Page 11 of The Belle and the Biker

I've got to admit; even though she drives me nuts, I admire her courage. When I get pissed off, everyone else heads for the hills. My temper's too ugly for most, I guess. Sure was for my father's side of the family when I was an angry, resentful teenager grieving my mother's death. I barely lasted three months at my father's house before he packed me off to military school.

Savannah's never scared of my asshole side, though. When I get growly, she just leans in, eyes alight, spitting sparks. She may be soft and sweet on the outside, but she's definitely one of those Steel Magnolias.

And did she say something about me not liking her padding? Is she crazy?

Dumb question. Sure she is, and I wouldn't like a woman who didn't have some crazy in her.

But why would she say I didn't like her soft, luscious curves? She saw how I responded to her the night we were together. I couldn't get enough of her—and I know the feeling was mutual.

It was all physical for her, though. I know only too well how her kind of people—the wealthy, the cultured, the high and mighty—look at my kind of people. Had it ground in my face as a kid and as a teenager. Come in the back door. Stay on your side of town. Don't cross the tracks unless you want your ass whipped. It ultimately killed my mother, being treated like something dirty and worthless.

So I wasn't surprised when Savannah bolted upright after our one night together, gasped, "What happened?" and then stared at me like she'd woken up next to Freddy Kreuger. I was disappointed, yeah, but not surprised.

I knew she'd just gone through a divorce with some rich prep school shithead who cheated on her. Guess I was just a rebound bang. It wouldn't be the first time a hot rich chick had opted for a filthy roll in the hay with a dirty biker like me. It was the first time that it stung, though.

That's why I like to flirt with her now—because she's at least physically attracted to me, and there's something fun about watching her try to fight it, which she does because I'm not the kind of guy she'd ever want to be seen in public with.

But that's okay. I'm better off single. The Iron Ride is my family; they fill the empty spaces inside me just fine. They have my back like no one ever has before or since.

A few hours on the bike doesn't improve my mood any. The snow-capped trees blur together on the roadside as I roar by, and the sky is an endless ocean of blue, but I barely notice. I finally give it up and head for the motel.

I'm hanging out in the dive bar next to the motel when my phone rings with a California number that I recognize all too well.

I consider ignoring it, but my stepmother Barbara's been trying to call me for days. I have to give her some credit… She was nice to me when she and my dad took me in, and I was a total shit to her. She still mails me Christmas cards every year.

I answer it, and my father's on the other end.

"What?" I say, annoyed. Using my stepmother's phone to get me to answer was a dick move.

"Good to talk to you too, son."

"It's never good for us to talk to each other. We could go the rest of our lives never saying a word to each other, and we'd both be better off for it. What do you need?"

"What do I need? From you?" Emerson Barrington the Third is mortally offended by the suggestion that he would need anything from me.

"You've had your wife trying to call me for days. You want something. What?"

I hear deep, angry breathing on the other end of the line. I can practically see him struggling to control his temper.

Finally, he speaks. "The senator in my district just stepped down because of health problems. I'm running for his seat." He's been a mayor for the past twelve years, and his father was a senator, so that's not a big surprise.

It was, however, a surprise to everyone when Emerson Barrington the Third knocked up my mother, the diner waitress. Such a surprise that they didn't acknowledge me until the day my mother finally succeeded in drinking herself to death. My father had long ago married an acceptable match and had three kids that he paraded around on TV when he was running for mayor, breaking my mother's heart.

"Thanks for the heads-up. I don't live in your district, but I might just move there so I can vote for the other guy. Anything else?"

"Who are you to give me attitude?" he rages. "You're a fucking washed-up loser who's spent a lifetime wasting your potential just to spite me."

"Sad news, Emerson." I never call him Dad. He doesn't deserve the title. "You're not the inspiration for my lifestyle choices. You just don't occupy that much space in my head. I chose the life I wanted because I enjoy it. You don't enter into the equation."

"All right. I know you won't give up your biker lifestyle, so I have a proposition for you. You've talked about opening your own shop and garage someday. Selling classic bikes, customizing them, that kind of stuff." My stepmother must have passed that information along to him. Since I left military school, I've never had a conversation with him that lasted more than sixty seconds. "I can finance that for you. A gift, not a loan. A nice house paid off here in Kentucky. I'd just need you to be more careful about who you spend time with and consider settling down with someone respectable. I have a very nice girl in mind. Pretty comes from a good family. You're thirty, son. You're getting too old to sleep on people's couches."

"Thirty-one. And a hard pass. Plenty of my friends would finance a shop for me if I wanted to stay in one place that long."

Now it's time for the threats. My father is nothing, if not predictable. "You know, the biker gang you hang out with is well-known for causing many problems. Selling drugs. Starting gang wars."

Bullshit. Nobody in the Iron Ride sells drugs, and we don't start gang wars; we stop them by whatever means necessary, legal or otherwise. Usually otherwise.

And nobody messes with my brothers. "Watch yourself," I warn him.

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