Page 3 of Rough

And old-school rap song began to play over the speakers.

The small gathering of people stared with open mouths as he revved the engine. Appearing to be mere seconds from his departure, he cocked his head to the side and shouted over the rumbling exhaust.

“I’m gonna be late for a fuckin’ meeting. Give me your number, we’ll settle this up later.”

I took a few steps toward him.

He pulled his helmet over his long hair and glanced at his knuckles again. Undoubtedly expecting my telephone number, he looked up and shook his head. He was disgusted with me, and I felt terrible.

I didn’t respond. At least for that moment in time, I couldn’t.

Somehow his eyes commanded every ounce of my attention, and I wasn’t a person who typically cared about someone’s eyes. Muscles had always been my weakness, and although he was built like a professional football player, it seemed his mysterious gaze had me not caring in the least. After spending a moment trying to decide if his eyes were green or brown, I gave up and offered him all I could afford to give.

“I’m a nurse,” I explained. “At least let me take a look at your--”

He barked out a laugh. “I don’t need you to take a look at any fuckin’ thing.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans, mumbled something, and pulled out his phone. “What’s your fuckin’ number?”

With my eyes still locked on his, I recited my phone number. “6-1-9-4-4-7-1-0-2-0.”

He broke my gaze, tapped his finger against the screen, and then looked up. “Name?”

Hazel. His eyes were hazel. My mouth curled into a smile. “Tegan.”

“What?”

“Tegan,” I shouted. “T-E-G-A-N.”

“Tegan.” He nodded and then put on his sunglasses. “What’s your last name?”

“Rassini. R-A-S-S-I-N-I.”

He pulled his motorcycle forward a few feet, positioned it between the vehicles, and then glanced over his shoulder. “You better answer the fuckin’ phone when I call.”

“I will,” I said, although at that particular moment, I couldn’t receive a call if I wanted to.

As he rode away, I made note of the patch embroidered on the back of his vest.

Filthy Fuckers MC.

It didn’t sound like the name of a motorcycle club I wanted to piss off.

But it was far too late to prevent that from happening. I was sure of it.

I stared beyond the two-dozen onlookers who had gathered, and, as he sped off, hoped I got my phone bill paid before he tried to call me.

TWO

Pee Bee

“That’s not an answer, it’s an excuse,” I fumed. “He said he was on the floor for almost a fuckin’ hour.”

“That’s an exaggeration.” She sighed and then looked at me. “I stepped out here for no more than a minute to answer a phone call, just like I said. That’s it. When I went back inside, he was out of his wheelchair.”

My father’s nurse and I were on the front porch in a heated argument. He said she had left him unattended for an hour, and she was denying it. I knew better than to question him about his claim; he was a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one of them.

“So, my Pop’s a liar?”

She flipped her hair over her shoulder and shot me a look. “I didn’t say that.”