CHAPTER SIX
Vik
I WAKE UP way too early for a Sunday morning. We had one hell of a party out at the clubhouse. Fun times. When I was twenty-one and wet behind the ears, it was about the booze and the babes, tapping the ass I could and generally showing life my middle finger. I don’t like to plan shit out, but now it’s about hanging with my brothers, celebrating another day on the road, another milestone, remembering the good times and not forgetting the bad. On Friday, Hun had officially beaten the charges against him and we’d all raised a beer to that.
I’ve known plenty of bikers, and we all have stories behind our road names. Some stories are funny, others less so, but I’ve never figured Hun’s out. Depending on his mood, he’ll give a dozen different reasons for his label, but they boil down to one of two things. Either he fights with the cunning intensity of a Hun, or he possesses legendary aftercare skills with the club’s female hangers-on. He claims the ladies nicknamed him Hon’, Honey Bunny or Honey Bunches of Oats because he’s that goddamned sweet to them. Most of the brothers just take turns punching him when he says shit like that.
Last night, though, was good. Hun walked free, and we celebrated. Party time’s not about knocking back the beer and tequila anymore. Life gets all too real, too fast, so it’s important to slow down and savor the good moments. Harper is definitely shaping up to be one of those.
Or if I’m a lucky bastard, a really bad, downright filthy moment. No matter what my old man wants, I’m not a long-term man. He’d like me to find an old lady and settle down, but that’s not happening. I don’t look past the next weekend, although for Harper I might make an exception and give her more than a night or two. She’d be worth at least a week.
I get out of bed before I can do something really stupid like jerk off to a very fucking fond memory of Harper’s heels. Black, leather and a bow tie. Those are the ultimate cock tease in shoes and I’m not dead. I love the way she owns her height. Those four-inch heels scream I can measure up or not. She can take me, leave me, do me—if I’m man enough.
My dad’s parked in the living room in his boxers, watching Oprah reruns and eating toaster waffles. I take a better look at the plate he’s holding and revise that to syrup with waffles. I need one of those services that ships meals in a box. Or maybe a breakfast place that delivers. Even fruit would be a step in the right direction. That much Mrs. Butterworth’s can’t be good for his arteries. Fuck if I know anything about taking care of an old man, but I’ll learn.
My old man’s not perfect, and neither am I. Between him and the club brothers who patched me in, they kicked my ass into a man who I can mostly face in the mirror. My old man’s crotchety and he has a sweet tooth—the rest of him is blunt as fuck. Own up to your mistakes and raise a beer to the successes. That’s what he taught me, so now that he needs me to be more, I just have to figure it out.
I give him the side-eye as he waves his sticky fork at me in greeting. “Morning.”
It would be better if I’d been waking up with Harper by my side. Or underneath me. On top of me. I’m not picky about her position as long as she’s naked and screaming my name.
I grunt a greeting in my old man’s direction and grab for the coffeepot. After sex, riding and ink, coffee comes next. Some people fantasize about banging on a beach in Fiji, but I’ve always thought I’d like to give a coffee plantation in Kona a whirl. Wonder if Harper would be up for that?
I resist the thought and stagger back to the kitchen table. “You have a good night?”
He beams. “Played poker with Lora.”
Lora’s awesome. She sits with my dad when I go out. She’s assured me that she’s okay with his incessant flirting, and she also does her best to make sure he’s fed and safe. She’s a good woman, and I don’t need my dad cleaning her out.
“You shouldn’t take her money.” I empty the coffee as fast as I can. It tastes better than the beers I knocked back last night.
“Won two socks, a flip-flop and her bra.” My old man cackles like a maniac. “She refused to ante up her panties.”
Jesus.
“But she cleaned out that young man you stuck in the hallway.” My old man shoots me a sidelong look.
“Goolie?” Goolie’s only been prospecting with us for a month. He did two tours in the Middle East and has a strong preference for not shooting shit anymore.
My old man cackles. “She had him down to his boxers in minutes. Think the bra might have been a decoy.” He shakes his head. “She’s an awesome fucking woman, and that boy didn’t know what hit him. She liked the tattoo on his ass, by the way. Told her that was all your work.”
If Goolie up and quits the club, Prez will kick my ass. Babysitting my dad isn’t club business, but I cleared it with Prez because I’m not taking chances. Not with my dad’s safety. I’m new to this whole responsibility thing but I’ve already learned that old men can get up to more trouble than teenage boys. That, or he’s aiming for payback for the shit I pulled in high school. With interest.
Back then life seemed so simple. You drank, you raced, you thanked God for any girl who’d let you get between her legs and worship her on your knees. And yet somehow all those girls have blurred together, and I’ve forgotten the shot I had at Harper. She’s pretty fucking memorable, so clearly this is on me.
Might be a way to see Harper and take care of some family business, too. I have to fix my old man’s finances whether he likes it or not. He’s been resisting but he needs to know how much he has, and I need to know how I can add to it so he never goes without.
Too bad if that makes him grumpy.
Fuck that noise.
