Page 9 of Cash

She burst out in laughter. “Oh, that’s right. I knew it was something like Dolla Bill or Mista Money. But, Cash. Really? That’s ridiculous. He’s a wannabe. Probably uses the bike to get laid.”

I forced a sigh. “He’s wasn’t a wannabe.”

“He said his name was Cash.” Her eyebrows raised. “He’s a wannabe.”

“Maybe it was his last name.”

“Maybe he wanted you to think he was cool.” She waved her hand toward the front door. “Is he one of those guys that’s always riding up and down the street at midnight?”

“I think so.”

“They’re young.” One of her Botox-injected eyebrows arched a little. “How old was he?”

I’d wondered the same thing. With the scruff on his face, it was hard to tell for sure. By my estimation, he was in his latter twenties, or early thirties. Either way, he was far too young to be interested in me. That much I knew.

“I don’t know. Maybe thirty.”

She smiled. “A youngster.”

I shrugged one shoulder. “Kind of.”

“Young and skinny,” she said. “Not my type. I prefer the bulging biceps, wide chests, and swollen traps of gym rats.”

Her ex-husband was her height and weighed close to three hundred pounds. The only muscles he had were what he’d developed from simultaneously shoveling 7-Eleven’s chicken wings and chimichangas into his mouth.

I scoffed. “Frank wasn’t a body builder by any means.”

“That’s why I had to drink three glasses of wine and take a Xanax before we had sex.” She tapped the tip of her index finger against her temple. “In my mind, he was a gym rat.”

I finished my coffee and stood. “Back to what I was saying. It’s really bothering me that I didn’t get a chance to thank this guy. I think I said, ‘thank you’, but I can’t really remember. Everything happened so fast, and then the cops were here.”

She shrugged. “He might be one of those guys that’s always riding down the street at midnight. Maybe you’ll get a chance.”

I rinsed my cup and put it in the dishwasher. “I doubt it.”

The sound of an approaching motorcycle caused me to shift my attention to the street. I filled with nervous hope as the sound grew louder. The rumble from a Harley’s exhaust was something I’d become accustomed to over the years, as a group of bikers were constantly zooming up and down the block. I wondered, however, if each approaching bike would now bring butterflies to my stomach and a tingling in my nether region.

My eyes went wide as the black Harley came into view, and then pulled into the drive.

“Jesus,” Jennifer said. “It sounds like we’re being invaded.”

“He’s uhhm.” I wagged my finger toward the window. “He just pulled in.”

“Who?”

I swallowed heavily, wondering what caused him to stop by on a Saturday morning at nine thirty.

“The skinny twit,” I responded.

She rushed to my side just in time to see him remove his helmet. Dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a faded black shirt that said Cars Suck across the chest, he looked every bit the part of the biker that he undoubtedly was.

He set the helmet on his seat and sauntered up the driveway.

Jennifer flattened her chest against the counter top and peered over the window ledge. “He’s not skinny.”

“No,” I admired his confident strut. “He’s sure not.”

“He’s uhhm.” She swallowed and then let out a breath. “He’s sexy as fuck.”