Page 9 of Rough

“Two-thirty-eight?”

“Two-thirty-one,” I said without looking at him.

He chuckled. “Far sight from two and a quarter.”

I glared at him. “Six fucking pounds.”

“Just as well be fifty. If you’re going to lie about your weight, why not lie big? Hell, tell those dip-shits you ride with you’re throwing two and a dime. Maybe you can get one of ‘em to take you out on a date.” His eyes slowly widened. “Which brings us to another subject. When are you going to settle down?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean settle down. Stop being a miscreant, find a good woman, and settle the fuck down, Son. Our time on this earth is limited, you’re aware of that, right?”

I wasn’t willing to listen to another speech about how I was a man-whore, but I felt a need to defend my club brothers. “Why you always got to be talking shit on the fellas?”

“I told you when you started riding with that fucking Navarro and the rest of those degenerates that I didn’t like it. It’s nothing but a god damned gang. I didn’t raise you to be a gang-banger, Son.”

“It ain’t a gang.”

“The fuck it isn’t.”

“It’s a club.”

“Kind of like calling your cock a lollipop, ain’t it?”

I turned to face him. “I don’t see the connection.”

“It’s deceiving to the listening ear,” he said. “Now put up my plate before that yolk dries on it. That shit never washes off in the dishwasher once it gets hard. When you get back, we’ll finish this discussion. I’m far from done talking about this.”

I hated rinsing off dishes. Even so, I took his plate to the kitchen, eager to escape his lecture. As I rinsed it, he began to yell.

“Hooptie just pulled up across the street,” he shouted. “Cute bitch driving. Looks like the fuckin’ thing’s missing a door, though. What’d you do, hire that girl that wrecked your bike?”

“What-fucking-ever,” I breathed. “I’m coming.”

“I ain’t shittin’ ya. She’s a real looker, and the car’s missing a fuckin’ door. Looks like she’d fall out of it if she took a hard right turn.” He started laughing, and then caught his breath. “Looks funny as hell.”

I put the plate in the dishwasher. “Be there in a minute.”

“She’s got dark hair that’s pulled into a ponytail, and she’s wearing maroon scrubs, like a doctor. Jesus. She’s cute. Hopefully, she’s better than the last one.”

I was sure he was joking about the door, but stepped into the living room a little curious, nonetheless. After wiping my hands on the thighs of my jeans, I glanced up and peered through the window. Parked across the street, in front of the neighbor’s house, was the very car that had caused the wreck with my beloved bike.

What the fuck?

There was a loud knock at the door.

“You gonna answer that or stand there with your jaw on the floor?”

I couldn’t fucking believe it.

The doorbell rang.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you,” he asked. “Answer the fuckin’ door.”

I stomped to the door and yanked it open.

She looked quite a bit different than the day she slung her door into the front of my bike, but there was no mistaking who she was.