Page 2 of The Biker and the Professor
He’s attractively tall. Around six feet two inches to my five feet four. His shoulder-length, sun-streaked blond hair is perennially pulled back in a messy bun. But it’s that rugged, low-cut beard on his angular jaw that gets me every time. It makes him appear older,badass.
He’s in faded denim, shit-kicker boots, a plain white t-shirt, and a leather biker jacket representing the motorcycle club he’s from. A full sleeve of tattoos clothes one arm, while the other is ink-free.
He puffs out a mouthful of smoke and studies me through the swirls. He’s not supposed to be smoking on campus, but it’s pretty darn obvious that this guy is both a rule-breaker and limit-pusher.
“Gunnar,” I acknowledge as I walk past him to my car.
He doesn’t respond. He never does.
Climbing into my vehicle, I slam the door and start the engine.
Nero watches me from the outside, as he always does.
I pull out of the parking space and gas it to the exit.
Nero watches me leave.
Glancing back at him in the rear-view mirror, I whisper, “Until tomorrow, Gunnar.”
Some would call it stalking, or creepy. But weirdly enough, Nero’s presence makes me feel safe.
I’m new here. Having left all my friends and family back in Washington, Nero Gunnar’s stalkerish tendencies have become my solace.
I’m not afraid.
Chapter 2
Toni
I swing intothe driveway of my three-bedroom home in the quiet, tucked-away neighborhood of Opal Meadows.
My overly friendly neighbor, Cookie, strolls out on her upper balcony as I clamber out of my car. “Hey, Professor.”
Aside from interactions with other professors on campus, I’ve kept to myself since settling here. I’ve been practicing the art of solitude and loving it. But with Cookie, there’s no escaping. She’s determined to be my friend. I’m not sure why—I’m a pretty boring person.
Slapping on a smile, I wave back. “Hey, Cookie. Had a good day?”
She sips amber liquid from a high-ball glass. “It was alright. Smoked a blunt, caught up on some Ray Donovan episodes, did some laundry. About to prepare dinner now then grab a quick nap before work later.”
Cookie is the proprietor of high-class gentleman’s club in town, but you’d never be able to tell with all the pink, sparkly teenage crap she wears. When she told me she’s pushing forty, I almost didn’t believe her. Thirty is more believable.
With her ever-glossy, ever-bouncy, voluminous red hair and big, bright eyes, you’ll be quick to dub her as the girl next door. But Cookie is far from it. She’s bossy, tough, and forceful. Conniving. A chronic pot-smoker, an alcohol-abuser. She could outbake Martha Stewart with her eyes closed.
Due to her career choice, the prudes and judgy-Suzies in the neighborhood treat her with contempt. According to them, she doesn’t “belong” in the pricey, cushy, classy neighborhood of Opal Meadows. Tell that to her G-Class Benz parked in her driveway and her Audi parked in the back garage, or the mortgage she doesn’t have since she bought her house with cash. If she canaffordto live in the neighborhood, then she certainlybelongsin the neighborhood.
“Sounds like a damn good day to me,” I say through a light laugh.
She shrugs and takes another sip of alcohol. “I’ve got like four loaves of lemon zucchini bread in the oven. Want a loaf when they’re done?”
My mouth waters. Did I mention she makes thebestfreaking pastries? Thanks to my blessed genes, I don’t gain weight easily, but her delicious pastries have made me seven pounds heavier since I moved here. I swear she’salwaysbaking something, and seeing as I’m the only one in the neighborhood she’s sociable with, I’m often the recipient of a lot of tasty goodies. “Gimme, gimme!”
Laughing, she takes a gulp of her liquor this time, emptying the glass, and strolls back inside.
A stack of assignment papers in hand, I climb the steps to my porch and key open the front door. Marley, my cat, greets me at once, brushing her snow-white fur against my legs. I deposit the papers on the side table before crouching down to pet her. “Well, hello to you, too,” I croon. “You missed Mommy, didn’t you?”
She meows in delight, loving the attention; so spoiled.
I scoop her up and amble into the living area, dumping my workbag and keys on the teal sofa. Marley leaps out of my arms and snuggles up against the throw pillows.
