Bobbi

I’d never had much genuine affection offered to me by men. Most conversations were driven by a desire to obtain a blowjob, a hand job, or a quick and easy lay. Tate’s lack of interest in anything sexual – and complete interest in me – had me convinced that he might be different than every other man I’d encountered.

As sad as the thought of him failing made me feel, I knew if he couldn’t pass my father’s test, there was no way we could proceed. Going against my father’s will wasn’t an option.

I’d reached a point that proceeding was all I could think of. Almost seven weeks had passed since the day I dropped him off at the clubhouse, and we’d seen each other at least three times a week throughout every one of those weeks.

I took another quick look at Tate and then knocked on the door. The only way to get him to come to my father’s house without his kutte was to drive my car, as he wasn’t allowed to ride his motorcycle without it.

Luckily, he’d agreed. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a black tee shirt, he didn’t look much different than any other day. I hoped the absence of his kutte, as subtle as it was, would be enough to allow my father to see him with the clearest of mindsets.

The door opened. “Come in.”

We stepped inside.

“Dad, this is Tate. Tate, this is my father, James.”

My dad extended his right hand. “James Madden, pleasure to meet you.”

“Tate. Tate Reynolds. Pleasure to meet you, Sir.”

“TD Reynolds,” My father said. “I got a kick out of that Tripper fellow in the boxing book. He was about as funny of a man as I think I’ve ever encountered.”

“Dad!”

He gave me a look. “What?”

“You read that?”

“Well, it wasn’t on audiobook, so I had to.”

“I said not to read them.”

He shook his head and smiled. “Since when do I listen to you?”

“I can’t believe you,” I huffed. “I asked you not to--”

“I needed to know who I was meeting before I met him. Have something in common to talk about.”

“You could talk about cars, or sports, or something.”

“If he’s like his characters in his books, he doesn’t like sports.”

It was something I’d read about in many of the books, but it never sank in. I looked at Tate.

“Do you?”

He pushed his hands into his pockets, grinned, and shrugged. “Not so much.”

“Don’t have a television, do you?”

“No, Sir.”

“See? He can’t even watch TV.” He looked at me, shifted his eyes to Tate, and then grinned as sly grin. “She watches it, but doesn’t listen to it. Damndest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Stop it,” I hissed playfully.

“It’s true,” he said. “She turns it on without the sound, and watches an entire series on Netflix. Never listens to a word.”

“It’s impossible to listen while I read.”

Tate looked at me and chuckled. “We’ve all got our quirks.”

It was the same thing I’d told Andy. I found it funny that Tate repeated my quote almost verbatim. Maybe we were more alike than I thought we were.

“Well, it’s past dinner time, so I’m guessing you two didn’t come here to eat.” He turned toward the kitchen. “You’re a coffee drinker, aren’t you, Tate?”

All of Tate’s characters drank coffee. In fact, many of his fights, dates, and discussions happened at coffee shops.

“How many of his books have you read?”

“Seven or eight.”

While we followed my father to the kitchen, I did a mental eye roll and then looked at Tate. He grinned and shrugged.

“Which ones?” I asked.

“The four about the boxers, one about a bunch of high school misfits, one about a crazy tattoo artist, and two or three about bikers.”

I exhaled heavily and mouthed the words I’m sorry to Tate. He smiled and shrugged, as always.

My father poured three cups of coffee and turned around. “Cream and sugar?”

Tate nodded. “Please.”

“That’s the way I like it, too. Coffee is pretty nasty by itself, but doctored up, it’s good stuff.”

We sat at the kitchen table. I’d already decided my father didn’t hate Tate, but it was too early to tell if he liked him or not. He’d never once indicated that he thought anything other than positive thoughts about him, but then again, I had yet to explain that feelings were developing and developing fast.

“Why do all of your characters have great big dicks?” my father asked.

Midway through a sip of coffee, I coughed it out my nose. “Dad!”

“Well, they do. Hell, I kept waiting for one of ‘em to get undressed and pull out something normal. You know, a four-incher. Hell, maybe a good solid three. But, seven books in, and I’ve got a handful of eight-inchers, a couple of nines, and a thirteen. Who has a thirteen-inch rod, anyway?”

My face went flush.

Tate didn’t skip a beat.

“A book is supposed to appeal to the intended audience. For instance, if I wrote dystopian fantasy intended for young adults, my characters wouldn’t cuss. In real life, they would. Look at Hunger Games. If that girl was being shot at, and her friends were being killed off one by one, don’t you think she’d drop an F-bomb from time to time?”

My father raised his cup. “I’m sure she would.”

“In the book, she didn’t. It’s because the intended audience doesn’t like to have their books muddied with such filth. They’ll read about murder, and graphic scenes of torture, but cussing is a no-no.”

“And your intended audience likes men with a big Johnson?”

“The masses do, yes. Or, at least they like to fantasize about it. Not to say a book about a guy with a three-incher wouldn’t sell well, but it would have to be presented carefully. There’d have to be a reason for it. It’d work in the right book.”

If I read a book about a couple that I liked, and the guy pulled out a three-inch dick, I suspect I’d giggle. In real life, a three-incher beat a no-incher. In the book world, things needed to lean toward my fantasies.

And, in my fantasies, guys with three-inch dicks didn’t exist.

“Like the Elephant Man,” my father said.

Tate’s eyebrows raised.

“The man was a horrific looking soul, but he had a heart of gold. In that book, everyone felt compassion for someone they’d normally be repulsed by. You’d have to give your readers a reason to like the three-inch fellow. No differently than every book couldn’t have an Elephant Man, every book can’t have a three-inch man. Am I on track?”

Tate laughed. “Yes, Sir.”

“Tell me about your riot.”

Tate looked at me.

I pulled a Tate, and shrugged. “I tell him everything.”

Tate took a drink of his coffee and then set his cup aside. “Well. I was riding down the street, and I saw people marching halfway up the block. When I realized what they were protesting, I joined in. Someone handed me a sign, and I marched right along with them for a few blocks. A couple kids got in an argument with some people on the street, and the next thing you know, bottles and rocks started being thrown. Windows got broken, and few fires were lit, and then the cops showed up. I deserved to be arrested. Hell, we all did. My tattoos and kutte made me a target, so I was charged with inciting a riot. They were talking about giving me the RICO act for being in a gang and starting a riot, so my public defender suggested a plea deal. The sentence was to be probation. I swallowed my pride, realized the risk I was taking in being part of the MC, and plead guilty. When it came time to sentence me, the judge wasn’t thinking probation would teach me anything. So, he sent me to prison.”

“That’s a damned shame. That case made me mad enough to throw a rock or two. By the grace of God, I didn’t. Let me ask you something. What race were the majority of the people in the march?”

“Black.”

“Not many whites?”

“I think I was the only one.”

“White biker with tattoos normally doesn’t fit in with a big group of blacks. Did it bother you that they were black?”

Tate shook his head. “I’m colorblind.”

My father’s eyes thinned a little. “Your actually colorblind, or your color blind?”

“Both,” Tate said.

My father nodded and reached for his cup. “You’re a good man, Tate.”

I reached under the table and squeezed my father’s left hand.

His eyes shot to me. “What? He’s an outlaw biker who has a penchant for big-dicked men, he’s been to prison three times, is covered in tattoos, has pieces of pipe in his earlobes, and he encourages blacks to throw rocks. What’s not to like?”

I chuckled. I’d received my answer.

And, my father’s blessing.