7.

Elise

 

We stop at Margie’s Homecookin’ for breakfast. Street parking only. I’m glad for Mark to be driving because I could never imagine parallel parking his behemoth truck.

The only reason I know it’s called Margie’s Homecookin’ would be from the fancy script painted in the front window. Most people know the place by the big neon sign hanging above the door. The sign simply says, Eat.

From the day I moved here to the day I left, I don’t know that I realized the diner had an actual name. But what I knew then, I still know now. Margie makes the best blueberry pancakes in the county. Not that Mark would know. What’s with men and their steak and eggs? Logan, Beau, and even Tommy—always the steak and eggs.

With strong coffee and light conversation, I begin to let my guard down, thawing somewhat to the town again. That is until Margie herself steps out from the kitchen.

I only have the briefest moment to brace before she calls out, “Elise Manning in my store. Missed you, girl.” Not the response I expect from the woman who used to smother Logan and Beau with golden boy attention and comped meals after home games. Highly unfortunate that her greeting calls attention to the other patrons that the traitorbitchwhore lurks among them.

“Hi, Margie. Good to see you.”

“Hi, Margie. Good to see you?” She repeats. “That’s all you got for me after what? Five years? Get your ass up.”

I stand. Margie makes her way over to me through the small dining room. Seems we’re the entertainment for the other patrons. Seems just like old times, Margie still doesn’t care for gossipers.

“Eyes on your own plates,” she yells at them while just about squeezing the life out of me. “’Cept for you, baby boy,” she says dripping sweetness to my date. “You can stare as long as you want—”

“Mark,” he cuts in, which yeah, that’s rather odd.

I can’t see the look on her face, but she pauses a beat. “I know who you are. I may be old, but I ain’t that old. Been comin’ in here his whole life,” she mumbles to herself. “Don’t think I know his name.”

She releases me allowing both of us to slide back into the booth. “How long you in town for?” she asks.

Mark reaches over, grabbing my hand across the table. “I’m countin’ on forever.”

Margie smiles big enough at him to show all five of her missing teeth. “Bet you are.” Miss Margie, she’s a cantankerous old broad, and when I say old, she always liked to joke that God created her then dirt. Her voice is pure gravel from smoking a pack a day since conception but her heart can hold the whole town. I’d been worried her heart held the town minus one. What was I thinking?

“Marge,” her husband yells from the pickup window. “We got backup orders.”

“Seems my work ain’t never done. You stay, you come back. You leavin’, you come back first, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When she’s safely back in the kitchen and out of earshot I ask him, “What was that about? The name thing?”

“Looked like she was strugglin’ for a second. Ready to head out?”

I nod. The waitress sees me nod and thinks I’m asking for the bill because she walks over to drop it on the table.

“No thanks.” Mark waves her away. “We’re not stayin’ for the drawin’.”

She blinks looking ten kinds of uncomfortable, reaching to snatch it back. He stops her hand. “I’m kiddin’,” he says and picks it up.

Now I know I had to have known him back in the day because Lo and Beau used to use that exact same line to fluster the waitresses. Heard Tommy say it at the bar just the other night.

I open my purse to pull out money when Mark pins me with a hard stare that screams, ‘Don’t you embarrass me by trying to pay.’

“At least let me leave the tip,” I tell him.

“Touch that wallet, I spank that ass, darlin’. You’re with me, I pay. Not tryin’ to tread on your feminist sensibilities but we got some traditions you’ll just have to deal with. I pay on dates, hold the door and I always drive.”

“That it?”

“It’s a start. I think of more, I’ll tell you.”

“Why do you always get to drive? I like to drive.”

“And you can. When it’s just you or you got Maryanne, or eventually the kids.”

I purse my lips, uncomfortable with him bringing up our hypothetical children again. “Again, why?”

“Because I’m the man in this family.”

“I didn’t know we were a family.”

“Didn’t I already break this down for you? You movin’ in. Ring on your finger. Baby in your belly.”

“You know what?” I shake my head. “I can’t even… that logic makes no sense. How do I argue with it?”

“You don’t. You accept it and move on. These are the rules, baby girl.”

“What if I don’t want the rules?”

The jerk has the nerve to laugh.

“You want the rules.”

I don’t know about all that, but I do know I want Mark. “What the hell am I getting myself into?” I mumble to myself.

He chooses to answer me anyway. “A world of happiness if you let it happen.”

 

***

 

We’ve been standing outside the clubhouse for a good ten minutes while I continue to stall my internal freak out. The building looks like it started out life as a commercial garage that probably went out of business because it’s located too far outside of town to drive a broken down car, even though in reality, it’s only two miles out.

