Page 27 of The Biker and the Professor
Due to all his free time being dedicated to his job, school, or assignments, he hardly ever picks up when I call him, and rarely, if ever, texts back. Consequentially, I never know when I’m going to see him. He doesn’t communicate these things. He just shows up on my doorstep at random times.
I expect his randomness, anticipate it, so I never complain. My body is always excited to see him. Half the time I’m starved for him, anyway, considering he doesn’t show up for as long as five days sometimes.
When this prolonged starvation happens, I dress to seduce on days when he has my classes. To tempt him, to lure him, to let him know that my body needs his – a silentbeg.
Sometimes it works. But there are times when he’s so pissed at me for showing off “his property” that hedoesshow up, but denies me. He’ll merely cuddle me and order me to sleep.
Nero has all the control in this thing-ship, and I both love and hate it. No one would believe it. Who would have thought that after an eleven-year marriage, three miscarriages and a dirty divorce, that I’d be offering myself so willingly, submissively, to a twenty-year-old, filthy-mouthed, alpha-male biker?
I have no idea how long it’s going to last, or how soon it’ll be before he gets tired of me, but in the interim, I’m enjoying every moment of it. And hell if it’s not the most fun I’ve had in my entire life.
It’s Friday, the close of another work week, and I’m on my way to The Metal House. After class on Monday, Nero had given me a heads-up that he would be missing classes for the rest of the week because he was swamped at work and had to get a few jobs finished on time to keep his clients happy. While his absence would affect his attendance record, the upside to being with his Professor is that he had the advantage of private, catch-up lessons. I’ve been missing him all week, so after leaving campus, I decided to drop in at The Metal House to see him.
Although the company is responsible for whipping my car back in shape, I’ve never been there before. Not even to pay the invoice—I utilized a courier service to deliver the check. Nero took care of the rest.
I have no idea if I’m breaking any rules by popping in unannounced, but screw it, I miss him. Let him be pissed at me. He’s hot as sin when he’s pissed anyway.
Nero’s a huge shellfish lover, so I pick up some shrimp and crab stir-fry on the way.
The Metal House is directly across the street from “the compound”, a solid forty-minute drive from my neighborhood. The last time I was on this side of town was for the bonfire event.
I drive onto the lot of the auto shop and snag the last available parking spot. Painted red and black, the marquee in large chrome lettering, The Metal House is a fairly large and successful business. On one end of the lot are three red pump stations, and on the other end are stacks of tires of all sizes and rims inside a secured cage.
A weathered sign states the opening hours of 8 AM - 6 PM, Mon-Sat. It’s a little after five, the sun dimming with each passing minute, so I suppose I’m safe.
Stale air kisses my skin when I push open the plexiglass double doors and enter what seems to be both a reception area and a mini auto supply store.
Two women stand behind a long, red counter. One blonde and one raven-haired.
The raven-haired one I remember immediately: Kendra. The same girl who’d both been rude to me on the phone and wrapped in Nero’s arms on the night of the bonfire. I know who she is now, because the morning after the bonfire, Nero had assured me that they aren’t a thing. “Kenny’s my little sister,” he’d said. “She’s cool.”
Her goth-like style makes her hard to forget. Jet-black hair, black nails, inked skin, and all-black attire.
As I trek toward the counter, she arches her brow at me. She recognizes me, too. Before I can even open my mouth, she asks, “He’s expecting you?”
Yep, still rude. “No. Is he here?”
“Yeah. But he’s weird about being bothered at work.” She smirks as she adds, “All his Club Cats know that.”
There’s that name again. Club Cat. I hate it.“Yeah, well I’m not here to bother him.” I hold up the takeout bag. “I’m here to feed him.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. She holds her hand out for the bag, saying, “I’ll make sure he gets it.”
Tightening my grip on the bag, I reply through a tight-lipped smile, “If possible, I’d like to give it to him myself. Thanks.”
She rolls her heavy-lined eyes. Happy people don’t behave like that. She either has a crush on Nero or she’s going through something. She’s young. That’s the only reason I’m patient with her.
“You’re lucky he favors you, prissy.” She jabs her black-nailed thumb to a paint-stripped red door on the left of the counter. “He’s out in the Repair Station. Careful, you don’t wanna get any grease on those Louboutins.”
Ignoring her jibe, I walk as classily as I dare to the door and pushed it open. A long, narrow hall leads me to yet another red door that spits me out to where I assume is the back of the building—a massive, concrete area filled with motor vehicles and oil stains. On the left is an enclosed section called ‘Paint Shop’, and on the right is a large, warehouse-style area called ‘Repair Station.’
Dodging damaged vehicles, motorbikes, and isolated parts, I navigate to the Repair Station. There are at least five cars elevated in-between large metal posts, with big, buff mechanics in overalls working on them.
Spanish music spills from a radio somewhere.
Someone wolf-whistles at me, but I’m too focused on finding Nero to care. A burly, tattooed, black man steps in front of me, halting my steps. “You look lost, sweetheart,” he rumbles. “Whatcha doin’ back here?”
“I’m, um, here to see Nero,” I explain.
