Joker by Andi Rhodes
Chapter Two
My mother may not have raised me, but she taught me one hell of a life lesson at a very early age: women can’t be trusted.
Joker
“Dude, are you even listening to me?”
I’m crouched down next to the bike I’m restoring, and Piston’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.
“What?” I snap, pissed that he caught me not paying attention.
“I asked if you wanted to go grab something to eat.” Piston sets the rag he’s been wiping his hands off with on the bench behind him. When he turns back to me, he has a concerned look on his face. “Jesus, what’s up with you today?”
“I could eat.”
I rise to my full height and toss my tools on my workbench. It occurs to me that I’m being evasive, and while it seems that Piston’s going to let it go, I’m not hopeful that he’ll overlook it for long.
“How about we try that new diner in town? I’m dying to get a look at the premium pussy they’ve got waitressing.”
I glance at Piston and chuckle. He’s a horny bastard for sure. If the Soulless Kings are having a party, you can rest assured that Piston’s gonna have a Bangin’ Betty hanging off his dick.
“Are we going to get lunch, or are we going to get you laid?” I joke.
“Oh, I’m going to eat. Just might have some dessert later, if you catch my drift.”
“Yeah, dude, I got it.”
Piston and I spend the next ten minutes cleaning up the shop because neither of us want the wrath of Fender if we leave a mess. It’s Sunday, so we’re closed, and while I’d like to say I’ve got a deadline for this restoration and a strong work ethic, that’s not what drove me to work on my day off.
I needed a distraction after the phone call I received this morning. As I was leaving the clubhouse, Piston decided to tag along. Fucking asshole didn’t even ask if I wanted company. Just got on his damn bike and followed.
As I step through the back door and turn to lock up, my phone dings with an incoming text. I pull it from my pocket and look at the screen.
Motherfucker.
“Hey, P, head on out. I’ll catch up with you.”
Piston pauses on his way to his bike and glances over his shoulder, his brows raised in question. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I, uh, forgot my wallet inside.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder to give credence to the lie. “I’ll be right behind you.”
It’s clear he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t argue either and for that I’m grateful. I watch as he straddles his bike and drives out of the parking lot. When he’s out of sight, I lift my phone and tap the message icon, bringing up the text.
Unknown: Need an answer. Time is running out.
Fury singes my blood, and my hand starts to shake. I have no idea how she got my number, but believe me when I say, I will kill a motherfucker when I find out. I’ve spent my life hating her, hell, hating most women because of her.
My mother may not have raised me, but she taught me one hell of a life lesson at a very early age: women can’t be trusted. At least not for anything other than what they provide in the sack.
My phone beeps again, and I look at the new text.
Unknown: Please Brian…
My tenuous control snaps at reading my given name. She lost the right to call me that the day she walked out on me and my father. She lost the right to call me anything at all. Because of that, I type out a quick response.
Me: I ain’t Brian. It’s Joker now and u better remember that.
Three little dots appear quickly, but they disappear after several seconds. While I stare at the screen, waiting for them to reappear, I fucking hate myself for it. I shouldn’t give a damn what she says. I should block her number and forget she even exists.
But I don’t. I can’t. Not until I’m sure she won’t keep seeking me out.
When, after a few minutes of standing there, no new texts come, I shove my phone back in my pocket, vowing to forget about it, forget about her, even if only for the amount of time it takes to get through lunch. No sense giving Piston more ammo to think something is wrong.
As I walk to the 1997 Harley Davidson Fat Boy that I restored, the one that belonged to my father before he died, I scrub my hands over my face. After revving the engine, I pull out of the parking lot and make my way to meet Piston. The ride to the diner is short, but it feels like forever when my mind wanders over the last few days.
The weekend had been going so well, up until this morning. On Friday, we took out another dealer who thought he could cross us and then spent Saturday celebrating the victory. Last night I topped off the festivities between the thighs of a chick whose name I don’t remember and a tongue piercing I can’t forget.
Who are you kidding? You didn’t try to get her name and the piercing is like the dozens of other chicks who’ve sucked your dick.
I see Piston’s bike, along with Greaser’s, and I park next to them. Why Piston invited Greaser, I have no idea, but I know it’ll be harder for me to fool him. Piston and I are close, but Greaser’s my best friend and I’ve never been able to lie to him. Not successfully, anyway.
As I’m striding toward the door, my phone pings and I reach in my pocket to grab it. Glaring at the text on the screen, my head down and my sole focus on the words, my body is jolted when I run into someone.
“Sorry,” I mutter when I look up.
The woman in front of me looks stunned for a moment before she bends down to pick up the purse she dropped on the ground. I stoop to help her, but she shoves my hands away.
“I’ve got it,” she says, although there’s no heat behind her words.
We both stand and glance at each other, neither of us making a move to enter the diner. Her dark hair is in a ponytail and she’s wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see her eyes, but her body is smokin’ hot all tucked into the leggings and tight tee she’s wearing. She rubs a hand over her forehead and her nose scrunches up in the process.
“Did I hurt you?” I’m a big guy and while she’s not tiny, she’s no Amazon either.
“What?” Her brows raise above the tinted glasses and she shakes her head. “No, I’m fine.”
She’s not any better at lying than I am, but not my problem. I pull open the door and gesture for her to enter. She strides past me and moves to the counter to sit on a stool, never looking back.
I can’t help but notice the sway of her hips, but when I hear Piston and Greaser call out to me from a booth at the other end of the long diner, I shake my head to clear her image.
“What the fuck took you so long?” Piston demands as I sit across from him.
“I told you, I had to go back in for my phone.”
“No, you said you had to get your wallet.” Piston and Greaser exchange a look, worry and confusion in their eyes. “Your phone was in your damn hand.”
“What can I get ya to drink?”
Thank God for waitresses and their generally awful timing. This particular woman is dressed to kill with ruby red lips and tits that beg to be squeezed. Suddenly, all my issues with women fly out the window.
“I’ll take a Coke,” I say as I let my gaze travel down the length of her body, stopping a little too long in places it shouldn’t. “And whatever else ya wanna give me.”
“Yeah, not happening,” she mumbles.
She takes our orders, and when she’s gone I lift my eyes to see Greaser staring over my shoulder. When I look behind me to see what he’s staring at, the woman I ran into has her head resting on her forearms on the countertop. The urge to go see if she’s okay hits me like a freight train, but I shove it down, way down deep to the parts of me that don’t give a shit.
“So…”
Piston’s voice trails off as Greaser continues to stare, and I shift my attention to the cars in the parking lot. Unable to keep my demons at bay any longer, memories of long ago surface. Memories of happier times, times when I wasn’t a motherless asshole.
My phone dings, yet again, with an incoming text. I pull out my phone and glance at the screen.
Unknown: U can’t ignore me 4ever
That’s where she’s wrong. She’s been able to ignore me and my existence for twenty-two years.
Fuck this.
I shove my phone in my pocket. Forever might not be in the cards but I can ignore her for a little while longer.
