Page 7 of Wild Valentine
Then it all slides together.
“You’re from the magazine.”
I push away from the bar as my chest deflates. My angel is here for me, but only to interview me for some goddamn vanity magazine. To exploit my story to sell copies of their pretentious magazine.
She nods. “I’m Hazel Lumley, arts journalist forCulture Slammagazine.”
She holds out a hand, and I stare at it until she draws it back in. The frown reappears on her face, but this time I’m not so eager to wipe it off.
“I told your boss I’m not interested, so stop harassing me.”
Her eyes go wide, and I almost feel sorry for her. “I’m not harassing you…”
Tracking me to the MC headquarters sure feels like harassment to me. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Just give me five minutes of your time…”
“Five minutes won’t change anything.” I hate to do this to, her and I really hope she doesn’t lose her job. But there’s no way I’m talking to that magazine. “I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time, Hazel, but it’s a no.”
I grab my jacket off the back of the stool and pocket my phone. My guest is turning up soon, and I want to be there to greet him.
A pang of regret tugs at me as I stride past my New York angel. But that’s women for you. Duplicitous.
It’s best she gets back on the plane and straight home to New York where she belongs.
3
HAZEL
“Well, that went well,” I mutter to myself as the incredibly hot biker who turns out to be the moody artist storms out of the bar.
I watch his retreating ass, finding some comfort in his succulent looking butt cheeks pressed against his tight jeans as he stalks out the door. At least I got to watch his ass, even if I didn’t get the story.
“You want anything else?” the sweet but oblivious man behind the counter asks. “The kitchen will be opening in half an hour.”
“This is fine. Thank you for making it for me.”
Any self-respecting cafe in New York would have been open since five to get the early morning customers, but I guess things don’t work that way in the mountains.
I came straight to the MC headquarters in the hopes of catching Marcus, but I didn’t expect him to be so against the idea of speaking to me. Scott made it sound like all he needed was a bit of female persuasion. He didn’t tell me he flat out doesn’t want to talk.
I nibble on my fingernail, and I contemplate my next move. It’s clear Marcus feels harassed, thanks to Scott, no doubt. If Igive him some space and a bit of time to think about it, he might come around.
He probably feels hijacked by me turning up at his club’s HQ. People don’t like being taken by surprise. Now that he knows I’m here, he might come around to the idea of talking. In the meantime, I can find out a little about the man.
“Is he always that moody?” I ask the guy behind the bar. He seems not to hear me as he pulls a tray of glasses out of the dishwasher. That’s when I notice the hearing aids on both his ears.
All the MC members are veterans, Scott said, and I wonder if this man is too. He doesn’t seem much older than me, in his early or mid-twenties, and I wonder if he lost his hearing in the war.
My curiosity’s buzzing with questions, and I get a tingle down my spine that lets me know I’m onto a good story. Scott was right. Veterans in a motorcycle club is good human interest angle.
I wait for the young man to turn around and try again.
“Are you a member of the MC too?” It’s obvious he is by the leather jacket he’s wearing with the Wild Rider’s emblem, but it’s a conversation starter.
He breaks into a smile and slaps the patch on the left breast of his jacket. “Yes ma’am.”
I’ve never been addressed as ma’am in my life. I like it. No one’s this polite in New York.
