Page 8 of The Biker and the Gamer
Flipping the mint over on my tongue, I reply, “She speaks on behalf of The Metal House.”
“Maybe. But not on behalf ofyou.” He leans forward, a dirty smirk on those stupidly sexy lips. “I don’t thinkanyonespeaks on behalf of you.”
What the hell is he playing at? Irritated and inexplicably hot, I snap, “Is there something else I can help you with?”
“Yeah,” he says without a moment’s hesitation. “Let me take you out to lunch.”
Whoa. Straight out the gate. “You’re not my type.”
“Um, should I leave—” Lisa starts to ask, glancing back and forth between us.
“You’re not mine either,” he assures me with a grin and an easy shrug. “But in another way, you are.”
Huh?“What does that even mean?”
“I’d like to propose something.” His gaze flicks to Lisa, then bounces around to the cameras in the ceiling. “Preferably somewhere where there’s no audience?”
“You tryna poach me from The Metal House?”
“Not at all.”
“You ever had Caribbean patties?”
“I’m…not sure.”
“You’ve never had it,” I say. Because no one forgets having Caribbean patties. “Meet me at Cookie’s Treat. Twenty minutes.”
A gleam in his eyes, he nods and begins backing up, keys dangling from his fingers. “Don’t stand me up now, Kendra.”
“Kennywouldn’t,” I say, annoyed that he insists on using my full name. “But Kendra just might.”
Alec
Cookie’s Treat isa dollhouse. No joke. I feel as if I’ve strolled onto the pages of a pop-up book, what with all the cutesy décor and childlike splashes of pinks and purples and yellows and greens, cursive chairs and cupcake tables.
If it weren’t for the two big, gruff, tatted bikers chatting up a floor assistant by the cupcake tower, the one puffing a cigar just outside the front door, and the oversexualized server uniforms, I’d think this place was a kiddies’ or girl-only joint.
Snagging one of the free mini-cupcake samples from the cupcake tower, I find a seat close to the windows.
I don’t expect Kendra to be here on time. She doesn’t seem the type. She’s more one to make you sweat it out. Push and push and push before she gives you a chance to pull. Heck, I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t show at all. I’ll just have to push that much harder if she doesn’t.
Fifteen minutes later, I hear the zing of a motorbike and I justknowit’s her. Of course she’s a rider. Now that I think about it, I can’t picture her character with any other mode of transportation.
Seconds later, a powerful matte-black Ducati revs up to the curb outside and her slight, shapely figure dismounts. Black jeans, combat boots, black skull-head tank, and a studded leather jacket. She takes off her helmet and hooks it on the handle, then ruffles her hair back to life with her fingers.
From my seat by the window, I watch as she walks up to the tall, muscular biker outside and gives him a fistbump. They exchange words, and he says something that makes her throw her head back and laugh, hard.
Finally, a smile. Damn if it isn't beautiful. I wonder what it takes to make a girl like Kendra laugh that hard.
She saunters in and scans the store, finding mine in a few short seconds. Her dark style is such a stark contrast to the colorful Wonderland this place is. As she begins making her way to me, the two bikers who are still chatting up the floor assistant by the cupcake tower catch her attention and she jerks her chin at them in acknowledgment.
Ok, so she's friends with motorcycle gang members. Or maybe she’s part of it? Maybe she’sdatingone of them. Hmm.
“I see Kendra decided to show after all,” I say when she reaches my table.
“It's Kenny,” she corrects.
I know she hates it that I insist on calling her Kendra, but she's not a Kenny. She's aKendra Tisdale. This striking creature has no idea how magical her name is.
