Alone on Earth

by Susan Fanetti

  When they both could relax, Riley rested her head in the crook of Bart’s shoulder. He combed his fingers through her hair and whispered, “I love you.”

  She felt good. She felt whole. She felt real.

  ~oOo~

  They showered before they left her room. Trevor was waiting for them in the kitchen, wearing Marta’s yellow striped apron over his Day-Glo clothes. While they were taking their time getting out of bed and getting dressed, he was making them lunch. He’d laid out two full plates on the island, complete with prettily folded napkins and Pellegrino in crystal wine glasses.

  Riley rolled her eyes at him when she saw the spread. “What’s this?”

  “A romantic luncheon, of course. I thought the two of you would need some nourishment—and you’re gonna want to air out your room today, cupcake.” He winked dramatically. “Just sayin’.”

  He stepped in front of Bart. “And you’re the biker, hmmm? Well, you’re lovely. Truly. But”—standing akimbo, his eyebrow raised critically, he examined Bart, who was dressed in his t-shirt and jeans—“you’re overdeveloping your lats, honey. Symmetry’s off just a hair. Maybe ease the weight off a little on your pull-downs. But your obliques? Mmm-mmm. Very nice.” He put his hand low on Bart’s waist, rubbing his thumb over his hip muscle. Riley thought that was a pretty awful idea. She also knew what he was up to. He’d done the same thing—or something similar, anyway—to Devon. He liked to push buttons, see if a jerk popped up. The game was potentially a lot more dangerous with a guy like Bart than it had been with Devon.

  But Bart just scowled and knocked Trevor’s hand away. “Step back, dude.”

  “Ooh, he’s kind of a caveman, isn’t he?”

  “Come on, Trev. Enough with the hazing.”

  He turned to Riley with a mischievous grin. “Just trying to take the measure of the man. Come on, you two. Have a sit, have a bite. And tell me how a biker from Missouri ended up in your California bed without me knowing first.”

  They sat, and as she ate, Riley explained only that Bart had moved. While Trevor prodded for more information, asking questions that she mainly deflected, Bart pushed the food around on his plate. He was scowling at his plate the way he’d scowled at Trevor, and finally Riley turned to him and said, “You okay?”

  “What is this?”

  Trevor answered. “Grilled vegetables in a lemon pesto glaze on brown rice capellini.”

  Bart laughed. “Yeah. I don’t eat that.”

  “Don’t tell me—beef and potatoes, right? Maybe some corn, right off the stalk? Honey, that stuff will kill you. The Trevor can get you sorted right out, though. You hang around here long enough, and we’ll have you symmetrical and eating healthy.”

  “You’re an asshole, dude.”

  “Bart, chill.” Riley was annoyed with both men—Trevor for insisting on being a shit disturber, and Bart for not even trying. Of course, they’d gotten off on the wrong foot, what with Trevor walking in on them sleeping naked together and all.

  But Trevor hated being called ‘asshole’ more than most other insults, and now he cocked his head, an enigmatic and not at all sincere smile on his face. “Definitely caveman.” He pulled the apron off and laid it on the counter. “Well, I’ll leave you both to enjoy your day of debauchery. I’ll see you Monday, cupcake. Bright and early! Ciao!” He swayed off with his head held high; Riley let him go. She knew he wanted her to stop him so he could finish his scene, but she wasn’t in the mood.

  When the front door closed and they were again alone in the house, Bart said, “I hate that guy.”

  She sighed and took her empty plate and his full one and put them in the sink. “He was poking at you on purpose, trying to get you to be a jerk.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because he loves me and doesn’t want me to get blindsided. Which I still always do anyway.”

  “So all that flouncing…and touching was an act?”

  “No, his dramatic streak is a mile wide. He’s very in touch with his inner queen. But the attention he paid to you was designed to goad you. A test of your tolerance, if that makes sense?”

  “I failed, right?” He stood and walked over to her.

