I had no idea what he was thinking.
I tried to act like I didn't care.
"Was he kidding?" he asked, finally.
I had been so entranced with figuring out how I felt about his appearance that, for a second, I forgot what he was referring to.
"Who, my brother? Oh, no."
"No, he wasn't kidding? Or no, you're not better than him at throwing darts."
"No, I'm definitely better," I said.
"How?" Wes asked, looking genuinely perplexed. "Your brother's amazing. I'm pretty good myself, and I can't beat him, no matter how hard I try."
"If you can't beat my brother, you definitely won't stand a chance against me," I said with a slightly regretful but completely serious expression on my face.
This made Wes laugh. "You have got to be joking," he said.
"I'm really not," I said, looking somewhat regretful but still deadpan.
"What? Were you both raised in a bar throwing darts or something?"
"Yes to the darts, no to the bar," I said.
"You were seriously raised throwing darts?" he asked, looking confused like he couldn't believe Luke had never shared this bit of information with him.
"Sort of," I said. "My dad got really into it a long time ago—a couple of years before we moved here. My mom's actually really good at it, too. She tends to get into whatever my dad's doing."
"I thought your dad was a History professor."
"He is," I said. "Art History. He's a Renaissance man, though. He's constantly into something new. He got into studying sideshows, which led him to knife throwing and darts."
"Knife throwing?" Wes asked, looking at me as if this conversation could not possibly get any weirder.
I laughed at his expression. "Yes," I said. "He's not really into it anymore, though. He moved on to other things. He only did it for a few years, but he was really good."
"What do you mean when you say he did it? I'm picturing him going on tour with this big show where he made your mom lean up against the wall, and he threw knives at her. Is that what happened?"
I laughed. "He didn't get that into it. Just targets. Wood targets."
"That's crazy," Wes said. "So, you have knife throwing targets at your house?"
I nodded. "He doesn't use them that much anymore, but yeah. He has targets at his house… a dartboard, too. Just like this one."
"What's he into now?" Wes asked.
"He's making this complicated contraption to try to replicate a painting. He watched that documentary called Tim's Vermeer, and now he's trying to build that contraption and do it himself—a smaller version, but still, he's been working on it a while. He makes my mom pose for him."
"I have no idea what you just said," Wes said.
"There's a famous painter named Vermeer," I explained. "He did the girl with a Pearl Earring."
"I know that painting," Wes said, nodding. "It's the one with a girl who's wearing the blue thing on her head, right?"
"Yeah," I said. "There's a documentary about a guy—some genius inventor guy. He had this theory that Vermeer used a device to help him accomplish those beautiful artworks, so in the movie, he creates this gadget and tries to recreate one of Vermeer's paintings even though he has no artistic capabilities. It's really interesting. The whole thing is about how he creates this tool to help paint like a master. His name's Tim, hence the name 'Tim's Vermeer'."
"And now that's your dad's new thing?" Wes asked.
I nodded.
"From knife throwing to painting?"
"I told you, he's Renaissance man. He got into carving pumpkins in between those two things. He teaches full-time and still manages to have all these crazy hobbies on the side. I think he only sleeps like five hours a night trying to fit everything in."
"What does your mom think about it?"
"She loves it. She does it right along with him."
Wes stared at me for a second as if thinking about what he wanted to ask next. "I guess you sort of do it right along with him, too, if you know how to throw darts."
I smiled and shrugged. "I guess I do. It's kind of hard not to. Our dad's an obsessive type, so if we want to hang out with him at all, we have to do whatever he's doing."
"Show me," Wes said with a challenging grin.
I smiled. "Show you what?"
"Your skills. Your dart skills. JoJo the dart thrower."
It sounded funny hearing him call me that. My brother and father were the only ones who ever called me Jo or JoJo. Everyone else in my life called me Jolene—my friends, co-workers, even my mother. I almost corrected him, but I didn't have the heart. I walked over to my brother's dartboard and took three darts off of the nearby shelf, setting my purse down in the process.
I went to the line and took one deep breath.
I mumbled, "Twenty. Outer ring."
I threw the dart, and it whizzed through the air before landing in the exact location I predicted.
Without hesitation, I whispered, "Twenty. Middle ring."
I threw the second dart, and it, too, found its home in the precise location I intended.
"Inner bull," I said, still whispering barely loud enough for him to hear.
I sent the dart flying through the air, hoping and praying with all my heart that I would land it. I was really good at darts and had practiced relentlessly for hours and hours of my life, but I have to admit that landing all three of these shots without warming up would be a feat, even for me. Some divine intervention would have to be involved.
To my own amazement, the third and final dart found its home in the very center of the dartboard, just like I intended.
Wes held his fist over his mouth and let out a long, howling sound, crossing the space between us and the dartboard so he could get a closer look.
"Did you seriously just call those three shots? I thought I heard you call them. Did you say what you were going to do before you did it?"
"Of course I did," I said. "How else would you know I was any good?"
