Page 8 of Misadventures of a Biker

We were two hundred yards from the entrance. I didn’t care. I couldn’t get out of the rolling sauna quick enough. I thrust my hip against the door and sucked in a lungful of Florida’s muggy summer air.

I wrestled to free myself of the miniature back seat. As I wiggled through the opening sized for a starving teen, I glanced over my shoulder. “You don’t know any rich blind Italians looking for a home, do you?”

“Excuse me?”

With one leg out of the car and the other close behind, my purse got stuck between the back of his seat and the front of mine. The strap yanked against my shoulder, nearly sending me tits up onto the asphalt. After an embarrassingly long struggle, I pulled it free.

He stuck his head out the window. “Is everything okay?”

“No.” Stumbling to catch my balance, one of my knees buckled. I careened forward at ten times the speed my feet could move. After a dozen stutter steps, I came a screeching halt. Once I was planted firmly on my feet, I resituated my purse and shot him a glare. “It’s not.”

He opened his door and leaned outside. “What did you say about Italians?”

“Nothing,” I said in a huff. “I’ll tip you on the app.”

An ocean of asphalt separated me from the entrance. Not certain that he’d even taken me to the right place, I scoured the parking lot for a familiar vehicle. The first thing that caught my attention was a Harley-Davidson parked in the employee section of the lot. Assuming it was one of Neeson-Frye’s decorators, I shrugged it off and began my trek to the door.

I’d lived in the area my entire life and had yet to become accustomed to Southwest Florida’s ninety-seven-degree, ninety-five-percent-humidity summers. Heat rose from the parking lot in waves, each of which took my breath away. Halfway to my destination, I was drenched in sweat and my hair was a disaster.

My feet were throbbing. I couldn’t see straight. With each step, my heels sank into the molten asphalt. If I continued the trek in my Christian Louboutin So Kate heels, I’d be so facedown before I reached the door.

I took off my shoes. The parking lot’s blistering-hot surface was impossible to stand on. Barefoot, I clutched my shoes in my left hand and my Hermès bag in my right. I bounded across the scorching sea of black tar like a gazelle across an African savannah.

Drunk and disappointed with myself, I arrived at the entrance. The bottoms of my feet felt like I’d walked over a mile of hot embers. Exhausted, I leaned against the door and stumbled inside.

The cool air hit me like a speeding freight train. My stomach heaved. My heels clattered to the floor. Wine-soaked ceviche rose in my throat. My shoulders slumped. The floor began to spin. My purse fell at my feet with a thud.

I braced my hands against my knees. “Kate!” I gazed at my filthy feet. “I need help!”

I closed my eyes and begged the vomit gods to spare me. Footsteps approached. A hand gripped my left bicep. Thankful that someone came to rescue me, I lifted my drunken head.

Tall and muscular, he towered over me like a giant. A ruggedly handsome, tattooed giant. A five-o’clock shadow peppered his chiseled jaw. I darted my eyes to his crotch. It looked like he had a Chipotle burrito shoved deep in his pocket.

“Who are you?” I cooed.

“Wallace,” he replied in a baritone voice. “Devin Wallace.”

I despised men, regardless of age, income bracket, or looks. Having been fucked over by one so bad it nearly landed me in bankruptcy court, I knew better than to allow myself to fall into another trap. Knowing in advance that all men were pigs allowed me to use them for their intended purpose. I wasn’t interested in troubling myself with feelings, emotions, or the inconveniences that accompanied a relationship.

Men were placed on this earth to change oil, move heavy objects, forfeit their lives in pursuit of obtaining world peace, and for the sexual satisfaction of women.

Nothing else.

Considering that my car had a fresh oil change, all the new furnishings were in place, and he wasn’t wearing a uniform or badge, I planned to use him for the only thing that was left.

My pickled brain couldn’t seem to formulate another word, let alone a sentence. I mentally assembled a brief explanation of what I needed from him, but I couldn’t lift my thick tongue. I held his brown-eyed gaze and hoped he could read my mind.

Kate stepped between us. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “What happened?”

I peeled my eyes away from his and glanced in her direction. “Margaret’s going to take back the listing,” I blurted. “We’ve got two months.”

“Seever?” she asked. “The Mediterranean mansion on Gordon Drive?”

I nodded. “That’s it.”

She looked at my feet and then at me. “What happened?”

“With her or my feet?”