Virgin

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "Where is Abby's?" I asked, looking both ways down the street.

  "Closer to my end of town. By the compound," he clarified, moving to toss a leg over the seat of his bike, reaching behind him for the helmet. "Come on," he offered, holding the helmet out toward me.

  "You don't wear a helmet?"

  "Not in town."

  "That's stupid," I told him, taking the helmet.

  "Yeah, probably," he agreed, not at all offended. "You gonna put it on?" he asked when I didn't move to do so, thinking - for the first time in years - about my hair. But, in the end, the throbbing in my feet said there was no way I was getting to the other end of town without a ride. And this one was free. "That'a girl," he told me with a nod as I slammed it down on my head and secured the buckle. "Ever been on a bike?"

  "No."

  "Climb on. Close ranks. And hold on."

  Close ranks. He wasn't joking. From the looks of things, I would be plastered to his body. And to prevent myself from flying off the back, I'd have to wrap my arms around that solid body of his - a thought that made my chest feel tight, made an odd, aching sensation move across my belly.

  Pretending to ignore that, I attempted to throw a leg over, forgetting my teetering heels and my, well, shortness, that made me wobble and almost miss, my hand slamming down on his shoulder for stability.

  "So, I'm assuming dance wasn't your childhood extracurricular activity, huh?" he asked, a low rumble of amusement in his voice.

  "No one would ever call me graceful," I admitted, shaking my head at myself as I finally got my leg over and settled in, the seat forcing me to slide forward until my thighs gripped the outer sides of his, the juncture between pressed intimately against his body.

  "Gotta hold on," he reminded me, but before I could do so, his hands reached back, grabbing my wrists, pulling them around his sides, securing them across his stomach. A rock freaking hard stomach, I might add.

  When I drew in my next breath, it was shaky for reasons I couldn't even pretend I didn't understand. But then the next second, the engine roared to life, the bike peeled away from the streets, and my stomach just seemed to drop straight out of my body. And then dragged along the street for the short five-minute drive to the other end of town.

  "You can relax now," Virgin told me, voice amused, making me realize how tightly I was still clinging to him even though we were stopped by the curb.

  "Mhm. After my stomach climbs back up into my abdominal cavity, that is exactly what I am going to do." But even as I was saying the words, my arms were untangling themselves from where they had curled around his midsection, holding on for dear life, the grip so tight it must have made taking a proper breath difficult work at best.

  "Not a fan, huh?" He asked, waiting for me to climb off before doing so himself. "I practically grew up on one. Forgot that not everyone has the stomach for it."

  "It's not that. It's like a rollercoaster. Freaky when it is happening. And you swear you will never put yourself through it again. Until your feet are back on solid ground. Your belly settles. Then you are running back to get on line again."

  "Spent a lot of time in amusement parks?" he asked, seeming a mix of amused, curious, and almost... sad? But sad seemed wrong. For such a big, scary biker guy.

  "My brothers and I learned that the best way to survive summers was to avoid our aunt. So we got passes to Six Flags when we were teens and drove down in the morning, came back before she got home from work." It was the most adventurous thing I had ever done. No one would believe that since I had a record that said quite differently. But sneaking out and lying to my aunt was as daring as I had ever been.

  "Not a great family, huh?" he asked, tone seeming to hold familiarity, intimacy. Like he knew that feeling all too well.

  "Well, my brothers are everything," I admitted, feeling like that was too much, over the top. But it was true nonetheless. They were everything. "And my niece is a sweetheart too. But growing up, we had some rough times."

  "I grew up in a heroin-dealing MC. I know about rough times too."

  "Your mother was okay with you being around that?" I asked, figuring if he was willing to talk about it without prompting, that it wasn't being nosy to do so.

  "My mother dropped me off there and never came back for me," he admitted.

  "How old were you?"

  "Four?" he half told, half asked.

  "And you grew up with bikers? Just bikers?"

  "It was an interesting childhood," he admitted, reaching up to rub a hand across the scruff on his face, holding back a smile.

  From what I heard about MCs, I imagine he grew up with next to no rules and a revolving door of half - or fully - naked women around.

  Yeah, I bet that would have been interesting for a growing boy.

  "So, you gonna nut-up and go in there?" he asked, jerking his chin behind me, making me aware of what we were doing. Not getting to know each other. Not exposing shared wounds or little childhood rebellions. No. He was driving me to apply for a job.

  Half-turning, I saw a small storefront wedged between two much larger ones - a laundromat to the left, a pet store to the right.

  Abby's.

  It was in the spot that a small Chinese place had been when I had left. The all-glass front had been frosted, the only thing to see through the white being the bold lettering at eye-level saying the name of the establishment.

  My brow furrowed, wondering why - with a place that small - you would choose to close yourself in, block out the world.

  I guess, if I maybe, possibly, got the job, I could ask.

  "Go on," Virgin encouraged, not really doing anything to help the nerves.

  "Are you just going to stand there and watch me?" I asked, pulling the helmet off my hair, reaching up to hopefully fluff it into place.

  "Yep."

  "Don't you have anything else to do?"

