Seriously need my head checked.
“You don’t do wings.” I say it without thinking.
“How do you know that?”
Dammit. I was hoping she’d let me get away with knowing something about her that I don’t even think her dad knows. Or if he does, he doesn’t seem to care when he orders a big wing spread for Super Bowl Sunday every year.
I just shrug. I’m not about to answer her.
“Whatever. This place is cute.”
She looks around, and I think this is the first time she’s actually seeing the place. Before, she was just trying not to seeme. But now I watch her take it in. It’s a small hole-in-the-wall. It popped up five years ago and is convenientlylocated down the block from my computer area. I try not to come in here a lot; I don’t want people to see me as a local and notice when I’m in the area. I prefer when people don’t see me. Which is hard enough as it is since I’m a big guy, drive a Harley, and am part of a biker club that’s well known around here.
The owners of this place were from up north somewhere. Came down to Kansas to be near their kids when they went to college a few years back and got stuck here making a living instead. Just another family not able to let go of their kids. Reminds me of a few of the brothers back home. Probably why I’ve got a soft spot for this place. Well, that, and the food’s good, plus the price is right. Almost too good to be true, but this is Kansas. Chickens ain’t hard to find around here if you know where to look.
“Surprised Dad hasn’t put his name up on this place yet.”
She isn’t wrong. Her dad likes to “welcome” people into the town. Meaning he finds new businesses, introduces himself, and sees how they work. Sees if they’re going to be a problem, for the town or the club. And then he likes to takea picture of himself with the owners and put it up somewhere visible. It’s his way of showing anyone who comes in that the place is under the club’s protection. It might not seem like a lot to some people, but when another club comes in—and not all of them make themselves known to us—they see it, and they know what it means: If they fuck shit up for one of these places, they fuck shit up for themselves.
“He doesn’t need to.”
Her eyes narrow in confusion, and then they widen as she smiles. “Oh. Well, isn’t that interesting?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t seem like nothing.”
“Just noticed that they might not need Daddy’s name around here when they’ve got yours.”
“Ain’t like that.” I shake my head.
“Sure it ain’t. Just like the picture back there ain’t you.”
I turn and see what she’s looking at. I should have expected this from her. The only picture of a person on the wall behind me is of some bald, fat guy holding a sign up for winning some damn wing-eating contest.
“Looks just like you.”
I turn back to see her smirking. She licks her fingers clean with a glint in her eye before grabbing the neck of her bottle and taking a healthy drink.
I shake my head, and her giggle floats through the air, a sound that has me adjusting in my seat but not biting my tongue. It’s a noise I’ve heard before, so I’m used to it. But this is the first time she’s ever done so with just me. Sure, it’s because she’s laughingatme and not with me, but I’ll take what I can get. Even then, I know I’m pushing my luck.
We finish up and even box up half a dozen to take back with us. Hers. I ate all of mine. But I’ve got no problem taking her food for myself. If I’m lucky, she’ll forget about it in the morning and I can have a decent lunch tomorrow.
When we head out, she slides easily onto the back of my bike without a fuss. I always knew women were morecompliable after they eat. Seen it with Mama Bear a time or two. Figured it was worth a shot. And I’ll be damned, it worked.
We ride back to the clubhouse, which is fairly empty. Still pretty early. I expect everyone is still out at the Flying Monkey or back at their own places. Either way, there are only a few brothers around, mostly prospects. A few vamps, too, but one look at Ruby walking through the doors and they make themselves scarce. Seeing them run when she’s around always makes me grin to myself.
“Now what?” She flops her fine ass onto the couch as I go to the bar, grabbing her a beer and me a bottle with a glass. I hand her the beer as I put my stuff down and then go to the cabinet under the TV.
“Now”—I grab the controllers and head back to the couch, sitting close but with plenty of space between us—“we play.”
The theme song fromMario Kartcomes on as I pour my first drink.
“Seriously?” She drinks from her beer but doesn’t reach for the controllers yet. Which is fine. This isn’t her typical gaming experience. She’s more computer than console, but she knows how to play. I’ve seen her do it with the kids.
I grab a controller and fiddle with it before I toss it beside her and pick up my own.
