Page 34 of Misadventures of a Biker

I removed them and tossed them into my purse.

“Oh, no,” she said. “What happened?”

I pressed my fingertips against the skin beneath my eyes. “Is it that bad?”

She leaned against the edge of my desk and looked me over. “You look like you spent the entire weekend crying.”

“That’s because I spent the entire weekend crying.”

She relaxed in her chair. “Start at the beginning.”

“The beginning?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think it must have started when my parents were killed. Not having them around to give reassurances left me hoping to find it from men. I’ve been so eager to get someone to pat me on the back that I’ve made some ridiculously bad decisions.”

“Not that beginning,” she said. “On Friday. What happened?”

“Oh, God.” I rolled my eyes. “It was awful.”

“Details, dear. Details.”

“We went to the house, and he was showing me the floor. When he stood up, he pinned me to the wall and said, ‘I want you to decide if you want me to fuck you or not. I can’t decide for you.’ It was right at the same time the men showed up to look the place over. They rang the doorbell—”

“Wait. He pinned you to the wall? Like, explain that, would you?”

“Pinned me to the wall, Kate. He pressed his chest against mine, forcing me against the wall. Our lips were basically touching. Basically.”

“Did he kiss you?”

“No. He just said the you-have-to-decide thing.”

“Okay.” She wagged her brows. “Continue.”

“They came and looked the place over, and he was eyeing me the entire time. Saying little things, and—”

“What kind of little things?”

“Jeez, Kate, I don’t know. Things. Little sexual things. And he was looking at me with those eyes. His eyes.” I leaned forward. “Have you spent any time looking at his eyes?”

She nodded in agreement. “He’s got good eyes, that’s for sure.”

“Well, he kept looking at me. Saying things. I’m waiting for his two friends to leave, knowing when they do that he’s going to bend me over that island in the kitchen and have his way with me. He brought wine, Kate. He put a bottle of wine in that worn-out little leather messenger bag he carries.”

“At what point did it go to hell?” she asked. “Was the sex bad?”

“There was no sex.”

“What?” she screeched. “How in the world?”

“When they left, he went into the kitchen, grabbed the wine, and pinned me to the wall again. He told me I had a nice ass, nice tits, and a pretty face, but that my pussy might be too pretty to fuck.”

Her eyes thinned to slits. “What. Does. That. Even. Mean?”

“I know, right? I have no idea.”

“He said you’ve got a cooch too cute to copulate.” She laughed. “Then what did he do?”