Misadventures with a Biker

by Scott Hildreth

  He appeared to be doing rather well for his first day at work. No matter how good he was at his job, I eventually needed to find a reason to let him go.

  If not, my dream was going to become a reality.

  The last time I let that happen, it ended disastrously.

  Chapter Three

  Devin

  By Friday morning, I knew fuck-all about being a receptionist. But after a week of inspirational YouTube videos, instructional seminars, and reading blog posts, I felt I could at least survive.

  According to the internet, there were only four rules for being a good receptionist. One, love a ringing phone. Two, love your job. Three, leave the attitude at home. And four, the customer is your passion.

  I got along with anyone willing to get along with me. That made the job requirements easy, as long as I didn’t have to deal with someone who was disrespectful. Being rude toward me—or the four and a half women I was hired to serve—was a different subject altogether. Convinced working with an all-woman team should be a breeze, I happily answered each phone call and hoped for the best.

  With her purse over one shoulder and a leather bag over the other, Teddi came out of her office and made a beeline for the front door. I’d never considered pantsuits to be flattering until I saw her hourglass-shaped body encompassed by one. It accentuated every curve.

  I clenched my jaw as she strolled past, talking on her phone. She looked to be all of five-foot-three in four-inch heels. Her curvaceous body would cause any man to embarrass himself by staring. Somewhat protected by the upper platform of my desk, I did just that, following her every move by swiveling my chair in her direction as she glided across the floor.

  Just as she reached the door, she dropped her phone into her purse. She stood for a moment, staring into the parking lot. Then she turned around. She was coming straight for me. I diverted my eyes to my computer monitor and jiggled the mouse.

  When she arrived, I was scrolling through available properties in Naples, trying my best to appear preoccupied—and disinterested in her.

  “What’s your name again?” she asked.

  I looked up. The bottoms of her tits were resting against the marble countertop. Her white blouse was unbuttoned enough to reveal more than a hint of cleavage. I had to force myself not to stare.

  “Oh. I didn’t notice you,” I said, lying through my teeth. “Sorry. It’s Devin.”

  “Well, Devin. I’m expecting a call this morning. Kurt McEvoy. If he calls, don’t put him through to voicemail. Have him call my cell.”

  “I sure will,” I said, jotting the name onto a sticky note. “Is that all?”

  She adjusted the strap of her purse, giving me an opportunity to catch another glimpse of her ample cleavage.

  The instant I tore my eyes from her glorious mounds, she met my gaze with a curious look. “Do you know basic guy things?”

  I had no idea what she was talking about, but I wasn’t about to let her walk away. Not yet, anyway.

  I gave her a reassuring look. “I suppose.”

  “The valet at Mercato door-dinged my SUV,” she explained. “Is it possible to fix it without damaging it further? It’s imperative that it looks like nothing ever happened. I’m anal about things, my vehicles included.”

  There was one man who was capable of fixing damaged paint without leaving a trace of his existence. He was a biker and a businessman but looked like a barroom brawler. His attitude arrived ten minutes before he did. He wouldn’t have an ounce of patience for Teddi’s pretentious attitude—and would likely tell her about it. I crossed my fingers, hoping he didn’t disappoint me when it came time to put Teddi in her place.

  “Ask for JR Nocera at Supreme Auto Collision,” I said, laughing to myself as I spoke. “They’re on Fourth, right off Tamiami. Tell him Bo”—I cleared my throat—“Devin sent you.”

  She flipped her blond hair over her shoulder and turned toward the door without as much as a “thank you.” I rolled my chair to the edge of the desk and watched her walk all the way to her SUV. By the time she got into the vehicle, my dick was as stiff as stone.

  Of the three women I’d been exposed to so far, two of them were completely safe. One of them wasn’t. Not at all. It was going to take some serious convincing for me to keep my hands off Teddi.

  The majority of my morning was spent fielding phone calls and patching them through to Janine and Kate. Convinced the job was going to become mundane, I spent my idle time watching tutorials on YouTube.

