Page 39 of Cocky Jerk

She’s every man’s perfect fantasy, but she’s my reality.

Or at the very least, she could’ve been.

“She comes off like she’s tough as nails and at first glance, you think a man can’t break her. That she chews them up and spits them out when she’s had her fill. But the more you learn about her, the more you realize under all that leather there is just a girl. No one’s held a door for her, Tig. No fucking man has ever shown her that simple respect.”

“I’m not really sure where you’re going with this,” he says. “I think you want to hold her door open for her, am I right? She’s got a great ass and you want to hold doors for her, that’s gotta be it.”

“Yeah, I want to hold her door. I want her to know there are guys out there who recognize her worth and respect her. Maybe then she’ll stop dating fucking felons like Hound.”

“Okay, so what’s the problem? Take her out, show her a good time and see where it goes.”

“It can’t go anywhere.”

“Because you and her daddy play on opposite sides of the law? Who gives a fuck? You aren’t building a case against the man. You’re fucking his daughter.”

“I’m not fucking her,” I hiss.

“Well, that’s just ignorant. What are you waiting for?”

I was waiting for Monday and Chicken Piccata.

“She hasn’t told me who her father is,” I tell him. “There’s a reason she doesn’t want me to know and my guess is, it has a lot to do with him doing time for assaulting an officer.”

Sighing, he leans forward and braces his elbows on his knees.

“Let me ask you a question, do you plan on telling her you know the truth about her old man?”

And confess to doing a search on the Corrupt Hellraisers? Is he crazy?

“Fuck, no.”

“Then unless you plan on proposing sometime soon, just go with the flow.”

“Bite your tongue.”

Laughing, he swipes a hand over his face.

“Man, I give you six months before you’re asking me to go ring shopping with you.”

“You’re out of your mind,” I scoff.

Fucking insane is what he is.

“Make it three months.”

He stands and grabs a fresh pair of rubber gloves.

“Now, if you’re done PMSing, I got work to do.”

“I’m your next client,” I tell him, taking another swig of my beer.

“The fuck you are. Make an appointment and see to it you’re not drunk when you do. I don’t need you bleeding like a pig in my chair.”

He’s gotta be kidding me. I’ve been waiting four weeks for him to finish the piece on my back.

“Oh, come on. It’s just a beer. You make it like I swallowed a bottle of Heparin.”

“Make an appointment,” he repeats.

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