Page 14 of Cash

FOUR - Cash

I pressedthe tine of my fork through my third enchilada, and hesitated. I searched my mind for any recollection of being on a conventional date with a woman and came up with nothing. Hell, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten in a restaurant with anyone other than my brothers in the club.

I wasn’t relationship material by anyone’s standards. Committing to the MC was the only vow I planned on ever taking. I was considered irreverent by most who met me. Thoughts spewed from my mouth unfiltered, and I offered no apologies for offending the recipients of my opinions.

Men feared me. Those who didn’t, respected me.

Women, on the other hand, saw me as a calloused asshole. As fate would have it, I was a take me as I am type, and didn’t care what others thought. The way I was, however, didn’t open many relationship doors.

Kimberly peered over the salted rim of her margarita glass. “It’s crazy how different everything seems when you’re on a motorcycle. I’ve been coming here for years, and I’ve never noticed much about this neighborhood until tonight. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t boxed in. There’s a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree field of vision on that thing.”

Sitting across the table from her and maintaining any level of civility wasn’t easy. Every time her pouty lips parted to take a bite of food, I imagined sticking my dick in her mouth. So far, I’d received no less than a dozen imaginary blowjobs from her while watching her nibble on her bowl of chile verde.

She wore her hair up. Typically, I preferred a woman’s hair to be worn down. Seeing the definition in her jawline, the tanned smooth skin of her neck, and her unobstructed eyes caused me to reconsider my preferences.

At least with her.

“Cage.” With the fork still hovering over my plate, I paused and met her gaze. “You weren’t in a ‘cage’. That’s the difference.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Cage?”

“A Car. Biker lingo for a car is a cage,” I explained. “When you get in one, you’re like a caged animal. The difference between a bike and a car is the difference between being free and being caged in a zoo.”

“I’ve never looked at it like that.”

I lifted the chunk of enchilada to my mouth. “I can’t help but look at it like that.”

She sipped her drink. “How long have you been riding?”

“Got my first mini bike at six. Been riding ever since.”

“I’m guessing you don’t have a car?”

“I’ve got a truck.” I put down my fork and took a drink of beer. “A truck is a tool. It’s a necessity. I don’t have a car, though. Cars suck. Remember?”

She laughed. “That was a cute shirt.”

“Cute?” I lowered my bottle and glared at her jokingly. “That wasn’t the look I was going for.”

“Maybe ‘cute’ wasn’t the perfect choice of words.”

“If you thought it looked cute, then ‘cute’ was the perfect choice. Hell, it’s the only choice. I always say what comes to mind, not what I think someone wants to hear. You shouldn’t second-guess yourself.”

She tilted her head to the side and gazed through me. “It was pretty cute.”

“Cute it is, then.”

“I like the way you think,” she said.

In the midst of my fourth enchilada, I looked up. “Be careful saying shit like that.”

“Shit like what?”

“That you like ‘what I’m thinking’.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” I said. “You only know what little I’ve decided to share with you.”