  While I watched a video on how to please an angry phone caller, Kate meandered across the foyer and leaned over the edge of my desk. She beamed with pride.

  “What are you so damned happy about?” I asked.

  “I ate an oyster this weekend,” she replied proudly. “Two, actually. Two different types, not two oysters.”

  I swiveled my chair to face her. “Really?”

  “I tried them raw, just so I could say I did. That was interesting. About like I expected, really. I didn’t like the texture. Then I decided to try them Rockefeller style.”

  “And you liked them?”

  “They were awesome. Really rich, but they tasted great,” she said. “I ate the entire order.”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  She curtsied. “Thank you.”

  Kate was nothing short of adorable. Bubbly, energetic, and always smiling, it was impossible not to like her. I told myself being sexual with any of the women I was working with was a bad idea. As much as I hated the idea of it, I needed to keep things platonic between Kate and me.

  “What did your date think?” I asked. “When you ate them?”

  She made a pouty face. “I didn’t have one.”

  “Why not?”

  Her mood shifted from almost flirty playful to being outwardly uneasy in an instant. Although I didn’t intend to, I’d obviously hit a nerve.

  “I’m just taking it slow,” she replied. “My last relationship ended poorly. I’m going to be careful about who I go out with.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said what everyone else probably did upon hearing that news. “Sorry about your last relationship.”

  “That’s okay.” She wrinkled her nose. “He was an asshole.”

  “Why were you with him?”

  “He wasn’t an asshole at first. He kind of became one over time.”

  The majority of men were assholes. Some had the ability to disguise the fact better than others. Once a man revealed his other-than-favorable self, I couldn’t understand why a woman would remain in that type of relationship.

  I asked the inevitable. “Why did you stay?”

  “I think women fear being single. So we tell ourselves it isn’t that bad. That it could be worse. That maybe something we did brought it on.”

  “You didn’t make him an asshole. Believe me.”

  “I know that now,” she said with a muted laugh. “Women are different than men. Once we’re committed to someone, it’s difficult to envision ourselves without them. We’re convinced it wouldn’t be any better with anyone else, so we put up with a lot of shit that we shouldn’t. The next thing we know, we’re being used, abused, taken advantage of, you name it. We just put up with it, telling ourselves that one day it’ll get better.”

  “It didn’t get better?”

  She shook her head. “It got worse.”

  “So, you finally walked away?”

  “I ran, actually.”

  I chuckled, trying to make light of the situation. “Couldn’t get out of there fast enough, huh?”

  An awkward silence followed. She gazed blankly at my computer monitor for most of it.

  “He hit me,” she murmured.

  I tried to contain my anger but suspected she could see right through the thin veil of indifference I was hiding behind.

  Still looking away, she continued in a soft, monotone voice. “He’d pushed me a few times and he’d slapped me when we were arguing, but he’d never hit me. Then, one night, h
e did. With his fist—”

  “Does he still live around here?” I asked, interrupting her midsentence. My inner self exploded with rage. Outwardly, I doubted I hid my anger totally. I did the best I was able.

  “He… Yeah. He’s got a new girlfriend, and he lives in Bonita Beach…” She paused and gave me a serious look. “Don’t even think about doing anything. I’m over him. It’s been six months. I’m over it.” She managed a faint smile. “What about you?”

  I wasn’t. I never would be. I fought to contain myself. “Am I over it?”

  “No.” She leaned onto the edge of the elevated countertop. “I meant do you eat your oysters alone?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Are you an asshole?”

  “All men are assholes.”

  “You don’t seem like an asshole.”

  “I hide it well,” I said. “I limit expressing my physical frustrations to men, and I vent my emotional frustrations on my bike. In the end, that leaves everyone else with a decent guy to be around.”

  “You’re better than decent,” she said.

  I wasn’t, but there was no value in arguing about it. I needed everyone at work to believe I was one of the good guys. Especially Kate. Still angry about the man who hit her, I forced a smile. “Thanks.”

