Page 4 of Road to Absolution

Viola jerked to a standing position and did deliberate hand gestures that had the Harley ending its rumble. Riding out the bike’s momentum, this particular biker coasted toward us while glaring at Tuck. “Hey, dumbass, why you makin’ my el sista-o dance dirty for you?”

Yes, Viola’s brother was a rugged bad-ass biker named Diesel. If that wasn’t intimidating enough, he also happened to be the President of the Redemption Ryders, played a mean guitar, and was a genius with a tattoo gun. He was the mastermind artist behind my Bailey tat.

Diesel regarded John with a level of respect that showed all the years of their strong friendship. “Hate that I had to be late.”

John gestured to the back of his truck. “Looks like you’re right on time, as always.”

Diesel eyed the covered item, then me. Before he had a chance to go all mushy, happy that I had every intention of spoiling Delilah to the hilt, I asked him, “Dude, now that I have my own crib and all, which you said is part of making a ‘dumbass’ into a man, can you please tell me why you speak broken Spanish.”

Yep! That worked.

He snarled. “It ain’t broken.”

Men. What can I say? Agitating a biker was better than crying in front of one.

Sarcastically, my noggin’ wobbled on my shoulders. “Uh, it is. Sorry, not sorry.”

As he got off his bike, he challenged my Don’t Make Me Cry game with a classic Let’s Change the Subject. Wincing, he stuttered, “Sorry, not sorry—isn’t that from some pop song?”

Wait. Change the Subject… I looked to Tucker, then to Diesel, and said, “I haven’t seen you for a week either—”

“Do you want to hear about my perfect el Spanish, or what?” asked Diesel.

Viola teased her brother, “Rosa.”

John started laughing as if he already knew where this conversation was headed. “You gotta hear this story, kid.”

Now I got excited. “I’m ready.”

A shiver rolled through Diesel’s large frame, his leather vest and boots creaking. “Just the sound of that name.” Lighting a cigarette, he told me, “Rosa was this gorgeous Latina—I’m talkin’ Salma Hayek kind of knockout—who absolutely rocked my ever-lovin’ world.” He blew smoke in the air, reliving a fond memory. “The more worked up she got, the more she started speaking a language that made me go blind. ‘Ay Papi’.” He shivered again. “Did I mention she was stunning? And with an ass that simply didn’t know how to quit?”

John was now leaning against his truck, holding his stomach through howling laughter.

Viola started twerking on her husband’s thigh again while singing, “Won’t quit.”

Tucker grabbed her and wrapped her up in his arms. “Woman!” Then he laid a kiss on her.

Diesel smirked at them, loving seeing his sister so fucking happy, and told me, “I’ve been speaking perfect Spanish ever since.” When I opened my mouth to explain his Spanish was not only butchering the language, but probably unintentionally offensive to those who could truly speak it properly, the biker tapped the gun holster at his waist. “El comprendo?”

Hands raised in the air, I laughed. “Impeccable Spanish, brother.” I did, however, dare to ask, “Whatever happened to this legendary Rosa?”

Diesel rolled his eyes. “Apparently, she wasn’t yelling about my skills in the sack, but was callin’ her an Uber, because she was gone by mornin’.”

John was now rolling along his truck, gasping for air in between all his laughing.

I asked my father-in-law, “Were you there?”

He could barely nod, trying to breathe. “Diesel came out of his room fightin’ mad!”

Diesel, with all his tattoos, made simply telling a joke threatening until you got to know him. I didn’t want to even imagine him truly pissed and charging.

John wiped away his tears of laughter. “We still think he’s lying.”

“No one saw her? No!” I gawked at Diesel. “All that is left of Rosa is your shitty Spanish?”

“The el fuck-o?”