  Riley shrugged. “You didn’t slug him, which I thought was probable.”

  He laughed. “It was close. His hand was—not where it should have been.”

  “Well, he’s not going to be that handsy all the time. I’m surprised he was so shocked to see you in my bed. He must have seen your bike.”

  “I parked on the street.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t want anybody getting curious about a big Harley in your driveway, in case there were cameras around.”

  She was ridiculously moved by that, the concern for her it showed. “That’s so sweet. But park in the driveway from now on, okay?” She leaned back on the counter and Bart put his hands on either side of her hips, then came down to kiss her.

  When he pulled away, she asked, “Can we spend the day?”

  “I’m sorry, babe. I have to go back. I’m doing a shift in the garage today. And I have to be around the clubhouse a lot until I’m established there. But I can come back tonight, if you don’t mind me coming in late, maybe after midnight.”

  She was disappointed, and she was also scared. She had a fear that the night they’d just spent would break apart and fade into unreality, like a dream, when he left. She knew it was irrational, but it was a fear nonetheless. But she couldn’t very well lock him up and throw away the key. Then a new thought occurred to her. She tested it out, decided it was risky, then decided the risk was worth it.

  “Hold on a sec.” She pushed his hand away and went to the office. She rooted around in the credenza until she found the red box she knew Pru kept tucked away. When she came back into the kitchen, Bart was leaning against the counter, his arms crossed.

  “What’s up, princess?”

  She held her hand out. “Just let yourself in when you can get here. The alarm code is 1103.”

  He took the key and then took her hand, pulling her close and wrapping her up in his strong arms.

  ~oOo~

  Riley woke the next morning cocooned in Bart’s arms and legs. He had come to her late, long after she’d gone to sleep. She’d roused as he slid naked into bed with her, but he’d simply turned her away from him and pulled her against his chest, all without a word. They’d slept wound together like that the rest of the night. Riley couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so deeply.

  She ran her fingers over the braided leather bands around his wrist. They were so sexy to her; she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just the way they drew attention to his hand and arm—the sculpted muscle of his forearm with its intricate ink, the solidity of his wrist, the rough grace of his hand. She tipped her head forward and pressed her lips to join of his thumb and wrist. He stirred a little, his hold on her tightening briefly, then groaned quietly and was still again. She stilled, too. She didn’t want him to wake; she wanted to enjoy this moment of peaceful shelter.

  She didn’t know what time it was, and she didn’t want to disturb him by reaching for her phone, but the morning light was still soft, so she assumed it was fairly early yet. It didn’t matter, anyway. As far as she was concerned, the day was theirs, and they should be undisturbed. Marta was away, Trevor wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, Eleanor was still pouting.

  And Pru’s Friday night date had turned into a weekend in bed. Good for her—she’d not been much of a dater before, but their trip to Signal Bend had incited change in Pru, too. Her fling with Omen had apparently been just that—a fling, over as soon as Pru left the town limit behind. But she’d gained a confidence and self-assertion that was new. Pru had spent the formative years of her life in Eleanor’s care and therefore in Riley’s shadow, and she’d built up the habit of that situation, devoting herself to Riley, just as Riley had built up the habit of letting her. But since they’d returned from Signal Bend, they were both present in their own liv
es in new ways. It was giving Eleanor apoplexy.

  When she met Bart, she might actually stroke out. Riley smiled at the thought, but then, as she began to play the scene out in her head, the smiled faded, and her brows drew in. Eleanor displeased had two settings: icily civil and outrageously rude. She chose the setting according to the value of the target. Bart, Riley knew, would be subjected to outrageous rudeness. Eleanor would see him as miles beneath her. She wanted to avoid that as long as she could, so she lay there, snug in the warmth of his body around her, and tried to plan a way to keep them apart.

  It didn’t take long for her to realize how stupid and childish such a plan would be. Eleanor was her mother, and also her manager. Bart was her—what? Boyfriend? Lover?—Bart was her biker. If things worked out the way she hoped, then keeping them apart was impossible.

