Goose finished washing the dishes, inspected each of them for imperfections, and put them in their respective places in the cabinets. After the kitchen was as tidy enough for him to accept it, he poured a cup of coffee and sat down.

“I don’t know how you can drink that shit black,” I said. “You’re going to have ulcers before you’re forty.”

“Coffee doesn’t produce ulcers.” He took a sip. “It’s therapeutic.”

I lifted my cup of cream and sugar laced java. “If it’s doctored up.”

“Adding cream and sugar to coffee is like adding cinnamon to a chili recipe. It ruins it.”

“Who the fuck puts cinnamon in chili?”

He gave me a cross look over the top of his raised cup. “People like you.”

“On another subject. Dinner was a huge success.”

“She like the coxinhas?”

“The fried chicken balls?”

“Legs,” he said. “They were supposed to look like legs.”

“They looked like fried teardrops.”

He stood, finished his coffee and then poured another cup. On his way back to his seat, he shrugged one shoulder. “It was the best I could do on short notice.”

Goose was addicted to caffeine the way a heroin addict was addicted to smack. He needed it all waking hours of the night and day. He was the only member of the MC that would alternate drinks of beer and coffee at the same time.

“Seemed to like ‘em,” I said. ‘She ate half a dozen of them.”

“They’re a bitch to make. Good little fucker’s though.”

“I appreciate it.” I tilted my cup toward him. “It went better than I expected.”

He took a drink of coffee and then chuckled. “I know you didn’t go to a movie.”

The shark-toothed blowjob story had made its rounds enough times that everyone knew my position on going to the movies. The men were also well aware of most of my superstitious beliefs. Most of them.

“No. We went for a ride.”

“What’d you take?”

“The bumble bee.”

“The old GSX-R, huh? Wouldn’t have guessed that.”

The motorcycle we’d taken was a Suzuki hyperbike. Capable of going from zero to sixty in two seconds, it quickly became a favorite of mine when I wanted to put a smile on my face. As it seated two people fairly comfortably, it was an easy choice for the night’s ride.

“It was easy,” I said. “Kept me from shuffling a bunch of shit around.”

“If you’re keeping the girl, you need to get a bagger.”

My belief had always been that riding wasn’t a team sport. Having a bagger was an invitation for someone to hop on back. In the past, the thought of it made me cringe.

“Hate to spend the money,” I said.

“Depends on how comfortable you want her to be.”

“I really don’t think she gives a shit. She went on and on about how much she loved it. I could have put a p-pad on the fender of the hardtail and she would have been thrilled.”

“First ride?”

“Yep.”

“Always a cool feeling to bust a chick’s cherry.” He pushed his coffee cup to the side and rested his forearms on the edge of the table. “How do you think the fellas are going to take it if this chick ends up being your ol’ lady?”

Hearing him say it caused me to tense. Not from my thoughts regarding the club’s reaction, but from my own resistance to accept that I’d ever be in a conventional relationship.

I shook my head. “She won’t.”

He widened his eyes a little. “You’re one hundred percent certain this is nothing but a fling?”

I wasn’t. But the thought of it being otherwise troubled me. I looked away. “I don’t know.”

“You know. You just won’t say.”

I looked at him. “Since fucking when are you a mind reader?”

He locked eyes with me and then smirked. “You might be able to manipulate most motherfuckers by giving them your crazy-eyed looks and talking slick. I’m not one of ‘em, Bake. I know you, remember? The rest of the fellas will probably say something like, shit, Baker won’t ever have an ol’ lady, I know him too well. I call bullshit. I hate the thought of being tied down. I can’t stand the smell of diapers. Don’t care much for having to answer to anyone but me, either. Mary’s dirty-fisted kids marching around my house putting fingerprints on the walls made my butthole pucker. But you know what? When I fell in love with that gal, it had nothing to do with what I thought I wanted out of life. It just fucking happened. And, it all started with a piece of pussy that knocked me on my ass.”

“I’m not going to bullshit you. I’m enjoying her company. But. But. But.” I looked him in the eyes. “I’m not planning on falling in love.”

He shook his head and grinned. “A man never plans to.”

I gazed beyond him, into the living room. “I’m not going to.”

“Might not have a choice.”

I shifted my eyes to him. “I’m in control.”

