From the first day I met her, I knew she was different. I simply hoped once I got out of prison that she’d give me an opportunity to get to know her. Now that she had, I couldn’t imagine walking away.
“We’ve been through this before,” I said. “I like everything about you.”
“It’s just hard to believe.”
“Get used to it.”
“I’m trying.”
We ordered our food and sat gawking at each other like a couple of love-struck teens. After several moments of admiring her, I broke the awkward silence.
“What are your thoughts on divorce?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well. People get married because they love each other. At least that’s supposed to be the case. So, if they love one another, how can they lose that love and later get divorced? Do you believe love existed in the first place?”
“I like conversations like this.”
“Like what?”
She wrung her hands and grinned. “With depth.”
“Small talk is for shallow minds.”
“I think some people mistake lust for love.” She looked right at me. “Others, at least in my mind, get comfortable in a relationship they’re in because it’s convenient. Then, because everyone starts asking questions about it, the guy proposes. The girl says ‘yes’ because that’s what girls do. From the time we’re little we dream of that day when someone sweeps us off out feet.”
“Would you automatically say ‘yes’ if someone asked?”
She pointed her finger at her chest. “Me?” her eyebrows raised. “No. I’m planning on doing it once, and only once. No matter how deeply in love I might be, if I’m not convinced the man is just as in love with me as I am him, I’ve got no business marrying him.”
“So, you’d say ‘no’, even if you were in love?”
“If I didn’t trust that he was prepared to spend forever with me?” She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “You can bet your ass.”
I smiled.
She gave me a look. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Why are you smiling?”
Because you’ve got all the right answers.
“Because you’ve got all the right answers.”
Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-Four
Bobbi
I’d never had much genuine affection offered to me by men. Most conversations were driven by a desire to obtain a blowjob, a hand job, or a quick and easy lay. Tate’s lack of interest in anything sexual – and complete interest in me – had me convinced that he might be different than every other man I’d encountered.
As sad as the thought of him failing made me feel, I knew if he couldn’t pass my father’s test, there was no way we could proceed. Going against my father’s will wasn’t an option.
I’d reached a point that proceeding was all I could think of. Almost seven weeks had passed since the day I dropped him off at the clubhouse, and we’d seen each other at least three times a week throughout every one of those weeks.
I took another quick look at Tate and then knocked on the door. The only way to get him to come to my father’s house without his kutte was to drive my car, as he wasn’t allowed to ride his motorcycle without it.
Luckily, he’d agreed. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a black tee shirt, he didn’t look much different than any other day. I hoped the absence of his kutte, as subtle as it was, would be enough to allow my father to see him with the clearest of mindsets.
The door opened. “Come in.”
We stepped inside.
“Dad, this is Tate. Tate, this is my father, James.”
My dad extended his right hand. “James Madden, pleasure to meet you.”
“Tate. Tate Reynolds. Pleasure to meet you, Sir.”
“TD Reynolds,” My father said. “I got a kick out of that Tripper fellow in the boxing book. He was about as funny of a man as I think I’ve ever encountered.”
“Dad!”
He gave me a look. “What?”
“You read that?”
“Well, it wasn’t on audiobook, so I had to.”
“I said not to read them.”
He shook his head and smiled. “Since when do I listen to you?”
“I can’t believe you,” I huffed. “I asked you not to--”
“I needed to know who I was meeting before I met him. Have something in common to talk about.”
“You could talk about cars, or sports, or something.”
“If he’s like his characters in his books, he doesn’t like sports.”
It was something I’d read about in many of the books, but it never sank in. I looked at Tate.
“Do you?”
He pushed his hands into his pockets, grinned, and shrugged. “Not so much.”
“Don’t have a television, do you?”
“No, Sir.”
“See? He can’t even watch TV.” He looked at me, shifted his eyes to Tate, and then grinned as sly grin. “She watches it, but doesn’t listen to it. Damndest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Stop it,” I hissed playfully.
“It’s true,” he said. “She turns it on without the sound, and watches an entire series on Netflix. Never listens to a word.”
“It’s impossible to listen while I read.”
Tate looked at me and chuckled. “We’ve all got our quirks.”
It was the same thing I’d told Andy. I found it funny that Tate repeated my quote almost verbatim. Maybe we were more alike than I thought we were.
“Well, it’s past dinner time, so I’m guessing you two didn’t come here to eat.” He turned toward the kitchen. “You’re a coffee drinker, aren’t you, Tate?”
All of Tate’s characters drank coffee. In fact, many of his fights, dates, and discussions happened at coffee shops.
“How many of his books have you read?”
“Seven or eight.”
While we followed my father to the kitchen, I did a mental eye roll and then looked at Tate. He grinned and shrugged.
“Which ones?” I asked.
“The four about the boxers, one about a bunch of high school misfits, one about a crazy tattoo artist, and two or three about bikers.”
I exhaled heavily and mouthed the words I’m sorry to Tate. He smiled and shrugged, as always.
