Page 7 of Thick

I wanted to know more about him. I needed to know that he was the person I perceived him as being, and that Perry was wrong about him.

“What did…what did you do?” I stammered.

“I write books.”

I was shocked. I know I shouldn’t have been, but I was. I loved to read, and writing for a living would be a dream come true.

“You’re an author?” I asked excitedly. “What kind of books?”

He shook his head. “Nothing you’d want to read.”

“What are they?”

“Romance.”

Romance was the only genre I read. My eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Really.”

I chuckled and looked away. After regaining my composure, I shifted my eyes back to him. With his arms crossed, and his head cocked slightly, he looked back at me straight-faced. His arms were tattooed to his wrists, his face was covered in stubble, and his muscles were swollen from his early morning workout. He reeked of male bravado, and looked like a man no one would want to piss off.

One thing he didn’t look like was a romance novelist.

“Seriously,” I said. “I want to know. I mean, if you don’t mind telling me.”

“I am serious,” he said, his tone flat and convincing. “I write steamy contemporary romance novels.”

It seemed he was being serious. At least he looked like he was. Still, I felt compelled to ask again. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You write romance novels?” I asked, more trying to convince myself than have him actually answer me. “That’s what you do for a living?”

“It sure is. It was a crappy living at first. Now it’s pretty damned good. Took some time and quite a bit of dedication, though.”

I already found him intriguing. Now I found him a whole new level of intriguing, if there was such a thing.

“Under your name?” I asked excitedly. “Can I read them?”

“Sure. As long as you’re not easily embarrassed. Google TD Reynolds. That’s the name I write under. My early stuff is pretty hit and miss, but my new stuff is right up there with the rest of the independently published smut that’s out there.”

“You are serious, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “You asked.”

“I just…”

He leaned back and shot me a look. “You just what? You thought because I was a biker that I had to work at a Harley shop, deal dope, or bust skulls for a living?”

“I’m generally not that way. In fact, I was raised to think differently. But, yeah.” I smiled. “Kind of.”

“Me writing romance novels is no different than you working here,” he said. “If asked, most men would say you should be home doing laundry, making dinner, or working as a receptionist somewhere. Maybe a hairstylist. Not a prison guard, that’s for sure. I don’t want people having a mind filled with preconceived notions about me, so I try to look at everyone with an open mind.”

“I try to. But, it isn’t always easy. Especially in here,” I said in an apologetic tone.

“Well, I’m a biker, and I write romance novels. The fellas I ride with don’t know it, though.”

I was shocked. “They don’t?”