Kristen Ashley - Motorcycle Man

“What did you think?” I whispered.

“She shoulda cut his throat with the razor,” Tack replied and I grinned.

Definitely scary biker dude.

Then I said, “She didn’t have that in her.”

“Right,” he muttered.

“And if she did, he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to learn how to be a better person and find absolution.”

Tack stared at me intently for a few beats. Then he repeated quietly, “Right.”

“So did you like it?” I pressed.

“Not really a movie you like, Red,” he answered.

“I think it’s beautiful,” I whispered.

“Not sure you understand the concept of beauty, darlin’.”

“Truth, honesty, perseverance, strength, love of all kinds and forgiveness are all beautiful, Tack. The most beautiful stories ever told are the most difficult to take.”

For a few more beats he again stared at me intently then he said, this time on a whisper, “Right,” and his eyes didn’t release mine.

I liked him looking at me like that. I liked him being like this. I liked pizza, beer and sad movies with an easy-to-be-with Tack. This was what I thought I’d found a week ago and here it was, in my living room.

God, what did I do now?

“You got any movies that don’t make you cry?” Tack asked and I blinked up at him.

“Yeah,” I answered.

He shifted me off him, lifted his legs off the coffee table, got up and went to my TV. He ejected the DVD, crouched in front of the cabinet and then dug through it, pulling out DVDs at random and totally ruining the alphabetical organization of my films. Then he opened a case, slid in another DVD and came back to the couch. He grabbed the remote from the end table and then he settled in again.

And when he settled, he did not slouch. He did not put his feet up on the table. No, he laid down flat on his back, ankles crossed, head on a toss pillow on the armrest. While he did this, he arranged me tucked into his side with my back to the back of the couch and my front plastered down his side.

Oh boy. Maybe it was time for me to start being smart.

I lifted up with a hand in his chest and looked down at him.

His eyes were on the TV and his arm with the remote in his hand was stretched out and aimed at the TV.

“Tack –”

He didn’t even look at me when he muttered, “Relax, Red.”

I started to push up from his chest and his arm around my waist got tight as his head turned my way.

Then he whispered, “Relax.”

I stared down at him. He turned his head back to the TV, hit some buttons and then tossed the remote on the coffee table. His arm curled me deeper into his body as his other hand went behind his head.

Speed started on the TV.

“Tack –”

“Relax.”

“Um –”

Another squeeze and his head turned to me.

“Baby,” he said softly in his gravelly voice, I felt that one word in my belly and it felt nice. “Relax.”

His eyes were warm, his arm was tight and his body against me was hard.

I bit my lip.

Then I made another decision and relaxed.

An hour later, I fell asleep with my cheek to Tack’s chest, my arm curved around his gut and my legs tangled in his.

I woke up confused.

It was dark and I was trapped in some kind of comfy cocoon. I sluggishly surveyed my situation and it hit me that I was sleeping on the couch with Tack. My head was cushioned on his bicep, my cheek pressed to his chest, his forearm was wrapped around my shoulders, his other arm resting on my waist. My arm was draped around his, my leg was hitched over his hip and his leg was cocked and resting between mine.

Okay, damn, this felt nice. Beautiful. Special. Perfect.

Maybe I wasn’t wrong a week ago because this felt right.

Really right.

Dreamy.

I snuggled closer. Tack’s arm around my waist tightened unconsciously before it went loose again and a second later, I fell back to sleep.

I was being lifted and I opened my eyes to see weak light in the room.

It was dawn.

My arm automatically slid around Tack’s neck and I whispered, “Tack.”

“Sh, baby,” he whispered back, walking and carrying me.

I pressed my forehead into his neck and sighed.

Then I felt myself going down and I was in my bed, head on my pillow. I turned to my side and my eyes slid to him to see Tack standing beside the bed pulling the covers over me.

“Are you leaving?” I asked quietly.

“Got things to do,” he answered just as quietly.

“Okay,” I whispered, my eyes drifting closed and, as they did this, I felt the sweet sweep of his thumb across the apple of my cheek.

Then I felt his presence leaving me, my eyes drifted open and I saw he’d almost made it to my bedroom door.

