F*CKERS (Biker MC Romance Book 7)

by Scott Hildreth

  “In what respect?”

  “In the durability respect. Are they durable?”

  “I’m not sure I follow what you’re asking.”

  “Do they travel well?”

  “They’ll need to stay cool, out if the sun, and away from anything that might tip over on them. Is that what you mean?”

  “That answers my question, yes.”

  She glanced through the storefront glass and then looked at me. “You weren’t thinking about--”

  “I was.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand. “In the little things on the back?”

  “Saddlebags. They’re called saddlebags.”

  “In the saddlebags?”

  “That’s what I was thinking, yes.”

  “Oh. No. They’d wilt in five minutes and be dead in ten.”

  “What if I pack it with ice?”

  “I don’t think it would matter.”

  I sighed. “Damn the luck. What other options do I have?”

  “Nothing will live in that little container. Maybe roses. If you did the thing with the ice. And, if you drove really carefully.”

  “Rode.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Rode. You said drove. It’s rode. You don’t drive a motorcycle, you ride it.”

  She smiled. “You’re cute.”

  “I like your necklace,” I said, although it was a blatant lie.

  She reached for it. “Thank you.”

  “Well, crap.” I let out a sigh. “I don’t ride carefully. Not in this traffic, anyway.”

  “How far were you intending on taking them?”

  “Costa Mesa.”

  “Los Angeles?” she gasped.

  “No. Costa Mesa.”

  “Isn’t that Los Angeles?”

  “No. It’s Costa Mesa. It’s south of Los Angeles. Maybe an hour from here.”

  “Los Angeles is two hours in traffic.”

  “It’s not Los Angeles, it’s Costa Mesa.”

  “They’ll never make it.”

  I looked at the flowers and then at her. “How’d they get here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you grow them here? In the back?”

  “Oh.” She chuckled. “Heavens no. We purchase them, and have them delivered, fresh.”

  “How do they get them here?”

  “On an airplane, and then in a van. An air-conditioned van.”

  “Where do they come from?”

  “Well, the roses come from Columbia and Ecuador. Tulips come from Holland. We get several varieties from Canada, including the--”

  “Doesn’t sound like Costa Mesa is a stretch.”

  She gave my bike a glare. “Driving that?”

  “Riding. And, no. I asked what other options we had. I was wondering about having them delivered.”

  “Oh,” she said with a long laugh. “We can deliver them just fine.”

  “Any of them?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Hell, there for a minute, I was scared. You’ve got to excuse me, I’m a flower virgin.”

  “You’ve never purchased flowers?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Not for prom, or Mother’s Day?”

  I shook my head.

  “Valentine’s Day?”

  “No, ma’am. A complete virgin.”

  “That’s sad. Well, hopefully this will change your mind about the future.”

  I laughed. “So far, it’s been pretty exhausting to tell you the truth.”

  “You’re rather witty.”

  “You’re not bad yourself.”

  Her pale skin blushed. “Thank you.”

  I looked over the various flowers in the display case. “Are these for sale? The display arrangements?”

  “They are, but we can make you a fresh one. Cindy isn’t busy right now, and she can cut them fresh.”

  “They came from Ecuador and Holland, right?”

  She nodded. “And various other places.”

  “They’re not fresh.”

  “We call them fresh.”

  “It’s a little misleading, isn’t it?”

  Her eyebrows raised. “Maybe a little. Have you decided what you’d like?”

  “Give me a dozen of those pink ones, a dozen red roses, and something bright yellow. And blue. Or purple. One or the other. Then, we’ll have red, yellow, and blue.”

  “Oh my. It might take a little longer than fifteen minutes.”

  “That’s fine. As long as it’s before noon. Is that possible?”

  She looked at the clock. “A quarter of ten now.” She nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “If I give you the address you’ll deliver them?”

  “We sure will.”

  “Can you call me immediately prior to doing so?”

  “How immediate?”

  “The immediate kind of immediate. Right before you ring the doorbell.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’d like to be there right after she gets them.”

  “That’s a lot of flowers for a Wednesday,” she said with a smile.

  “Is there a limit?” I asked. “On Wednesdays?”

  “There is not. I simply meant. Oh, never mind.”

  “I know what you meant. I was being facetious.”

  “You don’t talk like a--”

  I coughed a laugh. “Like a tattooed biker?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” She turned as red as her roses. “It’s just…”

  “I know what you meant.” I turned away from the case. “If you’d like to ring them up, I’ll pay for them.”

  She walked behind the counter, donned her reading glasses, and looked at a price list. After a moment, she pecked at the register with her index finger.

  “Two hundred eighty-three fifty, and fifty-six cents.”

  I handed her my debit card. She looked at it, and then at me. “Do you have ID?”

  “I do.”

  She studied my ID, and then handed it back to me. “That’s funny.”