"Did you even call what ring you were gonna get 'em in?" he asked, looking truly amazed as he came to stand right next to me.
I smiled and nodded. "But there was probably a little luck involved," I admitted. "I thought the last two were off, actually."
"Can you do it again?" he asked. "Just one more… if I call a place on the board, can you get it to go there?"
"I can try," I said.
He stepped forward, taking the darts off of the board before coming to stand near me. "Can you get one in the twelve?" he asked.
"In a ring or just anywhere?"
"Try for a ring," he said.
He handed me one of the darts. I thought he was going to hand all of them to me, but he just handed me one of them like he was going to stand there beside me and be my dart dispenser. I smiled at him for doing that. I liked him. For someone who had such a dark and mysterious appearance, Wes had a general aura of sweet tenderness. Plus, he smelled good—not like cologne but more like something natural—maybe sandalwood or frankincense.
Smelling him made me feel a little more aware of his presence, which in turn made me slightly more nervous than I had been for my previous throws. I stared at the board, concentrating on the number twelve and taking a deep breath before letting the dart fly through the air. It landed in the twelve section, but it just missed the center ring. The dart was literally touching the wire, but it missed the ring nonetheless.
"I cannot believe you did it!" Wes said.
"Thank you, but it seems like a miss to me since I was aiming for the ring."
"Yeah, but look how close you are, and you're in the twelve!"
I smiled. "Thank you," I said. I wanted to tell him I was disappointed in myself for missing, but I knew that would just come across as bragging since I had gotten so close.
"He talked you into playing after all?" my brother asked, coming back into the room looking like a new man.
"We didn't play," Wes said. "She was just showing me h
er skills."
Luke glanced at the board and then at me with a slightly perplexed expression. He probably expected to see a dart in the inner bull (or bull's-eye), and he was confused as to how a twelve in the single score area necessarily showed any skills. I didn't explain. I just walked over toward the shelf to retrieve my purse, and Wes followed me so that he could put up the two remaining darts.
"She said your dad taught you guys how to throw darts," Wes said.
"He did," Luke agreed, coming to stand closer to us. He had done a good job of freshening up in the bathroom. He had on nice jeans and a button-down shirt. He had obviously washed off as well because his hair was damp and his hands and arms were clean. I smiled at my handsome brother, wondering how he had managed such a transformation in only a few minutes.
"She said he knows how to throw knives, too." Wes added, sounding impressed.
"He's almost as good as Jolene." Luke said.
"Who's Jolene?"
"My sister," Luke said, pointing at me and wearing a puzzled expression like maybe he missed something.
"Wait, you throw knives?" Wes asked, looking straight at me.
I nodded. "Some."
"Stop," Luke said, shaking his head at me. "She's amazing. She's way better than my dad ever was. She's got a YouTube channel with like half-a-million subscribers."
"I wouldn't be better than Dad if he was still into it," I said. "It's just that he quit practicing. You quit practicing, too," I added, gesturing toward my brother.
"I never was into it like her," Luke explained, glancing at Wes. "I can make it stick in the target, but that's about it. Jo's got actual skills. She does this Russian, sidearm, no-spin technique."
"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait," Wes said, shaking his head and looking increasingly confused. He set the darts on the shelf and then regarded me with his eyebrows furrowed. "You told me your dad was the one who threw knives. You didn't tell me you did it."
"You didn't ask," I said. "We were talking about my dad."
Wes stared at me for several seconds as if taking everything in and deciding what he wanted to say next.
"Can you do all that trickery where you narrowly miss a helpless assistant?"
"Why, do you want to volunteer?" I asked, laughing a little.
"She probably could," Luke said.
"No. I'm not interested in all that sideshow stuff. I just throw at targets. It's just for fun. Pretty much the only reason I still practice so much is to keep up with my YouTube channel. I post about once a week and share a new technique or a new knife or something like that."
"Is that what you do for a job?" he asked.
I laughed again. "No. I work at Sterling and Sons doing graphic design."
Wes paused again and studied me, tilting his head like was still baffled. "A real Renaissance woman," he said, finally.
"She gets it from my dad," Luke said. "They're always into something."
"Speaking of Dad…" I said, as I glanced at Luke.
"Yeah, I guess we need to go," he said.
"What's your YouTube channel?" Wes asked. "Now I'm curious. Now I really want to see you throw a knife."
I happened to carry a knife on me. It was a simple, six-inch fixed blade that I kept in a slim sheath at my side. It was completely concealed under my clothing, but I had easy access to it. I never intended to use it, but as a single woman who lived in my own flat in the city, I felt safer carrying it on me.
I looked around, trying to find a suitable target. Seeing as how we were in a garage, that was an easy task. There happened to be a piece of plywood leaning against the wall. I had no idea what they used for, but it was dirty with greasy fingerprints and black tire tracks on it, so I knew nobody would notice or care if I threw at it.
With my right hand, I reached under my shirt and retrieved the knife before winding up to release in my favorite sidearm technique. I smoothly and gently tossed the knife toward the plywood, which was roughly fifteen feet away. I knew this because I frequently practiced at distances of five, ten, and fifteen feet.