  “Does riding your motorcycle really help? Does it, like, I don’t know… Calm you?”

  I’d had a motorcycle my entire life. Without it, I’d be a disaster. While most men in prison yearned for a woman, a thick steak, a cup of real coffee, or their favorite fast food, I wanted nothing more than a few hundred miles of open road and a full tank of gas.

  “It doesn’t matter how bad things get,” I replied. “There’s not much a ride on that bike won’t fix. A thirty-minute cruise will squash an entire day of frustrations.”

  She leaned away from the desk and brushed the wrinkles from her dress. “Are you really an asshole?”

  “I can be.”

  “I think we all can be.”

  “I’m difficult to be with,” I admitted. “Knowing that about myself prevents me from being in a relationship. Hell, it prevents me from one-night stands. I tell myself I’m an asshole to make myself feel better about being perpetually single.”

  “Why are you difficult to be with?”

  I had the capacity to be in a relationship with the right woman. Finding that woman had proven impossible in all my years. My sexual preferences weren’t in line with any women I’d ever met. I wondered if there was such a woman.

  “Do you want the truth or a lie?” I asked.

  Her eyes widened with wonder. She glanced over each shoulder and then leaned forward. “The truth,” she whispered.

  Kate was open-minded regarding my criminal history. I hoped she was equally understanding about my sexual shortcomings.

  “I’m a sexual misfit,” I said. “To be in a relationship, I need to be with someone open-minded. Open-minded and quite adventurous.” I looked at her sideways. “Really open-minded. Without that person, there’s no sense in me trying.”

  She seemed confused. “Can you define what a sexual misfit is?”

  “Can I be candid?”

  She slapped my bicep. “You big dork.” She glanced around the foyer. “It’s just you and me talking. Yes. Be candid. You’re not going to offend me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Ass slapping, hair pulling, biting, shoving my cock down someone’s throat. Humiliation. Saying degrading things, all of which I don’t necessarily mean. Stuff like that. It’s not a desire, it’s a necessity.”

  “Oh. Wow.” She blinked. Repeatedly. “That’s interesting.”

  “Is it?”

  “It is.” She drifted into deep thought. “I’ll see if I can find you someone,” she said, meeting my gaze. “I’ve got an idea or two.”

  The thought of her finding someone was laughable. If she could, I’d entertain a relationship until I was released from the federal government’s clutch.

  I chuckled at the thought. “Okay.”

  “For clarification’s sake, I’m Miss Missionary.”

  “By choice, or by default?”

  “Choice,” she replied. “I tried rough sex. Hated it. I like it slow and easy.”

  I wasn’t disappointed to hear her sexual preferences. If anything, I was somewhat relieved. It placed her in a category that assured I wouldn’t fuck up what little bit of a friendly relationship we’d developed.

  “At least you know what you like,” I said.

  She gave me a half-assed grin and an equally unassertive nod. Then, a lightbulb appeared to go off.

  “Have you ever had a girlfriend?” she asked excitedly.

  “I was seeing a girl on and off before prison,” I replied. “I think she got married. Why?”

  “No. A girlfriend. Like, a girl, and she’s your friend. She’s like your guy friends, only a girl.”

  “I can’t say that I have.”

  “Do you want one?”

  I gave her a look. “You?”

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded eagerly. “I’m not gonna lie. I’m fascinated with you. We could hang out. Find new places to eat. Talk. I’d help you out with girl problems. You could help me out with guy problems. I know everyone in town. I could help you find a freaky partner. You could help me find a guy who’s not an asshole.” Her eyes narrowed. “No sex,” she said, wagging her index finger at me as she spoke. “I mean it.”

  I had no one other than a cantankerous old army veteran to talk to. He was entertaining, but our conversations were all over the place. What was for dinner, Wheel of Fortune, who was parked in the neighbor’s drive, and his bowel movements were his biggest concerns. Having access to a woman’s mind beyond the walls of the office sounded like a great idea.

