get a bagger.”

&n
bsp; My belief had always been that riding wasn’t a team sport. Having a bagger was an invitation for someone to hop on back. In the past, the thought of it made me cringe.

  “Hate to spend the money,” I said.

  “Depends on how comfortable you want her to be.”

  “I really don’t think she gives a shit. She went on and on about how much she loved it. I could have put a p-pad on the fender of the hardtail and she would have been thrilled.”

  “First ride?”

  “Yep.”

  “Always a cool feeling to bust a chick’s cherry.” He pushed his coffee cup to the side and rested his forearms on the edge of the table. “How do you think the fellas are going to take it if this chick ends up being your ol’ lady?”

  Hearing him say it caused me to tense. Not from my thoughts regarding the club’s reaction, but from my own resistance to accept that I’d ever be in a conventional relationship.

  I shook my head. “She won’t.”

  He widened his eyes a little. “You’re one hundred percent certain this is nothing but a fling?”

  I wasn’t. But the thought of it being otherwise troubled me. I looked away. “I don’t know.”

  “You know. You just won’t say.”

  I looked at him. “Since fucking when are you a mind reader?”

  He locked eyes with me and then smirked. “You might be able to manipulate most motherfuckers by giving them your crazy-eyed looks and talking slick. I’m not one of ‘em, Bake. I know you, remember? The rest of the fellas will probably say something like, shit, Baker won’t ever have an ol’ lady, I know him too well. I call bullshit. I hate the thought of being tied down. I can’t stand the smell of diapers. Don’t care much for having to answer to anyone but me, either. Mary’s dirty-fisted kids marching around my house putting fingerprints on the walls made my butthole pucker. But you know what? When I fell in love with that gal, it had nothing to do with what I thought I wanted out of life. It just fucking happened. And, it all started with a piece of pussy that knocked me on my ass.”

  “I’m not going to bullshit you. I’m enjoying her company. But. But. But.” I looked him in the eyes. “I’m not planning on falling in love.”

  He shook his head and grinned. “A man never plans to.”