  “My picture? I was tired. I’d just ridden from Phoenix, and was close to heat exhaustion.”

  “No. Your name. It’s Tate Desmond Reynolds. Your initials are TD. You could be TD Reynolds.”

  I was shocked that she knew who I was. “Who?”

  “TD Reynolds. He’s an author. He wrote this book called The Jeweler. It made me cry like a baby.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “I’d tell you to read it, but…”

  “I can read,” I said. “Road signs and stuff.”

  “I didn’t mean...”

  “I was joking,” I said.

  She handed me my card and smiled. “The Jeweler is better than wonderful. I’m on my third read of it now.”

  “You know, they say that’s the sign of a great book. If people read it more than once.”

  “This one is remarkable.” She looked to her left, the right, and then at me. “You want to hear something funny?”

  “Funnier than me reading a book?” I asked, my tone flat.

  She sighed, and then gave me a cross look. “His book is number one on the New York Times and everywhere else. It has been for a month. And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “There’s nothing about him on the internet. Nothing at all. I think it’s a ruse. I think he’s Nora Roberts.”

  I put my card and the ID in my wallet. “Maybe he’s that Sparks guy. Nicholas Sparks.”

  “Oh!” she gasped. “He might be.”

  “Where do I write down the delivery address?” I asked.

  She handed me a sheet of paper. “On this form.”

  As I filled it out, she handed me a card. “And, if you want to give her a special note, you can write it on here.”

  I filled out the form, handed it to her, and then wrote a note on the card. I hesitated to give it to her, but realized I didn’t have another choice.

  I handed her the card with the written side down. “Is that
it?”

  “Your phone number is on the form?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s all we need.”

  “Have a nice day,” I said with a smile.

  She looked at the card and then turned it over.

  I pushed the door open.

  “TD?” she shouted. “TD Reynolds?”

  I turned around. “In the flesh and blood.”

  She stood behind the counter holding the card with a shaking hand.

  I’d written the last line of the book on the card, and signed it TD Reynolds. I’d hoped to get away before she read it.

  She raised her free hand and waved. “She’s a lucky lady.”

  “No,” I said with a quick grin. “I’m a lucky man.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bobbi

  Following Tate’s suggestion, I had been locked in my apartment for a week, piecing together a Low-Calorie Cookbook. From what I could tell, I needed three more weeks to complete it. If it provided any source of income, I’d continue to make them until the well ran dry.

  Convinced there had to be enough women out there who were self-conscious about their weight enough to at least attempt to eat healthy, I added each of my favorite recipes, and included the Weight Watchers points associated with each recipe, serving, and each recommended meal.

  While I downloaded photos of my Spanish cauliflower rice, the doorbell rang.

  I peered through the peephole. A twenty-something man with white hair, huge glasses, and a monstrous grin stood on the landing. Convinced he was a lost college student, I unlocked my door and opened it slightly.

  A cart filled with flowers grabbed every ounce of my attention.

  “Who are you looking for?” I asked. “This is 302.”

  He looked at a sheet of paper. “11167 Bayside, number 302. Bobbi Madden?”

  “That’s me.”

  “These are for you. Where would you like them?”

  I’d never received flowers before. I wondered if my father had sent me a sympathy bouquet for being amongst the unemployed.

  “Which ones,” I asked as I eyed the flower-filled wagon.

  “All of them.”

  My heart fluttered. “They’re all for me?”

  “They sure are.”

  “All of them?”

  “They sure are,” he shouted.

  I opened the door completely and stepped aside. “You can put them on the kitchen table.”

  He dragged the wagon inside, looked around my apartment, and then smiled. “Well, isn’t this cute.”

  The aroma of the various flowers encompassed me. I watched enthusiastically as he placed them on the table.

  “Stargazer Lily arrangement.” He placed a vase on the table. “Red Roses with white lilies.” He lifted another vase from the wagon and set it beside the first. “Yellow roses, purple Monte Casino and blue Delphinium.” He reached for a vase, admired it, and then carefully set it beside the second. “Then, there’s this one.” He set the last vase on the table. “White Asiatic Lilies, white roses, white mini-carnations, blue statice, and, to top it off, a cream spray.”

  The entire table was filled with flowers. To describe it as beautiful wouldn’t do it justice. I stood with my jaw flopped opened and stared.

  “Ma’am. Ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “Ma’am!”

  My eyes shot to him. “Yes?”

  “Would you like to lock the door behind me?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  When he reached the door, he took one last look at the flowers and smiled.

  “Do I tip you?” I asked. “I have no idea. This is a first for me.”

  He shook his head. “It’s already taken care of.”

  When I opened the door, he screeched like a teenage girl at a horror movie. Directly in front of the door stood Andy and Tate.

  “Sorry.” Tate stepped aside.

  Andy stepped around the delivery boy, ducked under my arm, and rushed into the living room. “It smells heavenly in here.”