“Tack?” I called, he stopped and turned.

“Yeah, baby.”

“Thanks for dinner.”

He grinned and it was no less sexy when I was half asleep.

“You’re welcome darlin’,” he replied and I grinned back as my eyes drifted closed again. Then I heard a muttered, “Pepperoni next time,” before I fell back to sleep.

I was in my office at Ride. It was the Thursday after the second Saturday night I’d spent with Tack. The second Saturday night I’d mistaken him for my motorcycle dream man. The second Saturday night where I made the way wrong decisions and acted so stupid I’d humiliated myself.

Four and a half days of nothing from Tack. Not one thing.

This did not mean I didn’t see him. I saw him. I saw him roaring in on his bike. I saw him standing outside the Compound talking to his biker brethren. I saw him working in the garage.

I did not see him anywhere around me. He didn’t come into the office and he didn’t pay another surprise visit to my house. But he was at Ride and he was either doing a bang up job of avoiding me or he forgot I existed.

Now I was a slut and an idiot and I decided that being a slut was more fun. A lot more fun. Being an idiot, melting toward Tack, letting him in over beer, pizza, sad movies and snuggling on my couch only to have him shut me out was not fun at all.

He’d used me. He needed a place to crash that Naomi couldn’t find so he showed at my door with pizza and turned on the biker charm to get what he needed to keep clear of his crazy, bitchy, stalker ex-wife.

And I’d let him. I’d even thanked him for a dinner I didn’t want to eat in the first damned place.

Yep. Totally an idiot.

My cell chirped on my desk, I picked it up, saw a text from Lanie, flipped it open and read it even though I knew what it was going to say.

Did you give notice yet?

This was the same text she sent six times a day, every day, since Tuesday when I realized that I’d been an idiot with Tack (again) and I’d shared this knowledge with her. She went from thinking he was a jerk to actively hating him. This was not surprising. This was what best friends did. Before Elliott, I’d done the same thing with numerous boyfriends of Lanie’s.

No, I texted back.

Five seconds later, I received, I’ll pay for your yoga classes until you get a new job.

Yesterday, she started an incentive strategy. We were up to once a month facials at her favorite salon, weekly invitations to Takeaway Thursday at her and Elliott’s place and now yoga classes.

I’ve applied three places. Give it time. I sent back.

Is he there today? She returned.

He was. He was currently in the garage working on that kickass red car I noticed no one touched but him. He was also currently avoiding me or forgetting I existed. It was nearly two in the afternoon. I’d heard him roar in at nine forty-five (I’d heard it and like the idiot I was, whenever I heard any bike roar in for the past four and half days, I’d looked), he’d sauntered into the garage and I hadn’t seen him since.

Yes, he’s here. I told Lanie.

I’m emailing you your letter of resignation now. You just have to print it, sign it and give it to him. Easy. Lanie replied.

She’d written my letter of resignation. Totally Lanie. I smiled at the phone. Then the door to the garage opened, I looked up and Tack stood there.

Damn.

I felt my smile fade and my throat clog at the same time my palm itched to find something to throw at him.

He walked right to my desk, eyes on me, hand to his back pocket and he said, “Do me a favor, babe. I’m starved. Go out and get me a sandwich.”

I stared up at him as he pulled out his wallet, opened it, yanked out some bills and tossed them on the desk in front of me. He was shoving the wallet in his back pocket when my throat unclogged but that itch in my palm intensified.

He hadn’t said word one to me after barging into my place and pretending to be a decent guy. Four and a half days later, he strolls in and tells me to get him a sandwich?

“Pardon?” I whispered.

“A sandwich. Roast beef and swiss. Get me a bag a chips and a pop while you’re at it. Don’t care where you go.”

“Pardon?” I repeated and his eyes narrowed.

“A sandwich, Red. Roast beef and swiss, chips and a pop.” When I simply continued to stare at him and said not a word, he added, “Jesus, you want me to write it down?”

My stare turned into a glare and I snapped, “No, handsome, you wrote it down, I wouldn’t be able to read it and I’m not getting you a sandwich. I have things to do. If you’re hungry, jump on your bike and go get your own damned sandwich.”