He spit out a laugh. “The pussy’s in control.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Poking your dick in this chick has got you feeling like you’re fucking a high school cheerleader that does Kegel exercises while she sits in an algebra class she don’t quite understand. She’s got a dynamite little pussy so tight it causes you to bust a nut that makes your head spin. That’s what you said, right?”

“Something like that.”

“Guess what?” He cocked an eyebrow.

I cocked mine. “What?”

“If anybody else was fucking her it wouldn’t feel like that. Her twat fits you. It’s not as much her twat’s composure that makes you come like a faucet as it is the chick that’s carrying it around. You feel the way you feel when you fuck her because of who she is, not what she’s packing in the gap between her thighs.”

I felt like I was sitting across the table from Doctor Phil. I wasn’t prepared to give his advice as much consideration as I wanted to, so I simply agreed with him. Kind of.

“I suppose we’ll see in time,” I said.

He stood. “I suppose we will.”

I walked into the living room. In complete contrast to Andy’s contemporarily furnished home, mine was decorated with an eclectic mix of old world meets modern society. A grandfather clock from the nineteenth century told the time. Music was often listened to on a forty-year-old turntable I’d purchased while on a trip to England.

My furniture was gathered one piece at a time, and none of it was bought new. Some was from the 1950’s, some from the 60’s, and a few pieces were modern. Quality and price didn’t always go hand in hand, and I made my selections based on a quality and a piece’s unique nature, regardless of price.

I walked to the buffet that was centered along the far wall. As I admired the craftmanship of the fifty-year-old piece, I noticed a chip of wood beneath it. Puzzled by where it might have come from, I bent down and studied it. When I stood, I hit the back of my head on the edge of the buffet.

Frustrated, I dragged my finger along the edge that nearly knocked me senseless. A piece of wire tucked neatly beneath the ornate wood came loose as my fingertip hit it. As it dangled into view, the hair on my neck stood on end.

I stood, faced the kitchen, and snapped my fingers.

Goose turned around.

I raised my index finger to my lips and then motioned for him to come to me. Without speaking, he obliged.

I knelt and pointed to the wire. At the tip was a what appeared to be a small microphone. The quality of the device led me to believe whoever had planted it wasn’t a private detective or an amateur of any sort.

It appeared the government’s finest were attempting to listen in on my life.

Goose inspected the listening device, crawled under the buffet, and removed it. Silently, we walked to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet.

Not knowing if the home was fitted with more devices, we went to the elevator, down to the parking garage, and into the alley. As he nervously smoked a cigarette, we discussed what we’d found.

“You sure it wasn’t her?” he asked.

The possibility had crossed my mind, but only long enough for me to rule it out. “Positive,” I said.

“How positive?”

I glared at him.

“Just asking.” He took a drag, and then blew a ribbon of smoke into the air. “Wonder how long they’ve been listening.”

“Hard saying. Be a boring job listening to that recording. We don’t ever discuss anything in there.”

“What about the clubhouse? Your office?”

The thought anyone listening to the conversations in either of those locations made me cringe with fear. After a moment’s consideration, I looked at him with wonder in my eyes.

“Seems that they’ve had arrested us long ago if they were listening to our meetings.”

He took another drag, and then went wide-eyed. He coughed out the smoke, and gave me a bug-eyed look. “How’s the building set up? Who owns it? On paper?”

“My LLC owns the building. I lease the second floor from the LLC. City has it set up weird. Each floor is a different address.”

“But you lease the second floor in your name?”

I nodded. “Graham Baker.”

“They’ve got to get a search warrant to plant that shit.” He tossed his cigarette aside. “If they planted it on the up and up. Bet they got a warrant for the place in your name. The LLC is the deed holder to the building, and you’re the person who leases the second floor from the LLC?”

His logic was beginning to make sense. I hadn’t initially set up the LLC to offer me the protection it was offering me, but I was glad I’d done what I did when it came to ownership.

“Yeah,” I said. “But, on paper, I don’t own the LLC.”

“Who does?”

“My mom’s sister.”

“Karen? The gal who raised you?”

I nodded.

“Thank fucking God,” he said. “I feel better about everything now.”

He may have felt better, but I had a mind full of questions that I was afraid no one could answer.

I glanced at my watch and immediately began to laugh hysterically.

“What?” he asked.

I shook my head in sheer disbelief. “What day of the month is it?”

“Thirteenth,” he said. “Why?”

I didn’t bother responding.