  So, then, put them together and let them figure it out.

  Bart stirred again, this time taking a deep breath; it tickled her shoulder when he released it. “Hey, princess. You okay?”

  She turned her head to look back at him. “Hey. Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

  He squeezed her close. “You’re tense.”

  Rolling in his embrace until she faced him, she smiled. When she felt his cock harden against her, she smiled more. His hand slipped over her hip to clutch her ass, and she flexed her hips, making them both groan. He tucked his head and kissed her neck, and her eyes rolled back. “Wait. There’s something I want to say.”

  He pulled back and looked at her, concern creasing his forehead. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. It’s just…” She felt ridiculous, about to say what she was about to say. “I want you to meet my mother.” The urge to bury her face nearly overwhelmed her, but she forbore.

  He leaned back, his eyes narrowing. “Eleanor?”

  “Wait—what? You know her?” That would be beyond weird.

  “No—well, yeah, I guess. I talked to her when you were in Signal Bend.”

  “What? Why?”

  “When the Devon story broke. I was helping keep a lid on your location, remember? I talked to a lot of people out here. Your mom was one of them. I don’t think she liked me.”

  There was so much of Riley’s life that happened without her ever knowing. It was crazy. It was humiliating. But she shook that off. “She probably didn’t. But if you’re really with me, then I want her to know that you are. I want her to know that we’re together, and she’s just gonna have to deal. If she can’t, then fuck her.”

  His grin slanted roguishly. “I like you feisty. And I’m with you, babe. All the way. So when?”

  “Today? Can you stay around today?” Might as well get to it.

  “Unless I get a call, I’m yours today, so yeah. Let’s offend your mother. In the meantime”—he rolled, putting her on her back, and then slid tantalizingly down her body until his face hovered between her legs—“I’m gonna taste your pretty pussy until you stop thinking about your mother. Maybe stop thinking at all.”

  When his tongue moved against her clit, her mind went blank.

  ~oOo~

  After the call ended, Riley stared at the phone in her hands. She felt her nerve shrinking away.

  “What’s up?” Bart was sitting next to her on the terrace.

  “She wants to meet for lunch at Farfalla.”

  “Is that bad?”

  Riley looked out over the city and thought about that. Farfalla was one of the new hot restaurants, a place where industry people went to see and be seen. It was a supremely Eleanor choice, especially considering the prickly place their relationship was in right now. With a perverse desire to spring Bart on her, Riley had called and told her mother only that she wanted to talk. Eleanor had picked the place, and Riley knew exactly why she’d picked a place where they were guaranteed to be seen and photographed. She thought Riley was calling to beg for forgiveness and admit defeat, and she wanted to make her squirm in public. It spoke to how pissed she was, actually.

  But Riley was bringing Bart to lunch. Or she’d been planning to. If they met Eleanor at Farfalla, that meant a guaranteed outing. A guaranteed cover of at least one tabloid. Riley Chase, bereaved and betrayed love of Devon Gaines, rebounding with outlaw biker. The vultures would get fat off that feast.

  The question was, did she care? She’d told Bart that she did not, that she was done thinking like the brand and wanted to be a real person with a real life. Well, here’s where that got put to the test.

  And what did it mean for Bart? Publicity, or the fear of it, seemed to be what got the Horde in trouble in the first place, and what made Bart have to become a Scorpion and move out here. Not that she could feel very sorry about that.

  “Farfalla is a super hot restaurant. There’s always a ton of famous people there, which means that there are always two tons of cameras around. We will be photographed, we will be blogged about, and we will make the cover of at least one of the rags. No question.”

  He pulled her close and picked up a lock of her hair. Now that she’d dyed it dark to play Lilli, he touched it often, more often than before. “I thought you didn’t care about all that now.”