My father poured three cups of coffee and turned around. “Cream and sugar?”
Tate nodded. “Please.”
“That’s the way I like it, too. Coffee is pretty nasty by itself, but doctored up, it’s good stuff.”
We sat at the kitchen table. I’d already decided my father didn’t hate Tate, but it was too early to tell if he liked him or not. He’d never once indicated that he thought anything other than positive thoughts about him, but then again, I had yet to explain that feelings were developing and developing fast.
“Why do all of your characters have great big dicks?” my father asked.
Midway through a sip of coffee, I coughed it out my nose. “Dad!”
“Well, they do. Hell, I kept waiting for one of ‘em to get undressed and pull out something normal. You know, a four-incher. Hell, maybe a good solid three. But, seven books in, and I’ve got a handful of eight-inchers, a couple of nines, and a thirteen. Who has a thirteen-inch rod, anyway?”
My face went flush.
Tate didn’t skip a beat.
“A book is supposed to appeal to the intended audience. For instance, if I wrote dystopian fantasy intended for young adults, my characters wouldn’t cuss. In real life, they would. Look at Hunger Games. If that girl was being shot at, and her friends were being killed off one by one, don’t you think she’d drop an F-bomb from time to time?”
My father raised his cup. “I’m sure she would.”
“In the book, she didn’t. It’s because the intended audience doesn’t like to have their books muddied with such filth. They’ll read about murder, and graphic scenes of torture, but cussi
ng is a no-no.”
“And your intended audience likes men with a big Johnson?”
“The masses do, yes. Or, at least they like to fantasize about it. Not to say a book about a guy with a three-incher wouldn’t sell well, but it would have to be presented carefully. There’d have to be a reason for it. It’d work in the right book.”
If I read a book about a couple that I liked, and the guy pulled out a three-inch dick, I suspect I’d giggle. In real life, a three-incher beat a no-incher. In the book world, things needed to lean toward my fantasies.
And, in my fantasies, guys with three-inch dicks didn’t exist.
“Like the Elephant Man,” my father said.
Tate’s eyebrows raised.
“The man was a horrific looking soul, but he had a heart of gold. In that book, everyone felt compassion for someone they’d normally be repulsed by. You’d have to give your readers a reason to like the three-inch fellow. No differently than every book couldn’t have an Elephant Man, every book can’t have a three-inch man. Am I on track?”
Tate laughed. “Yes, Sir.”
“Tell me about your riot.”
Tate looked at me.
I pulled a Tate, and shrugged. “I tell him everything.”
Tate took a drink of his coffee and then set his cup aside. “Well. I was riding down the street, and I saw people marching halfway up the block. When I realized what they were protesting, I joined in. Someone handed me a sign, and I marched right along with them for a few blocks. A couple kids got in an argument with some people on the street, and the next thing you know, bottles and rocks started being thrown. Windows got broken, and few fires were lit, and then the cops showed up. I deserved to be arrested. Hell, we all did. My tattoos and kutte made me a target, so I was charged with inciting a riot. They were talking about giving me the RICO act for being in a gang and starting a riot, so my public defender suggested a plea deal. The sentence was to be probation. I swallowed my pride, realized the risk I was taking in being part of the MC, and plead guilty. When it came time to sentence me, the judge wasn’t thinking probation would teach me anything. So, he sent me to prison.”
“That’s a damned shame. That case made me mad enough to throw a rock or two. By the grace of God, I didn’t. Let me ask you something. What race were the majority of the people in the march?”
“Black.”
“Not many whites?”
“I think I was the only one.”
“White biker with tattoos normally doesn’t fit in with a big group of blacks. Did it bother you that they were black?”
Tate shook his head. “I’m colorblind.”
My father’s eyes thinned a little. “Your actually colorblind, or your color blind?”
“Both,” Tate said.
My father nodded and reached for his cup. “You’re a good man, Tate.”
I reached under the table and squeezed my father’s left hand.
His eyes shot to me. “What? He’s an outlaw biker who has a penchant for big-dicked men, he’s been to prison three times, is covered in tattoos, has pieces of pipe in his earlobes, and he encourages blacks to throw rocks. What’s not to like?”
I chuckled. I’d received my answer.
And, my father’s blessing.
Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-Five
Tate
I poured a few inches of ice into the bottom of saddle bag, tied the top of the plastic grocery bag tight, and dropped it on top of the ice. After pouring the remaining ice over it, I tossed the empty ice bag inside and closed the lid.
Fifteen minutes of hard riding later, and I was at Bobbi’s apartment complex. I parked the bike at the street, got my groceries, and sauntered toward her building.
After going up one flight of steps, I walked down the landing to apartment 203. With a grocery bag dangling from my left hand, I rapped the knuckles of my right against the door.
It swung open.
Andy’s eyes went wide at the sight of me. “Tate. What a surprise,” he said, meaning every word of it.
The look on his face warned me that he had no intention of inviting me in. I didn’t want to cause him any more grief than I already had, so I made my purpose clear.