  I nodded. “I’d love to.”

  “It has to be platonic,” she said, still doing the finger-in-my-face thing. “No tricks.”

  I raised my pinkie. “Want to pinkie swear?”

  Grinning from ear to ear, she hooked her pinkie to mine. “I hope you’re not the type to break promises.”

  “Real bikers don’t break promises.”

  “Are you the real deal?”

  One of the summer’s daily torrential downpours was underway. It was dumping water so rapidly, I couldn’t see my motorcycle. It resembled a hurricane.

  “I’ll let you decide.” I nodded my head toward the parking lot. “I’m riding to lunch in that.”

  She glanced at the rainstorm. She shook her head. “No, you’re not.” She pulled her pinkie away and kissed it. “Friends don’t let friends ride to lunch in the rain.”

  Chapter Four

  Teddi

  It took me a week to have professional photos taken and have a graphic designer format new flyers, datasheets, and sales literature for Margaret’s home. It was time to meet with everyone and advise them of our new approach.

  I glanced around the conference room table. “Where is she?”

  “She’s on the phone,” Kate replied.

  “Can you remind her that we’re meeting, please? She’s probably talking to that idiot in Port Royal.”

  “Be right back,” Kate said cheerily.

  Port Royal, a neighborhood situated in Naples Bay, consisted of four hundred homes that ranged in price from six million to sixty million dollars. Each residence had water access through the bay’s channels. None had a private beach, nor did they have a view of the gulf. One of their residents, a man in his late sixties, had shown interest in Janine—who was thirty-four years his junior—during an open house. Based solely on his wealth, she was considering hooking up with him.

  Naples was a great place to be a real estate agent. With the second-highest rate of millionaires per capita in the United States, there was in excess of a billion dollars being spent on homes each year. The problem—and it was a big one for young single women—was that the average age in the city was sixty-five. Considering there were fifteen thousand regist
ered high school students who ranged in age from fourteen to eighteen in a city that was alleged to have a population of roughly twenty thousand permanent residents, the average realistic age of most men in the city was eighty.

  I looked at Rhea. “She hasn’t fucked that guy, has she?”

  “Not yet.” She cringed. “Not that I know of, anyway.”

  Rhea was a hard worker, but she lacked experience. She’d been in my employ for a little over a year. She had a great personality, was the only one of us who was married, and she was driven to succeed by a desire to provide for her three children.

  “Good work on that Crayton Road property,” I said. “That wasn’t on the listing long enough to be in print. Then it was gone.”

  “I had a buyer pocketed for it,” she replied.

  Low seven-figure properties were Rhea’s specialty. The traffic on such homes was a constant stream of available clients, provided they were priced accordingly. The differences between selling a three-million-dollar home and a thirty-million-dollar home were vast.

  In Naples, three-million-dollar homes were the norm. They were typically sold within a week of being listed, often to a buyer who hadn’t even seen the property in person. The buyers for a thirty-million-dollar home were far more discriminative. They were versed on styles, finishes, types of appliances used, and location. They knew what they wanted, wouldn’t settle for less, and were willing to pay more than listing price for a home that met their long list of requirements.

  Kate returned with Janine in tow. As they took their seats, I glared at Janine. “You haven’t fucked that guy, have you?”

  She grinned. “Not yet.”

  I fake-barfed. “If you do, I’ll vomit.”

  “He’s worth over two hundred million,” she bragged.

  “The fact that you’re using that as justification makes it even more disgusting.” I looked at Kate. “Evelyn is in Tampa, in training, right?”

  “Until Friday.”

  Evelyn was a part-time intern who assisted us in our endeavors. She aspired to become a real estate agent. For me to entertain using her as one, she needed to retain a mountain of knowledge regarding construction policies, standards, and practices. Merely having a license in the Southwest Florida market wasn’t enough to impress a knowledgeable buyer. One needed to be able to talk the talk and walk the walk.