  With a stiffening of her spine, she made a decision. “I don’t. But what about you? It’s going to be a lot of publicity. Isn’t that bad for your club? Isn’t that why the Scorpions were so pissed at the Horde?”

  “Things seem different in L.A. I mean, I just got here, but the vibe is different. Three of the guys work in movies and TV, doing technical advising. One of them does stunt riding for movies, too. A bunch of famous people come into the bike shop for custom work. The charity work the club does is high profile stuff, with celebrities involved. And they’re in talks for a reality show about the club. I don’t know how the fuck that’s gonna work, but it’s my job to find a way to make it work and keep the other shit off the radar. But Sam transferred P.B. into L.A. about the same time I came in, and for all I can tell, he did it because P.B. is good looking—the initials stand for Pretty Boy—so I guess Sam’s on board with Hollywood.”

  “But why’d he come down on the Horde, then?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that a lot. I think it’s because the movie is about shit that really happened, and the Scorps were involved in it but not in control of it. It’s a helluva lot harder to control old secrets than it is to keep a lid on new ones. If that makes sense.”

  Riley thought about the careful, vigilant way she’d lived her daily life, never letting cracks develop, much less show, and then the way news of Devon’s baby had blindsided her—not to mention the turmoil of her life after his sudden death. “Yeah. It totally makes sense.”

  “Anyway, I don’t think the publicity is a problem for me. And it could be a shelter for you. With your fame, a public link to the club keeps you safer from club shit. If something happened to you, the negative attention would be intense.” He grinned. “So let’s go get scandalous, babe.”

  “Will you wear your kutte?”

  “Depends. If I ride, I wear it. Won’t wear it in a cage, though.”

  “Then let’s ride.”

  ~oOo~

  When Bart pulled up down the block a little from the valet stand, a young, handsome man in standard valet wear—almost certainly an actor; Riley had the idea that every valet in the Greater Los Angeles area was an actor—trotted down the block toward them.

  “I can park that for you, sir.” His expression and tone were barely civil; Bart was clearly not someone to whom he felt he owed obeisance.

  Bart laughed. “No, dude. Nobody rides my ride but me. It’s good here.”

  “Actually, it’s n—” Riley had taken off her helmet, and the valet recognized her. “Oh! Miss Chase! Of course, the bike is fine where it is. May I check your helmets?”

  Bart took a step toward him, his expression dark. “They’re good here, too.”

  Actor-with-a-day-job took a quick step back. “Of course. Enjoy your lunch.”

  He scampered off, and Bart turned back
to Riley with a smirk. “Okay, that was fun.”

  “Dork. Let’s go. Eleanor hates to be kept waiting.”

  Bart took her hand. As they walked to the restaurant, cameras clicked all around them.

  Farfalla was, as expected, blinding with star light. At virtually every table was an A-list actor, or a producer, a director, a studio exec. In fact, most of the tables were full of such luminaries.

  Eleanor had a good table but not the best one. She was sitting primly, a glass of white wine in front of her. They weren’t late enough that she’d lost the studied aspect of privileged contentment that she affected most of the time. She hadn’t seen them yet, and Riley had a moment to wonder how her mother looked to Bart.

  She was a beautiful woman. Tall and slim, with long, silky hair that had naturally aged to gorgeous streaks ranging from slate grey to brilliant white. To her credit, she had never colored it. She’d never had cosmetic surgery, either, or even, to Riley’s knowledge, Botox, and karma had repaid her with an utter lack of need for any of it.

  Riley had gotten her good looks, including her fair coloring and greyish green eyes, from her mother. Her height, or lack thereof, and her constant fight against her natural curves, she’d inherited from her father, who’d been heavyset and several inches shorter than Eleanor. But several zeroes richer.

  “That’s your mom?” Riley nodded. “Damn, she’s hot.”

  They had been walking toward her. Now, Riley stopped and yanked on Bart’s hand. “Dude.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, sorry. That was kinda gross.”