The property they’ve surrounded by a twelve foot chain-link fence with those white strips weaving through the chain links so no one can see in from the road. Two men, Mark told me are prospects, guard the gate.

Prospects are the young guys who basically get shit on by the full members. Charged with doing everything the full members don’t want to do, from cleaning the toilets, to going shopping, to guarding the gates, and everything a full member can think of, in-between. At the end of the prospect period, which doesn’t have a defined date, but ends once the full members decide he’s earned his full membership, he’ll get patched in as a full member. Which is exactly what it sounds like. He’ll get the big patch on the back of his cut, or, the leather vest he wears to show membership to the club. It’s all very official for a group of outlaws.

Once they let us through, I take in how the property has been sectioned off. The clubhouse stands front and center with a large parking area filled with bikes and a few pickup trucks. To the left is a garage, like of the industrial variety, yet smaller than the initial clubhouse which was probably a former garage, which must be for personal use because I cannot see regular folks venturing inside these gates to find a mechanic. To the right, several trailers. Some singlewides, some doubles. All look to be well taken care of. The prettiest being a blue doublewide with a white wraparound porch. Flower boxes in full bloom hang off the railings. A paved walkway leads to the clubhouse and the whole thing is heavily landscaped with shrubs and bushes. Mark says that home belongs to the club president.

I’d live there. It reminds me of a grandma house. The kind of place you’d go to sip tea on that front porch. I’d rather go there then inside to the clubhouse. Not because I’m scared of the men. I’m just not fond of looking stupid.

“Suck it up, darlin’. Time to go.”

“I know. I just…feel stupid for how I acted last night.”

“Which is what you’re here to rectify.”

On a heavy breath I nod, and he opens the door. The space looks exactly as one would suspect an MC clubhouse to look inside. Peeling, brown laminated siding covers every inch of wall, darkened by years of smoke. Drop ceiling stained in several places by water damage, or, at least I’m telling myself it’s water damage. A neon Budweiser sign hangs next to the pool cues above the pool table directly across the room from the front door. There’s an old poker table to the left with ripped and missing sections of green felt. It has four barrel chairs with red vinyl cushions, tucked in around it. To the right of the door is the bar. And on the shelf behind the bar someone has stacked numerous bottles but only with the big four representing: Bourbon (we are in Kentucky), tequila, vodka and gin.

The very left wall has a newer looking flat screen, a long, overstuffed black vinyl sofa and three matching club chairs all in various stages of wear with rips and tears, even some stuffing pulled up. Then finally to the very back of the manly space there’s the mouth to a hallway. I’m not going to lie, the whole place smells of stale smoke, overly fermented alcohol and years of sex.

“Bossman.” He’s greeted. I’m ignored. Not that I blame them. Every man I offended last night is in this room, plus some, who I’m sure have heard the story by the unholy glares shooting my way.

“Hey guys,” I address the room. Time to man up. To lump my pride. They turn to listen but not one says hi back. Okay, I can do this. “I acted like a judgmental brat last night.” That gets grumbles of agreement. “I was shocked and out of sorts, and used that as my excuse to embarrass someone I care deeply about by being rude to all of you. No more excuses. I truly am sorry. And I hope my behavior doesn’t reflect poorly on Bossman. So yeah…that’s all I’ve got.”

Mark walks up behind me, giving my arms a squeeze and a quick kiss on my cheek. “You did great, baby girl.”

“I don’t know. No one really looks to have forgiven me.”

“Give it time.”

“Yo Bossman,” a man standing behind a bar area calls over to him. “Need anything?”

“Beer.”

“How ‘bout you, Elise?”

“Does that mean I’m forgiven?” I whisper through the corner of my mouth. Mark smiles his crooked smile at me so I know it’s okay to relax, and ask, “Cider?”

Pretty soon we’re chatting with the man who brought the drinks. He introduces himself as Sly. When I ask why Sly, he tells me because he is. Chaos joins us and I’m introduced for the first time to Duke, the club president.

“Don’t much like hearing my men being disrespected, especially in one of our establishments. But I appreciate you coming here today to make it right.”

“I’m still really embarrassed by my behavior last night. Apparently it was stress induced.”

“Bossman never claimed an old lady before either. Seems you’re the only one he’s ever wanted. Because of that he warned us yesterday that you got a spitfire personality and aren’t accustomed to club life.”

Claimed an old lady? Is that what I am? An old lady is the official title for a member’s woman. An old lady is fully recognized by the club, and is someone not to be messed with. Like a queen to the king. How’s that going to work with me living in Chicago?

Still, instead of arguing my point which might lead to more alienation or outright hostility, both things I don’t want, especially standing at biker ground zero, I push that away for now.

