Page 57 of The Belle and the Biker

“Jesus, Barbara. This isn’t like you. What’s going on? And no. Astrid Menasco’s a crazy bitch, and not in a fun way. And…” I don’t tell her about Savannah because there’s nothing to tell, but I also can’t imagine being with another woman.

Which I guess means that my balls are just literally going to explode, and my obituary will list the most embarrassing cause of death known to man.

“…and even if Astrid were normal, which one meeting with her told me she isn’t, I would fucking drive my bike into a semi before I let my father pick my dates. End of story.”

There’s a long silence, which makes me uneasy.

Then, out of the blue, she blurts, “How did your father treat your mother? Did she ever talk about what he was like when they dated?”

Where did that come from? Why does she sound so freaked out? “Has he hit you?” My rage meter shoots up to an eleven. I’ll fucking pound the shit out of him if he has. Damn, the consequences.

“Oh, no. Goodness, no.” She sounds shocked at the very idea. “He’s just being very irritable and snappish these days.”

“I never saw him with my mother. And he didn’t date her; he just met her in a motel for sex. He dumped her when she told him she was pregnant and threatened her with dire consequences if she ever told anyone I was his.”

“He did? He told me…he said that he didn’t even find out you existed until your mother died.”

Of course, he did. The air in front of me swims with the heat of my anger. “I’ve got a whole bunch of voice mails he left for my mother that say otherwise. You’ve been married to a lying sack of shit for twenty-two years. I’ve got to go.” And I hang up.

Rude, but my father’s lies about my origin, and his attempts to whitewash them, never cease to infuriate me.

I take several long, deep breaths.

Then, remembering that Savannah’s latest pet project is missing, I quickly call Tank because I know he’s an early riser and will already be up, breakfasted, dressed, and probably in his garage. I ask him to go look for Buttercup, maybe bring a bowl of something fragrant to lure her, and if he doesn’t find her, Savannah and I will head out again in a couple of hours and try again. The odds are good; she’s gone forever, though. There are a lot of stray dogs in the South, and you can’t save them all.

I rub my eyes and take a few more breaths before going back into the trailer.

Savannah is standing by the kitchen stove, wearing underwear and a T-shirt. Her back is to me, and the big, gorgeous globes of her ass taunt me. Is she actively trying to kill me? Arousal roars through me like a raging bonfire, and my cock threatens to tear through my jeans and seek her out under its power.

“I’m making us eggs and bacon,” she calls out.

“Fine.” I slam the door shut behind me.

“You don’t sound as if it’s fine. You sound grouchy.”

“I am grouchy.”

She turns the oven burner off and swivels around to look at me. Now I have to stare at her full breasts, straining against the thin fabric of her T-shirt. “What do you have to be crabby about?”

“How about the worst case of blue balls in mankind?”

“Crash! That was extremely crude.”

“Yep. That’s me. Crude and offensive.”

She glares down at her plate. “If you are suffering from that condition, why don’t you do something about it?”

“Because the only known cure is a certain stuck-up blonde who thinks she’s way too good for me!” There. I laid it out on the table.

“Me?” Her mouth opens in an “o” of shock.

I stalk over to her, my bare feet thudding on the floor. “You see any other stuck-up blondes in the room?”

“What on earth makes you think that I think I’m too good for you? You’re the one who left scorch marks out the door the one and only time we had sex!” she yells.

“Yeah, what a surprise, considering the first thing you said when you woke up was, ‘What have I done’?”

“Did I?” Her eyes widen in dismay. “I don’t remember that. I had six shots of Cuervo the night before and was pretty out of it.”

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