Page 50 of Dirty

“Alexandra,” Alexandra said. “Nice to meet you.”

Being a man whore wasn’t a trait I developed once I was in the MC, or because of some outside influence. It was part of who I was. From the time I had sex for the first time – at thirteen – until my current age of thirty-one, I had been a tornado of sexual explorations. Much to my mother’s disappointment, I had yet to meet a woman I cared enough about to invite her into her home for dinner.

“Alexandra,” my mother said, taking Alexandra’s hand in hers. “Come with me.”

Alexandra looked at me, grinned, and then followed my mother into the kitchen.

What in the fuck have I got myself into?

I wiped my sweating palms against the thighs of my jeans, and looked around the living room. I had no idea where I was headed with Alexandra, but wherever it was, I was going to make sure getting there caused her no harm.

I walked to the doorway, peered into the kitchen, and watched as my mother stirred a pot of what smelled like pork chile verde.

“…roasted tomatillos, garlic, jalapenos, garlic, and oil. First, you slice the tomatillo in half, and then put them in the oven on a sheet, with the flat side down. Cook them under the broiler, but just until they…”

Turn black.

“…turn black.”

I grinned. My mother taught me to cook, explaining every detail of what needed to be done and why. She never wrote anything down, and neither did I. I didn’t need to. She pounded the recipes into my head repeatedly, every time she cooked, whether I was paying attention or not.

“…after the pork is brown, pour the sauce over it, and let it cook for 4 hours. Three hours, and it will be too thin. Four is perfecto.” She paused, looked at Alexandra, and smiled. “Okay?”

Alexandra nodded and smiled in return. “Okay.”

“When will we eat?” I asked.

“When it’s ready,” she said over her shoulder.

“I’m ready now.”

“You’ll have to wait fifteen more minutes.”

“I’m going to steal Alexandra for a minute,” I said.

“She’s doing just fine in here,” she said. “Go shine your motorcycle.”

“C’mon, Alexandra. I want to show you around.”

She looked at my mother.

“Go,” she said. “He’s sad when he doesn’t get what he wants.”

Alexandra followed me down the hallway to the last door on the right. It was the bedroom I grew up in, and was still decorated the way it was when I moved out.

I pushed the door open.

She looked around the room, and then focused on the pictures that were hung on the far wall. “Is that you?”

Four framed photos of when I had boxed in Golden Gloves competitions hung side-by-side on the wall. “Yeah,” I said. “That’s me.”

She looked at me, and then at the pictures. “You were smaller.”

“That was a long time ago. I weighed 40 pounds less.”

She walked up to one of the pictures and traced her fingertip along the outline of my face. “You had hair.”

“Not much, but yeah.”