Page 29 of Marcus: Sins of the Father

His face lights up, flashing straight white teeth. “Yeah, you’re hooked.”

“Afraid so,” I concede.

A table full of female riders dressed in riding gear sit next to us, their helmets off to the side. They look happy, invigorated, and loving life. I get it completely. I understand now. One ride on a motorcycle, and it’s changed everything.

I love this place and know I want to come back again with Marcus. Warmth floods me, and I realize I’m already thinking of this place as our place. Maybe I’m being silly, but it all feels so right. Everything feels so easy with this man. I lock eyes with him, and somehow it feels like he understands, like he gets everything I’m feeling right now.

Before I stop myself, I lean across the table and press a quick kiss to his lips.

“What was that for?” he asks.

“Thank you for this.”

“Breakfast?”

I shake my head. “For the ride and this beautiful morning.”

He strokes the tip of his index finger along my cheek. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

We finish eating and head back to his clubhouse. It’s close to ten a.m. by the time we return. A couple more bikes are now parked, but it’s still mostly empty.

“Crash and Shane.” Marcus informs me, nodding to the newly parked bikes.

I climb off the back of his motorcycle and stretch while he shuts the engine off.

I glance at the time. “It was fun being your bartender in shining armor, and I loved the ride, but I need to head back. I’ve got to be at work at four this afternoon, and I’d like some kind of sleep before then.”

“All right. Let me follow you home. Make sure you get there okay.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it is.” He touches my chin gently, then glances at the clubhouse. “But we need to get out of here quick before one of the brothers sees me and puts me to task.”

***

Marcus—

I follow Brandy into a gated apartment complex, parking in a spot next to her. The place seems newly built and in pristine condition.

When she climbs from her truck, I take her hands in mine. “This morning was fun. We should do it again sometime, minus the nail.” I yawn.

“It was fun.” She studies my tired eyes. “Hey, come up and get a cup of coffee. I don’t want you falling asleep on your way home.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I stretch and follow her through a locked door and up the stairs to the second floor. She leads me into a modern-styled apartment with vaulted ceilings and a pair of skylights in the living room. Natural light floods in, and a set of sliders leads out to a covered porch. The place is incredibly tidy, and I’d almost say it was the model, except for the mess of papers strewn about a glass top desk pushed into a corner—the kind of creative chaos I’d expect from a writer.

Brandy slips off my old leather and walks into the open kitchen. She pulls down a white ceramic cup and pushes a button on her single cup coffee maker. I follow her and glance around while it fills, taking in the magnets on the fridge. Phantom of the Opera, the Eiffel Tower, and Catalina Island.

I point at them. “You’ve been there?”

“Yes, to all three. I saw the stage production of Phantom on Broadway when I was a child. Paris was a girl’s trip with my mother, and Catalina was last summer with a friend.”

“A friend or boyfriend?”

“Are you jealous?”

“Absolutely.”

“Here you go.” She hands me the steaming mug, changing the subject, and our hands brush against each other, our eyes connecting.

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