  "Nope."

  "I can take a cab home after."

  "Nah."

  "I wasn't going to invite you up anyway," I added a little pointedly in case that was what he had in mind.

  "Okay."

  Frustrated, a low grumble escaped me. "Well, can you at least look over there?" I asked, waving an arm out toward the end of the street.

  "Like this view better."

  Alright. I was only human. I had to admit that those words sent a little swirling through my belly.

  "Go on now," he told me, jerking his chin toward the restaurant. "I might hire you for the eye candy alone, but I think Abby might want to talk to you."

  Shaking my head at him, forcing my measly breakfast to settle in my belly, I turned on my heel, cursing them in new and inventive ways in my head as I made my way to the door. Pulling, I found nothing but resistance. But I knew if I didn't do this now - with an audience - that I wouldn't be able to force myself to come back. My hand lifted, knocking a few times, hopefully loud enough to be heard over the clangs of pots and pans and the loud TV from within.

  There was some more slamming, followed by the muting of the TV. Then a female voice.

  "If you are not the cops, a coffee delivery, or a free ride to the nuthouse, I don't have time for this!" she declared just a second before yanking open the door, shocking me enough to take a step back.

  Abby was younger than I would have expected for a restauranteur. She couldn't have been much older than me with a tall, willowy - just shy of lanky, all limbs - build, an impish, delicate face with oversized, black-lined see-through blue eyes made even bluer thanks to the vivid shade of turquoise of her pixie cut hair. Her thin arms were bare, displaying a range of black and gray tattoos. A full-body apron - that at one time must have been white but was currently a mismatch of reds, yellows, browns, and greens - was folded down at her waist, mostly covering her simple straight-leg jeans.

  "Sorry," I told her. "I don't have a warrant. Or coffee. Or an electroshock therapy machine. I was just looking for a job."

  "You cook?" she asked, rubbing the back of her wrist across
a brow beaded a bit with sweat.

  "Yes."

  "Tomorrow, ten a.m. Come prove it." With that, she slammed and locked the door, making me almost unsure that I had heard her correctly.

  "Well, that was a success. How are you going to repay me?" Virgin asked from behind me, making me turn to find him watching me with a smirk toying with his lips.

  "I will offer you a cup of coffee. But that is it."

  "That'll do," he agreed with a cocky smile as he got back on his bike, making me wonder as I took the helmet he handed me to slip on my head again if he thought a cup of coffee was the 'in' he needed.

  Well, I decided as I climbed on again, he would just have to live with disappointment.

  Mumbling off the address, I folded my arms around him again, feeling my stomach fly out, but bungee right back in, anchored by the sense of satisfaction building inside.

  I had a job interview.

  Granted, she didn't know about my record. She didn't even know my name. But with her level of frazzle, I figured that so long as I lived up to her cooking expectations, she might be able to overlook all that in favor of being able to get a little time away from her restaurant.

  I would knock her socks off with some recipes I learned growing up. Then I would carefully mention my criminal record once she had dreams of sleeping in on her mind.

  And I would wear flats.

  "You gonna make it up the stairs, or you need a boost?" Virgin asked, that bemused smile toying with his lips as my hand went white-knuckled on the banister for the steps - ten in all - up to the front door.

  "I don't have a ton of pride, but what I do have would not allow me - a grown ass woman - to be boosted up the stairs," I informed him, taking a deep breath which I told myself - even though I knew it was a bold-faced lie - that the breathing would cut the pain.

  I could have sworn I heard snickering as I cursed my way up the last three stairs, reaching for my key as I did so.

  "The fuck you wear them for if they hurt your feet?"

  "That's such a guy thing to say," I told him, shaking my head. "They're new. I didn't know they would hurt my feet until I wore them for a day."

  "They're icepicks attached to your heel and you didn't think they might not feel so great?" he shot back, brow raised.

  I bit back a comment about how it had been a decade since I wore heels, so I had no idea how my feet would feel anymore. But that invited questions, ones I didn't really want to have to answer.

  "Some heels don't bother your feet, believe that or not," I informed him with some authority I didn't feel as we took the elevator up to Thad's floor.

  He towered over me as I opened the locks and moved inside, reaching down to free my feet of the torture devices, having to flex my feet up off the floor for a second before they un-stiffened enough to be able to walk on them.

  "You're bleedin'," he informed me, making my gaze shoot down to find a bloody gash across the back of my heel.

  "Seems about right," I agreed, making my way over to the coffee pot. "So this is Thad's place," I told him, waving a hand around.

  "You got another sister?" he asked, hand touching the two kimonos on the back of the couch.

  "Oh, ah, no. Thad has a kimono. And then a guest kimono. And I am, apparently, an idiot for not knowing one needs such a thing as a guest kimono."

  To that, Virgin snorted. "I don't even have a guest blanket."

  "I don't imagine you have many overnight guests."

  "Can't tell if that is an insult or ego stroke," he murmured as the smell of coffee filled the air. Three scoops was the right amount, I had found.

  "Maybe a bit of both," I admitted, reaching for the mugs, having to go up on my tiptoes to do so since I was vertically challenged and Thad was half giant.