Both Luke and Wes saw my movement, and watched my release. I aimed for a tire track in the middle of the board, which was about six inches wide and ten inches tall. No-spin knife throwing wasn't like throwing a dart—there was still a little rotation since the blade was being tossed with an overhand or sidearm technique. From the time the knife left my hand, it did about a quarter rotation in the air and hit right in the center of the spot.
Wes let out a long, amazed awwwww, sound. It sounded like his hand was over his mouth, but I didn't see his reaction because right after it landed, I walked over to the board to retrieve my knife.
I wasn't doing it to show off. I honestly threw it to distract Wes from asking for my YouTube channel name. I didn't mind having a lot of fans on YouTube, but for whatever reason I preferred that they were people I had never met—maybe it was because I felt more pressure to make amazing videos if I personally knew the people who were watching them.
Either way, I threw the knife in an effort to make Wes forget about asking for the name of my channel, and it worked. He was amazed, and he asked me to let him see and hold the knife, which I did.
We had a brief conversation about me carrying it and the fact that doing so made me feel safe since I lived and worked alone in the city. I was slightly rattled for having done such a thing. Even I hadn't expected myself to pull out my knife and throw it.
I excused myself, saying I needed to use the restroom before we left so that I could stash it in my sheath and gather my wits. Before I knew it, we said our goodbyes—Wes riding away on his motorcycle, and Luke and me heading to eat dinner with our parents.
Chapter 3
"He's a nice guy, huh?" Luke asked from the passenger's seat of my car.
My brother still lived at home with our parents, and he had plans to ride home with them after dinner, so he left his motorcycle at work and rode with me.
"Yeah," I said, answering his question about Wes. "He's got a roguish appearance, but he's really nice. I didn't expect him to be so impressed with my throwing."
"Roguish?"
"Mischievous, sneaky, bad boy."
"He's gotta look like that," Luke said. "It's part of his whole image."
"Why does he have to have an image?" I asked.
"I don't guess he has to, but I'm sure it helps. He's a musician. He plays guitar and sings in a band."
It all came back to me when he said that.
A few months before, a friend of mine from work had a birthday gathering at a local pub and that's where I had seen that guy before. He was indeed the lead singer of a band. I remembered it clearly now. I was glad I didn't know that bit of information before I threw the darts because I probably would have failed.
"I thought you were serious about him being related to the Bishop Motorcycle people," I said.
"He is," Luke said.
I took my eyes off of the road just long enough to shoot my brother a questioning glance. My brother knew everything there was to know about Bishop motorcycles, so he definitely had the scoop. He took a deep breath as if deciding where to begin.
"His grandpa started the whole business. Michael Bishop. His son, Jesse, runs it with him—that's Wes's dad. They live over in Memphis. That's where the company started. That's their headquarters."
I knew they were an American company, but I didn't know much else about it. This was all news to me.
"They're ka-gillionaires," Luke continued. "They've got dealerships all over the U.S. and now most of the world."
"Why'd you say he's the poor one?" I asked. "Did they disown him for being a musician or something?"
That question caused Luke to laugh. "Of course not. They would love to know he's a musician. His grandma, Ivy, was a really popular blues artist back in the day. That's Michael's wife."
"Why did they disown him, then?" I asked.
"They didn't disown him. He loves his family. He goes back there to visit them and everything.
"
"You just said they would love to know he's a musician," I said feeling really confused.
"I know. It's really weird, but he doesn't tell them he plays music. He's been in London for like six or seven years, but he only started playing and singing a couple of years ago. He's kind of secretive about it. He's secretive about being a Bishop, too."
"How do you know all this? "I asked. "Because his bike breaks down all the time, and every time he brings it in, he just sits there and talks to me while I fix it. We're basically best friends by now."
"Does he have to pay to have it fixed?"
Luke scoffed. "No. He's a Bishop. He could just walk in and order a brand new custom bike if he wanted. He basically owns the place, like I told you."
"I don't get it. Why does he drive a bike that always breaks down?"
"Mostly for some girl," Luke said.
I paused momentarily, thinking about that statement. "You do realize what you just said makes no sense at all, right?"
Luke laughed. "I do realize that," he said. "Wes is different, though. He marches to the beat of his own drum. He came over to London for college, but also just because he wanted to live here. He finished his degree, but he doesn't really care about it. He said he really didn't know what he wanted to do until he found music. He lives in a tiny little flat and drives that old motorcycle. He's got a car, too, but it's nothing special—a beat-up VW. Basically, he lives as if he gets no help at all from his parents or grandparents, which is totally false. Amos said he could have a ton of money in his bank account with one phone call. I guess he has access to as much money as he wants, but you would never know it. He likes it that way. He has fun just being a normal guy. His girlfriend knows his name is Wes Bishop, but she has no idea he's part of the Bishop Motorcycle family."
Come Friday Page 2