I go into the kitchen and come back with a glass of orange juice. The carton promises it’s full of important vitamins and calcium (which might be another vitamin for all I know about nutrition).
I set the glass in front of him. “I’m making us an appointment with a financial planner.”
I wait for the heavens to shoot down lightning at the thought of me planning. Nothing. My dad’s interest in Oprah, on the other hand, becomes downright fixated. “That so?”
“Yeah.”
“Better be discussing your own stuff. I’m good. I don’t need anyone poking around my checking account.”
We’ve had this conversation or a variation thereof ever since my dad showed back up out of the blue a month ago. A social worker called and told me to come and pick him up from the Happy Vegas Valley Trailer Park. He couldn’t live alone anymore, the chipper voice on the other end announced. I should have noticed this before but our interactions had been limited to my monthly rides out to his neck of the woods, a little barbecue and a little shooting the breeze. Had to confiscate the keys to his bike, too.
Life’s problems have three sure fixes: money, kisses or muscle. Options B and C haven’t worked out so well in the taking-care-of-Dad department. And while I have enough green stuff to make sure my old man never goes without, money’s not all dear old Dad wants. Dad wants to see me settled. Happy. Set for life. The fuck?
Sure enough, my old man launches into his favorite song.
“You meet anyone last night?”
Seriously, does he think an MC party is Tinder central? Harper came out, I danced and a good time was had by all, but no, I’m not dating anyone.
When I tell him as much, he tries again. “You should see someone. Settle a down a little.”
“Like you did with Mom?”
This is a low blow, because Mommy Dearest lit out shortly after my birth and never returned.
“You could get it right,” he says stubbornly. “What about Amanda What’s-Her-Name? Was she there?”
“Nope.” Occasionally I throw my dad a bone and name names. Instead of getting him off my back, however, he’s turned out to be downright tenacious. He asks after Amanda (and Hope, Janey and Little Bo) every chance he gets. I’ve learned to nod, smile and change the fucking topic.
Now is the perfect time to zone out and refresh my memory about my favorite parts of Harper. Tits, ass, mouth—there are so many choices.
“You met someone,” my dad announces gleefully. “I know that look.”
Busted.
“I’m not looking for anything permanent.” I’m good for a night, not forever. Just like that, though, last night’s memories of Harper pop into my head and refuse to leave. The memories want to stick even if I don’t. Those black boots of hers about killed me. The woman practically owes me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Or possibly mouth-to-dick. I’m not choosy.
“Thinks he’s fine running solo,” my old man scoffs. I’m tempted to point out that he never settled down much, either. From what he told me, he knocked up my mom, she stuck around just long enough to push me out into the world, and then she took off. Nothing in that story qualifies him to offer romantic advice.
“I’m not the settling-down type,” I offer. That sounds so much better than announcing I like variety in my pussy. And that so far, life has been one big all-I-can-eat sex buffet. Why eat à la carte when I can sample every single dish?
My dad’s knee starts going up and down like a jackhammer as he picks up his fork. Sets it down. Does the same with his knife. He starts to get up and then sinks back into his chair, his knee jerking wildly. Shit.
Houston, we have a problem.
The doctor I talked with last week said the agitation was a symptom of my old man’s dementia. Much of the time, he’s still the same person he always was, but other times his brain takes a hard right and it’s game over. The doctor said I should make sure that all of his basic needs are met, as if I’d put him on a starvation diet or keep him from sleeping. I’m supposed to be calm and reassuring, a paragon of gentle sincerity.
Yeah. Feel free to laugh your ass off at that one.
As desperate as I am, though, I try. Thank Christ, none of the club is here to see me.
“I’ll give it a shot,” I say. “I am giving it a shot.”
My dad’s knee slows from its manic pace to something that better resembles a car ricocheting from side to side on the German Autobahn.
“You’ve met someone?”
“Absolutely.” The one upside to dementia is that my old man’s bullshit radar no longer functions.
But he nods, his attention slowly returning to the waffles swimming in a sea of syrup. “I’d like to meet her.”
“Soon,” I promise. “It’s early days. I don’t want to scare her off.”
He flashes me the bird, but we’re back on terra firma. There has to be a way to fix this. Without, you know, actually settling down and paying a trip to the drive-through Elvis wedding chapel on the Strip. Sure, one of the club girls would be happy to pretend to be my steady girlfriend, but I don’t think that’s what my old man has in mind.
I’ll just have to improvise.
Harper’s face flashes through my head.
As I fix my own plate of waffles—my old man’s onto something there and he’s definitely getting a waffle-maker for Christmas—I wonder how an investment banker would feel about becoming a biker’s pretend girlfriend. I wonder, too, how long she’s spent thinking about my booty call offer. Which was 100 percent fucking genuine. I just need to close the deal. Make her see that I’m the perfect guy to scratch all her itches and give her a little under-the-table loving to help her get over the Douche and on with her life. I’m not boyfriend material, but I’m the Santa Claus of fucking orgasms.
You think she’s more likely to kick me in the balls?
Good thing I’ve always loved a challenge.