  “Aren’t they pretty?”

  “Thank you,” I said to the flower boy. I looked at Tate. “You’re incredible. Thank you.”

  He gave a sharp nod. “You’re welcome.” He leaned to the side and peered beyond me. “Can I see them?”

  I wanted to kiss him. Hug him. Something. But, our relationship had yet to go in that direction. I wasn’t complaining one bit, I enjoyed every moment we were able to spend together. At that instant, however, I wanted to let him know how the flowers made me feel, and touching him was the only way I knew to communicate it.

  I stepped aside. “I’m sorry. Come in.”

  As he came inside, I turned toward my flowers. Andy’s face was buried in the pink lilies.

  “These smell divine.”

  “Don’t break them,” I said with a laugh, although I meant every word.

  I looked around the apartment and tried to decide where to put them all. Excitedly, my mind ran through the possibilities. I could put a vase on every flat surface, and I’d have flowers left over. My skin felt prickly from the excitement of it all.

  I turned toward Tate, who was standing beside me, and smiled. “This is just…”

  It was too much. I never would have guessed it, but having someone send me flowers filled me with more emotion than Christmas had as a child. Overrun with feelings and in shock that a man as kind as Tate could have enough interest in me to make such a gesture, I simply shrugged.

  He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet for a few seconds. Then, he leaned toward me. While I watched him move in what seemed to be slow-motion, he raised his hand to my chin and turned my head to the side with the tip of his finger. Paralyzed from doing anything, I remained motionless.

  Our lips met.

  I wasn’t expecting it. At all. As if the flowers weren’t enough, he kissed me, right there in front of the flowers, and Andy.

  My head spun. My knees wobbled. My hands flapped at my sides until I finally decided to put them where they belonged.

  Around his waist.

  He slipped his hands around mine and pulled me close. My chest pressed against his. My mind went aflutter. The kiss was gentle, yet meaningful. Our tongues found each other and intertwined tenderly.

  My face went hot. Our lips parted, and then he looked at me.

  It had lasted only a moment, yet it’s memory stuck with me for an eternity.

  It was Wednesday.

  My newfound favorite day of the week.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Tate

  Bobbi and I had been together for a month. Nevertheless, I was still rather nervous in her presence. I wrung my hands together and met her gaze. I had a difficult time believing if given a choice, that she wanted to be with me.

  “Did you decide?” I asked.

  “I’m going with the chicken and the spinach salad. You?”

  “The same.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You’re going to eat the chicken?”

  “I told you. I eat healthily. So, yeah. We’ll eat the same thing. It’s only fair.”

  “That’s sweet of you.” She nodded toward my hands. “The fleur-de-lis ring. I like it. Is that new?”

  “It’s not new, but I haven’t worn it in a while.”

  “Where’s the one with the skull?”

  “With the others.”

  “How many do you have?”

  I probably had fifty of them, but I’d really never counted. Wearing rings and bracelets was something that I had done since I was a kid, and I doubted I’d ever grow out of it.

  I shrugged dismissively. “Never really counted them. I’ve got a few.”

  “What’s that one made of?”

  “White gold. They’re all white gold. It’s easier to work with. Never really cared much for yellow gold. It’s too flashy.”

  She gave me a sideways look. “Don’t tell me you made that.”

  I grinned. “Okay.”

  She looked at
it again, and then shifted her eyes to me. “Did you?”

  “You said not to say.”

  She let out a sigh. “Now, I want to know.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  She rested her forearms on the edge of the table and leaned forward. Her blonde curls fell over her arms and onto the table. “You’re Becker Wallace, aren’t you?”

  She studied me hard. Her mouth was twisted into a smirk. She blinked her eyes a few times, and then widened them playfully as she waited for me to respond.

  “Nope,” I said. “I’m just plain ol’ Tate Reynolds.”

  “You write romance books, you ride in an MC, and you make jewelry by hand.” She relaxed in her chair and let out a sigh. “I can’t believe you. You’re far from plain.”

  “You better start believing it.”

  “You could have your pick.” She looked me up and down and then shook her head. “Any girl you want. You’re telling me that I’m your choice?”

  “My only choice.”

  “Why?”

  In complete contrast to the rest of my brethren, I didn’t hook up with women, go on dates, or have random sex to simply satisfy an urge. At heart, I was a romantic. Just like the men in a few of my light-hearted books.

  I’d searched for most of my adult life for someone to spend my life with, but never really felt I could devote the time or the energy needed to develop or maintain a relationship. And, in the past, I felt I couldn’t afford it.

  What little money I’d made over the years had been invested in gold and turned into jewelry. Now that I was selling enough books to support any habit, I was out of excuses. It really didn’t matter. If I was homeless, I’d still be doing everything I could to win Bobbi’s heart.

  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?”