Kristen Ashley - Motorcycle Man

Then I turned to the computer and opened up my e-mail in order to find Lanie’s resignation letter because I was done with Ride Custom Cars and Bikes but mostly because I was done with Tack, the big, fat jerk.

“Say again?” I heard Tack growl.

“You heard me,” I bit out and clicked on Lanie’s e-mail.

“Babe, look at me.”

“Kiss my ass,” I replied, double clicking on Lanie’s attachment and ignoring the sparking, scary biker dude vibe that was suddenly saturating the room.

“Red, look… at… me.”

I looked at him, or, more accurately, glared at him.

“You got a problem?” he growled.

Did I have a problem? What a jerk!

“Yes,” I told him. “I have a problem.”

“What’s your problem?”

What was my problem? Ohmigod!

I didn’t know what to do. I was so angry, I couldn’t think. Anything I could say would expose too much. For some bizarre reason, I fell in love with him over tequila and really great sex. Then I fell out of love with him because he used me and he was a jerk about it. Then I started to fall back in love with him while he was using me again, being the jerk he was. In the meantime, I knew he slept with at least one other woman. And all I got out of all that was a lot of hassle, two beers, two slices of pizza and a number of really great orgasms.

Without any way to explain it and not put myself out there, I stated, “My problem is none of your business.”

“You made it my business by telling me to kiss your ass.”

“If you have an issue with the way I communicate, Tack, fire me,” I retorted.

“Jesus,” he crossed his arms on his chest then asked rudely, “You on the rag?”

I felt pressure build in my head and fired back on a near shout, “No! And if I was, that wouldn’t be your business either.” The pressure kept building and it forced me out of my chair, it forced my torso to lean across the desk toward him and it forced out of my mouth, “In fact, nothing about me is any of your business. I’m in a shitty mood and it’s none of your business why. So, if you’re hungry, go get your own stupid sandwich. I’m busy.”

Then I sat back down, turned to the computer and without reading the letter, I moved the mouse so the cursor on the screen was at the print button and I clicked. As I did this, through the pressure in my head and the thundering of my pulse beating in my wrists and neck, I heard Tack moving through the room. It wasn’t until the room darkened that what he was doing penetrated. But I had no opportunity to react before my chair was swiveled around forcefully making my body sway with the movement. Before I knew it, my head was tipped way back because Tack, hands on the arms of my chair, was leaned deep into my space.

“Explain the attitude, Red,” he ordered, his voice a low, angry rumble that I felt pulsating against my flesh.

“Are you insane?” I cried.

“Explain the fuckin’ attitude, Tyra.”

“Move away!” I demanded then I gasped because he didn’t move away.

No, he pulled me out of the chair to my feet. Then, I kid you not, his fingers curled into my skirt at the sides, he yanked it up so roughly my body jolted and my breath caught, then I felt his hands at my ass where he lifted me up, twisted and planted me on the desk. Reflexively, to stop from toppling back, my fingers curled into his tee as his hands left my ass. They went to the insides of my knees and forced them open. I gasped and then my back was flat on the desk. His hips were between my legs. His torso was pressed deep into mine. One of his hands was forcing my leg to curve around his hip and the fingers of his other hand slid into my hair, fisted at the back and his face was so close, it was all I could see.

“Ohmigod,” I whispered. “What are you doing?”

“I’m teachin’ you a lesson,” he growled. “You do not test a man like me, Tyra. You’ve never had a man like me so you gotta learn. You do not test a man like me.”

My arms were crushed between our bodies and I uncurled my fingers from his tee and pressed them flat against his chest as I whispered, “Please, get off me.”

“You want this,” he informed me.

I pushed harder against his chest. “Please, Tack, get off me.”

It was like I didn’t even speak when he went on, “I want this.”

“Please,” it was barely audible, “you’re scaring me.”

That penetrated and it did it in a way that made him even angrier. I knew it because I saw it on his face, in his eyes and I felt it in the air around us.

“Do not be scared of me, Tyra. Don’t you ever fuckin’ be scared of me.”

“Tack, you just manhandled me onto my desk,” I pointed out carefully.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I answered and it wasn’t a lie but that also wasn’t the point.

“Right,” he growled. “Now tell me what your fuckin’ problem is.”