  "Need some help?" A voice asked. Close. Really close. So close that I felt the body sidle in behind me, strong thighs brushing against my ass, arms going around my sides, trapping me in as he reached for the almost-out-of-reach mugs.

  And what was I thinking, you might ask?

  Something absolutely ridiculous.

  And cheesy.

  We can't forget cheesy.

  Because it was some freaking old school romance novel level of smarmy.

  I might not mind imprisonment if it was between his arms.

  See?

  I was embarrassed by my own internal monologue.

  In its defense, it had been a long, long time since there was even a clear and present danger about the imprisonment between a man's arms. And there had never been anything like the 'set the alarms to Def Con One' kind of threat that this stupidly good looking, obnoxiously sexy, unnaturally calm man with his front pressed against my back caused.

  Sure that if I spent even a second more thinking of my current predicament - and how him bending me over the counter would not be a wholly unwelcome progression of events - my mouth blurted out the first thing it could drag out of the fog of my mind.

  "Why do they call you Virgin?"

  His arms - and the mugs nestled like little doll vessels in his giant hands - paused in mid-air for a moment, caught off-guard, before descending to the countertop with a quiet click, his hands abandoning them - and how much they must have missed his touch - and grabbing the counter instead. Lucky counter.

  Jesus.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  Did I fall off the back of the bike back there, slam my head, and find myself experiencing that lovely end-of-life reel of fantasies flashing before my eyes, as my brain fired off and died?

  That was possibly the only explanation for my thoughts right about then.

  "They call me Virgin because I don't give a fuck," he told me, voice - and therefore mouth - down near my ear.

  Mouth.

  Mouth and lips.

  Lips and kissing.

  Right at that little spot behind said ear, that spot that shocked off a thousand fireworks when touched just right. And something in me said he would know how to do it just right.

  Okay.

  Space.

  I needed some space.

  Ducking low - well, lower - I clumsily shoved myself into the small space under his arm, spinning outward, going toward the fridge as though it was imperative that at that very second, I get the half & half out for us.

  A low, rolling chuckle let me know that he found my behavior - at worst - ridiculous, or - at best - kinda cute and amusing.

  If I were a betting person, I would always put my money on the safest bet. Meaning the most negative thing when it came to me and my luck.

  "That's funny. I mean... I doubt it was funny how you came to get that name. But it must be fun to explain that to people when they ask about it. Does everyone in your club have fun road names?"

  "Some," he told me. "They call my best friend Sugar."

  Oh, a third party.

  That was safer territory, wasn't it?

  "How'd he get that name?"

  "You should ask him yourself. He likes telling it." My head jerked up, finding him watch me as I added too much sugar to my own coffee since I was distracted by trying to resist the urge to just tell him to take me, end the dry spell like he promised back at the bar. "Come to the clubhouse tomorrow night. Celebrate your newfound employment with some booze and interesting conversation. Don't," he cut me off when he knew I was about to object, "say anything now. Think on it. Decide later. Tomorrow night. After eight. Thanks for the coffee," he told me, taking a giant swig of mine that was now loaded down with so much cream it was barely warm anymore. "Go wash out those cuts," he added, making it to the door in about two strides, and letting himself out into the hall.

  FOUR

  Freddie

  Root vegetable au gratin.

  The perfect minestrone soup.

  And baked macaroni and cheese with that crispy top layer and melt-in-your-mouth gooeyness hidden within.

  That was what it took.

  To go from a complete wreck to having to stifle a chuckle as
Abby leaned back in her chair making vaguely pornographic noises as she ate.

  "I forgot how good food tastes when you don't have to make it yourself."

  By the time I had shown up at her door, Abby's apron already looked like it had gone to war. As did the kitchen area where she had six separate to-go orders in the works all by herself, making me wonder why she hadn't reached out for help instead of waiting for it to show up at her door.

  By the looks of things, she might have simply not had the time.

  Her only employees were two delivery people - one a single dad who worked the shift while his daughter was at school, an efficient, but unfriendly man who barely spared me a glance, and a part-time college student with striking good looks and an outgoing, friendly personality, all white teeth and shining green eyes, singing some song I had never heard as he collected the bags for delivery.

  "So, what is your schedule like?"

  Aside from the light stalking I did when Thad wasn't around to see it... "Open."

  "I generally like working the night shift. It probably would creep anyone else out anyway - being here all alone. But it's the busiest time of day. I thrive on the chaos. But my shrink says I need to thrive a little less on the chaos. Meaning giving up eighteen-hour days and learning to delegate and trust people and yada fucking yada. So here I am. Offering you day shift. After a training period, of course. You can't jump into this without learning the curve. Um. I will look into benefits for you, but that might take a bit. And... what the hell else are bosses supposed to ask here?"

  "References?" I suggested.

  "I don't need anyone else telling me you can cook. I have taste buds."

  Even if she doesn't ask, you gotta tell her, boo. Thad's words came back to me, making my palms wet, having to wipe them on a rag before starting to move my dishes to the sink.