Page 5 of Money Shot

He shook his head and grinned.

“I was eating crackers and cheese and drinking wine. Typical Sunday night at my house,” I said as I turned into the gas station.

I pulled in front of the store and after a few seconds of the engine running, decided to shut it off. The sound of the motor running while parked against a brick building became rather annoying very quickly, the low rumble from the high performance camshaft made the car sound like an old school race car.

“This fucker was shaking the windows,” he said as he opened the door. “You got to love the sound of all that power.”

I grinned, proud of what my father and I had built. He pushed the door open slightly and paused. Time seemed to stand still as he fixed his eyes on me and cleared his throat.

“Need anything?” he asked.

I had no idea of who this man was, but on the outside he was everything I wanted in a man. I may have licked my lips before I responded, but if I did, he didn’t seem to notice or care. After a few seconds of admiring his muscles and handsome looks, I shook my head from side to side and shrugged.

“A toothbrush,” I laughed.

“Be right back,” he said as he stepped out of the car.

After carefully closing the door, he walked into the gas station, talked to the guy at the register, and turned toward the back of the building. In the well illuminated store, I could see every detail of what he was wearing. The back of his leather vest had a patch of a winged skull with two crossed rifles sewn on it, and had a “Kansas” rocker. I’d read enough books about bikers that I recognized the diamond shaped one percenter patch, and considering he was wearing a cut with the patch and rockers, there was no doubt he was a fully patched member of the club.

Selected Sinners.

I’d seen a few of the members of the club from time to time over the years, riding down the road or in a bar in Old Town. For a one percent club, they sure seemed to have their shit together, and never made the news for doing anything stupid, at least not that I’d seen. As I sat in the car and watched him walk toward the gas pumps, I recalled seeing on the news that one of their members had donated gold coins to the Salvation Army during Christmas time.

I glanced in the rearview mirror and admired his reflection. He was far too handsome to be standing there alone. I opened the door of the car and shuffled toward the gas pump. With each well thought out step, I realized although I was far from sober, I was not as drunk as I needed to be to offer myself to him.

I was single, lonely, and really needed to be fucked, but I was far from a slut. The thought of being ravished by a biker was always something lingering in the back of my mind, but actually allowing him to do it was a different thing altogether.

“So, one of your guys donated a bunch of gold on Christmas a while back. Right after he got back from the war. He was some special forces guy or something,” I said as I walked up to the gas pump.

“Sure did,” he responded.

I shrugged my shoulders as he placed the nozzle back into the pump. “Not the kind of thing most people think of bikers doing.”

“Probably not,” he responded.

Wow.

Don’t feel like talking?

I stared down at my flip-flops and realized my toes were in desperate need of polish. Half embarrassed, I turned toward the car as he began to step past me. As I glanced up from my toes, I noticed a man standing beside my car with his hand on the front fender. Before I had a chance to say anything, Vince barked out a demand in a tone of voice that caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up.

“Step away from the car, Motherfucker,” he growled as the pace of his steps quickened.

The man, obviously drunk, turned his head toward Vince and all but fell into the fender of my car. After taking a few more steps, Vince placed the gas can beside the car, walked up to the man, and gently pushed him to the side by pressing his left forearm against the man’s chest. As the man stumbled backward, Vince stepped between him and my car.

“Expensive paint job, Brother. Just want you to be careful,” he said.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” the man howled.

In a split-second, the man produced a knife and began swinging it toward Vince. Immediately, it was apparent Vince was no stranger to fighting, protecting himself, or disarming a knife wielding drunk.

Kick his fucking ass, Vince.

As the man grunted and lurched forward with the knife, Vince raised his left arm high in the air, wrapped it around the man’s right arm, and quickly turned around. With his back against the man’s chest and the man’s arm pinned in Vince’s armpit, he reached for the man’s wrist and turned it to the side.

As the drunk wailed in pain, he dropped the knife. As soon as it hit the pavement, Vince stepped on it and pushed the man to the side.

As the man stumbled, Vince bent down, picked up the knife, and shoved it into his back pocket. I stood in awe at what I had just seen. No differently than the men in my MC Romance books, Vince was not only a biker, but a bad-ass biker. Standing and waiting to see what his next Judo move might be, I was surprised to see a police officer walk from inside the store and onto the sidewalk in front of my car.