“Um…”

His chest pressed deeper into mine. “Tyra,” he rumbled his warning.

“Can we continue this conversation maybe, erm… standing up?”

“I tried that, didn’t work. Now I’m tryin’ something else so talk to me.”

I sucked in breath as I stared into his eyes.

Then I whispered, “No.”

His eyes blazed into mine when he warned on a scary whisper, “I told you not to test me.”

“And I told you my problem was none of your business.”

“If it isn’t my business then keep a hold on that attitude, babe, and don’t make it my business.”

“Okay,” I thought it prudent to agree.

“I’m thinkin’ you don’t get this but when you turn off Broadway into Ride, you drive into my world. My world is different than the world you live in. Unless I allow the parts of it I like, you don’t get to live like you live in your world when you’re in mine. And when I’m in yours but you’re with me, you live like you’re in mine. Do you get me?”

I didn’t, actually, not at all. I still nodded.

He examined my face then with a suddenness that I again lost my breath, his body was gone. He yanked me to my feet, tugged my skirt back down then turned away.

I sucked in another breath then nearly choked on it when his eyes hit the computer monitor and they narrowed. Then his head turned toward the printer, his arm reached out to nab the paper on top, he turned it over and in about two seconds, I watched his jaw turn to stone.

Uh-oh.

“Tack –” I started on an exhale and then he was on me again, this time he rounded me then moved in. I retreated fast, bumping into my chair which rolled away and then bumping into the wall where he pinned me with his body.

“I don’t accept,” he growled into my face.

I stared up into his and stammered, “Wha… what?”

“Your resignation, Red.”

Oh boy.

“Tack –”

His hand came up, his palm warm against my jaw, his fingers curving around my ear and neck and his face got even closer.

“You gotta learn,” he told me.

“Learn what?” I whispered.

“We play this my way.”

“Honestly,” I was still whispering, “please hear me, honestly, Tack, I don’t want to play.”

“I got two Saturdays, Red, two Saturdays that prove that a lie.”

I clenched my teeth and stared into his eyes.

His fingers tensed and lifted up, pulling me closer.

“Gave you four days to play it your way. Don’t like the way you play so we play this my way,” he rumbled.

Uh… what?

I didn’t ask. I bit my lip. I couldn’t help it and at that point, didn’t have it in me to try.

“You got me?” he asked.

“I got you,” I answered softly.

His eyes moved over my face before they locked on mine. “Do not be scared of me,” he ordered, his voice still firm but also weirdly gentle.

“Okay,” my voice was trembling even on that one, two syllable word.

His eyes held mine captive then he let me go, stepped away, ripped my resignation letter in half and dropped the pieces on my desk.

I stayed pressed against the wall and watched him, knowing I had just lied. I knew he was a scary biker dude and now I knew he was seriously a scary biker dude.

“Get your purse,” he demanded as he walked to the door that led to the garage and unlocked it then went on to say unbelievably, “We’ll get a sandwich together.”

I swallowed and my mind raced for excuses why I couldn’t get a sandwich with him because I needed him to go out and get his own sandwich so I could get in my car and drive to Vancouver.

“Uh…” I mumbled, he turned, his eyes slicing to me and then the sound of someone trying the handle of the door to outside could be heard.

Tack’s eyes went to it and my eyes went to it.

Then we both heard a girl’s voice from outside. “Dad! Are you in there?” The handle turned again, its sound desperate. “Dad! Open up! God! Open up! Mom’s bein’ a bitch!”

I stared at the door.

Tack moved to it. Then he unlocked it and opened it.

Then two teenagers were in my office. Two teenagers that were most assuredly of Tack’s loins. Two teenagers who were visibly in the throes of a serious drama.

Oh hell.

“Mom’s bein’ a total bitch!” Tack’s daughter cried again, approximately a second after she cleared the door.

I stared at her. She had Tack’s hair except long, its glorious waves cascading down her back well past her bra strap. She also had his sapphire blue eyes, hers were flashing because she was pissed way the hell off. She was petite and slim but rounded, wearing jean shorts, a sweet Harley Davidson tee and flip-flops. Her blemishless skin, every inch of it, was tanned a beautiful brown. She was a teenage knockout. And she was pacing with extreme, teenage girl agitation.