I hoisted the bag in front of me. “I’ve got Halo Top and some peaches. I thought we’d celebrate Bobbi getting her cookbook published. Want to join us?”
“Let me grab the brown sugar,” he said excitedly. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ve got it in the bag.”
“What about the fat free Cool-Whip?”
“Got it.”
He stepped onto the landing, and then reached for the door handle, using his shirt as a makeshift glove.
“I’m so proud of her,” he said. “She did that on her own, you know.”
“I know. I hope it sells well.”
“I’m going to tell everyone I know about it.”
“I’ll do the same. Most of the people I know don’t care about calories, though.”
“By the time they realize they should, it’ll be too late.”
“You’re probably right,” I said.
We went up the next flight of stairs, and to apartment 302. Andy stepped in front of the peephole, kicked the door twice, and grinned.
Bobbi opened the door. The smell of fresh flowers wafted onto the landing.
Dressed in sweats and a sleeveless tee, she had her hair pulled into a ponytail. She looked surprised, embarrassed, and, above all, adorable.
“We came bearing gifts,” Andy said, ducking beneath her arm as he spoke.
She smiled. “Come in.”
Andy went straight to the kitchen. “Bring it all in here, Tate.”
“Sorry,” I whispered. “I had to.”
“What’s in the sack?”
“Bag.”
She scrunched her nose. “Huh?”
“It’s a bag, not a sack.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Celebratory ice cream.”
“I can’t have ice cream.”
“It’s Halo Top.”
Her eyes shot wide. “You got Halo Top?”
“Three flavors.”
“You’re sweet.” She leaned forward and kissed me lightly. “What’s the celebration?”
The taste of her lipstick made me smile. “Your book.”
“Oh. Thank you.” She let out a heavy sigh. “That was exhausting. I don’t know how you do it.”
I carried the bag to the kitchen handed it to Andy. Ten minutes later, we were sitting around the kitchen table eating ice cream and peaches like a bunch of starving idiots.
Andy didn’t have so much as a morsel on his face. Neither did Bobbi, for that matter. I, on the other hand, had it from one end of me to the other.
“This shit is good,” I announced.
“Isn’t it?” Andy asked.
“It’s definitely not like the rest of low-cal snacks.” I looked at Bobbi. “Is it in your book?”
“It is.”
“What else?”
“The yogurt parfait.”
“How many points is it?”
“One.”
“What’s in it?”
“Low-fat Greek yogurt, strawberries, and blueberries. You can crumble a Nature Valley bar on top of it for a little fiber, but it adds four points.”
“I bet this book sells well.”
“Not as well as yours. You’re still in the top ten.”
“I read it,” Andy exclaimed.
I looked at him in disbelief. “What?”
He shoveled another massive bite into his mouth without getting anything on his face, and then nodded. “Bobbi said it wasn’t erotic, so I gave it a try. I cried like a baby. It’s a very good book, Tate.”
“Thank you. It was the last book in the series, and making it an erotic novel just didn’t make sense. Not for those particular characters.”
“Well, it was a great way to end any series.”
“It was a good close to that o
ne, that’s for sure.”
“What’s next?” he asked.
“Another biker series. They seem to be well received.”
He scraped his bowl with the edge of his spoon. “Tattoos, muscles, guns, and knives?”
“I think this one will be more about looks and brains. A bunch of guys that think before they act. A little less testosterone, and a few more brains.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Hope everyone else thinks so. Maybe the fast pace will hook ‘em.”
He looked at Bobbi. “How long has it been available?”
“The book?”
He pushed his bowl to the side and nodded.
“A couple of hours.”
“This is so exciting,” he said. “You’re a cookbook author!”
“I wrote down some recipes, and added a few pictures. I’m far from an author.”
“Well, you’re both authors in my book.”
The MC had eighteen members, total. I was as close to those men as I’d ever been to anyone, yet I rarely felt proud of them. As strange as it seemed to admit, pride wasn’t on the list of feelings I typically felt as a result of my exposure to them.
Acceptance, trust, and admiration were common, but pride wasn’t.
Feeling prideful toward another wasn’t a common thing, and it didn’t come easily. At least not for me.
I viewed pride in one’s own actions or accomplishments to be akin to arrogance. Pride in another person’s choices or actions was a matter of expressing praise. Caring enough about someone to allow myself to harbor such feelings was new to me.
But I wasn’t about to argue with how I felt.
I finished my ice cream, waited until Bobbi finished hers, and then collected the bowls. After placing them in the sink, I returned to the table.
I pulled the card I’d bought from my kutte and handed it to her.
She looked at the crumpled envelope and grinned. “What’s this?”
“It’s just something I got for you.”
“Can I open it now?”
“That’s why I gave it to you.”
“I was just checking, grump.”
She ran her nail along the edge of the envelope, opened it, and pulled out the card. After reading it, she set it aside and stood.
She didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to.
Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set Page 116