He walked back toward me. “You okay?”
“Motorcycle club?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Like Hell’s Angels?”
Booker smirked. “In theory.”
“Crap.” I glanced up at him. “I really should go.”
“Go where, darlin’? There’s nothing around here for over a mile in any direction.”
“Clarify something for me. Are you a club because you have really nice bikes and like to hang out and drink beer on occasion, or are you like outlaws or something?”
“Since that’s club business, it’s none of yours.”
“Right.” I couldn’t seem to stop swallowing convulsively. “Just point me in the direction of the closest place I can make a phone call and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“About twenty-five yards in front of you.”
“You don’t understand,” I whispered. “I can’t go in there.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because my dad’s the freakin’ chief of police,” I snapped, before realizing I’d just spouted off something that could get me killed or kidnapped in a heartbeat, depending on whose hands that information was in.
“You’re shittin’ me.”
I shook my head. “I wish I was.”
“Well, fuck me.”
“No thank you,” I quipped. Retorts were my specialty, especially when I was nervous.
He cocked his head. “You wouldn’t be disappointed, babe.”
I pressed my lips into a thin line, willing my mouth to stay shut.
Booker chuckled. “The shop’s clean, sweetheart. Totally legit, although, probably better I take you home than you have your daddy pick you up.”
“It would be my brother, actually... or Kimmie. Kim’s my best friend. Not that you care who my best friend is.” I took a deep breath, rambling was not a good option right now.
He smiled again. God, he had a nice smile. Of course, it was the panty-dropping kind, but for now, I wouldn’t react...my undies must stay firmly in place. “There’s only six of us here right now, so we’ll get your car into the lot, get your info, and I’ll take you home.”
I swallowed. “I should call my brother.”
“Then we’ll get your car into the lot and you can call your brother.”
I nodded and let him lead me through a large parking lot surrounded by eight-foot high fencing complete with barbed-wire on top. I followed him into the warmth of a sparse but clean waiting area. It looked like the waiting room in my local oil change place, which for whatever reason surprised me. I’m not sure what I was expecting. Maybe centerfolds from Playboy circa 1984 plastered on the walls?
“Phone’s on the counter,” Booker said. “Dial nine for an outside line.”
I nodded and picked up the phone, dialing as he opened a door and yelled, “Mack! Need you in the front.”
“Hello?” Kim answered, sounding confused.
“Kimmie, hey it’s me,” I whispered.