“No, I’m not,” I say. “And I’ve had a lot on my mind. Even living in a big city, I’ve never actually been around a motorcycle club before. Seems there’s a lot to learn. Good thing Mark is patient.”

“You’re inexperience is the only reason we didn’t beat the shit outta your man for bringing your trouble into our club.”

“You’d really do that? Beat the shit out of him because of me?”

“Actions have consequences,” Mark says to me. And he shrugs as if completely unbothered by the idea.

“He claimed you as his woman.” Duke attempts to explain. “We don’t hit women. So by claiming you, he claimed your punishment.”

“But that seems so unfair.”

“You rather take a hit? He takes the punishment here, then it’s up to him to decide how to punish you. But that’s between the two ‘a you in the privacy of your home.”

“I mean no disrespect, but this whole concept of punishment seems…barbaric. We’re all adults here. Why can’t we talk it out?”

“It’s our way.”

And I know that’s all the answer I’m going to get. If I decide to keep Mark in my life, I’m going to have to get used to these archaic rules.

“Where are all the women?” I chose to change subjects.

“At home or working.” Chaos offers. “Old ladies don’t usually hang around the clubhouse. Mostly for family days or parties. When we throw parties, pieces come around, too.”

“Pieces?”

“Of ass.”

“Ah…” Do not judge. Do not judge. Do not judge. “Is that the only time pieces come around?”

“Nah.” Another man, Carver, joins us. “Pieces come around at night or earlier on the weekend whenever they feel like a little action. Most of the men are down to fuck.” He shrugs. “Available pussy’s available pussy, right?”

“But they aren’t girlfriends?”

“They’ll take whoever’s here.”

I whip my head to look at Mark. Pieces will take whoever? Is that what I can expect when I’m back home in Chicago? I’m not judging, but I’m not an open relationship kind of girl. If I don’t sleep with other men, it’s not a stretch to expect the same courtesy extended to me.

“Don’t look at me like that, darlin’. You really think I’d risk us for a piece of ass? I got the woman I want, and I’m not willin’ to share. Since you got the man you want, I have to assume the same.”

“Mark.” I tell it to him straight. “This club life has me so…so… twisted up, I’m not sure if I want to kiss you, kick you in the balls or take you into a coat closet and screw your brains out.”

The men around us chuckle and, or, low whistle. “Don’t have a coat closet, but I got a bed in back.”

“You do?”

“All patched-in members do. A place to crash after a party. Keep the men from drinkin’ and drivin’.”

“Or getting caught by their old ladies while they’re screwing their pieces,” I add.

“That too.”

This is all so much to take in. I kind of forget myself when the first few pieces trickle in. “Honestly Mark, how are we going to make long distance work when you’ve got all these available women shaking their tits in your face every night? How long are you going to be able to resist?” I know there have to be better old lady candidates for him. More roll with the punches, what happens in the clubhouse stays in the clubhouse. That’s not me.

“Excuse us, gentlemen.” Mark grabs my hand pulling me along behind him. He sets our empty bottles on the bar and says in response to us leaving. “I have to explain some things to Elise.”

“Looks like she’s about to get accustomed,” Chaos calls out.

And then he’s leading me down that back hallway, a hallway I can’t even chance a look at because my eyes stay glued to my feet making sure they hit every step so I don’t stumble from the way he’s hurrying. And then we’re in his club space. I expect, I don’t know what I expect. A personal man cave, maybe. His room, though, is just that, a room. A bed. No window. A closet. Even somewhat…tidy. Queen size bed. Not the king he has back at his place. Still, it takes up almost the entirety of the room. Night stands on both side of the bed and one long six drawer dresser across from the bed appear to be the only furniture. Then there’s a thin hollow wooden door, and I know it’s hollow because of the hole in the center of it just big enough to match a burly man’s fist.

“Closet,” he says in response to me eyeing the door. Then he tips his chin toward the only other door aside from the one we just came through. “Bathroom.” Good to know he’s got his own bathroom, because I wouldn’t even want to consider stepping foot in a public toilet in a motorcycle compound. Eww… Gives me the willies just thinking about it.

But discussing public MC toilets is not why we came in here and he’s being patient. I’ve noticed over the past few days Mark’s patience runs dry pretty quickly.

I look at him, leaning his backside against the edge of the dresser, his feet crossed at the ankles and his arms crossed over his chest. Whelp, time to do this. “Did I embarrass you again out there?” I ask, trying to avoid direct eye contact without looking like I’m avoiding direct eye contact. “Because I really didn’t mean to. That’s actually the last thing I want.”

“No. You didn’t embarrass me.” His voice gets soft as he snags my shirt with a hooked finger, bringing me to stand toe to toe in front of him. In this awkward stance my knees have nowhere to go except pressed against his thighs. And I fall forward, my cheek to his chest, my arms wrap around his waist to pad the fall. “But what do you want?” he asks me in the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard come from a man aimed at me. Movie star sexy. Smooth and rich as melted chocolate, there’s no other way to describe how it sounds, coating my body in delicious decadence.

Despite his coated in melted chocolate come hither tone, it’s in this moment, while we’re standing pressed together, my cheek resting against the name patch on his cut. Breathing in the smell of worn leather, his arms holding me like I matter. It’s this moment when I’m able to listen to that flutter in my chest reminding me why after knowing each other for such a short amount of time, why I want to try. “For you to be happy, that’s what I want. But there are so many rules that I’m just not use to or necessarily comfortable with. Maybe your kind of happy and my kind of happy, aren’t the same happy.”

“Darlin’,” There it is, that voice again. “You’re the only one. And you don’t have to learn it all in one day. And you don’t have to accept them all either. We’ll go over them as they come up. You’ll tell me the ones you can live with and the ones you absolutely can’t. Not won’t, though. Can’t. Got me?”

My arms around his waist turn from holding me in place to a full-blown hug. Yes, I hug him and not in a sexy way, either. We’ll deal with his melted chocolate in a minute, after I kiss my maybe onto his cheek.

“What about when we’re apart? I don’t like to share. That’s a can’t. I’m serious.”

Mark holds my stare as he gently strokes his finger along my collarbone. He muddles my mind when he touches me like that. Which, I’m sure is his goal.

Minute’s up. But he’s apparently not up for talking. If I thought the finger strokes were good, that’s nothing compared to the other stuff he unleashes next.

Time for melty chocolate again. And let me say, Mark’s melty chocolate other stuff is what my father should have warned me about as a teenager. Of course Logan was still pretty much a boy so it’s not really fair to compare, but his stuff can’t hold a candle to the other stuff Mark lavishes on me.

Um…wow.

I’ve never been with a man with a beard before him. Mark’s the first, and I have to say, I love it. The hair, although coarser than on his head, is still soft and tickles everywhere it touches my skin. The fact that he has my skin so heated elevates, intensifies each sensation, keeping that chocolate melty. I bite down gently on the bulging vein running down the length of his neck, the one bulging because he’s so turned on right now, too.

We’re not even in the bed, but he shifted to pin me up against the wall next to the dresser. Yet another first, as I’ve never been taken against a wall before. I’m aching for him, and at the same time not sure my legs will hold me.

He touches, caresses. He rubs and grinds.

I prickle, pins and needles.

Mark just keeps upping his game. I thought what we’d done this morning after George and Margo left was extraterrestrial. The shower, cosmic. But as his kisses intensify, I can’t imagine anything better in existence. I can’t remember wanting anything more than to feel him inside me again. I think he’s about to give it to me. And I’m so ready. The grinding. Oh lord, the grinding. We’re both still mostly clothed. Only our shirts gone, all other sensations coming from those miracle-making fingers. And it’s so intense to feel him everywhere, expanding my universe. Until I don’t.

Mark quits kissing me. “I can’t do this,” he says with his lips still pressing against mine.

I’m shocked, aching for this to happen. “Did I do something wrong?” I panic.

“No. No baby girl. I just can’t do it here. Not with my brothers in the other room.”

“I need you.” I whine and pant all in one breath.

“That’s good to know, darlin’. But I can’t bed you in the same bed I’ve had piece. This room was single me gettin’ off when you were still gone in Chicago.”

“But you’ve already had me.”

“In my bed, in my home.”

I don’t understand what he’s saying. He must sense it. “Baby girl, you’re the only woman ever shared that bed.”

My eyes, they close while I try to tamp down the ache of need still pulsating through my expanding universe, but the more I replay those words the easier it becomes to extinguish that ache. Or at least to dull and push it into the background as some other sensation, something I’m not ready to fully name pulses to the foreground.

But I certainly can admit. “You really do care for me.”

“Been tellin’ you this whole time.”

“I thought it was just something you said…I didn’t…Then take me to your home, Mark.”

“No. I can’t take you to my home. It ain’t mine anymore, darlin’. It’s ours. I’ll take you to our home. But you gotta say it first. Out loud, as a promise. I take you there, you never leavin’ me. We’re Elise and…”

“Mark,” I finish for him.

“Right. We’re Elise and Mark.”

Though I can’t make that promise, because Elise is still heading home to Chicago after the funeral.