Bobbi

Sitting in my father’s kitchen while solving the world’s problems over a cup of coffee was how I spent most of my Sunday mornings. It was something we both looked forward to. I peered over the top of my coffee cup and considered telling him how different my life had become after Tate left. Not seeing him or talking to him was troubling me much more than I would have expected.

When it came to discussing matters with my father, I needed to be prepared for a debate regarding the topics I chose. I simply wasn’t sure that I wanted to have a heated conversation about something as arguable as me having interest in a biker who was a felon.

He gazed into his cup of coffee and then shook his head. “I think this son-of-a-bitch has a hole in it. I would have sworn I just filled it.” He stood and turned away. “Have they fired that asshole, Perry, yet?”

“Not yet. I doubt they will. He’s got them convinced that he’s a necessary part of the facility’s operation.”

He glanced over his shoulder as he walked toward the coffee maker. “I think he’s an unnecessary asshole.”

I laughed at his remark. “He is. I can’t stand the way he treats people. And, he’s not afraid to tell the inmates what he thinks about them. I think it’s awful.”

“From what you’ve said, he’s just itching to get his hands on one of those guys. I can’t imagine what would happen if he did. It might not end the way he has it planned.”

I was taught to be unbiased. Even so, I couldn’t help but see Perry as anything but an asshole. While my father added cream and sugar to his coffee, I wondered how open-minded he’d be about Tate. After a few seconds of contemplation, my mouth spoke before my mind could stop it.

“One of the inmates was set free the other day. Prosecution dropped the charges before he went to trial. He’d been locked up for several months while he was waiting for his hearing. Then, they just let him go. It was weird.”

“Pretty good fellow, was he?”

“I thought so, why?”

He faced me and sipped his coffee. “You wouldn’t have mentioned him if he wasn’t. I raised you, remember?”

For as long as I could remember, there were two beings I had to answer to. God, and my father. Bullshitting my father was like bullshitting God. Through both of their eyes, I was as transparent as glass.

“He was really nice,” I said. “He was one of the few I talked to every day.”

“Not the bank robber? I’m guessing they didn’t let him go.”

“No.”

“The biker?”

“Yeah. The biker.”

“Wasn’t he in for felon in possession of a firearm?”

“You’ve got a good memory.”

“I don’t have much to remember.” He chuckled. “You’re the only one I talk to.”

He studied me as he sauntered to the table. “What was his other case?” He sat down and then met my gaze. “The first one?”

“Excuse me?”

“The case that made him a felon in the first place? What was it?”

I suspected he’d be understanding of what Tate was charged with. If for some reason he wasn’t, befriending Tate would go against his wishes, and that wasn’t something I was prepared to do.

“Starting a riot,” I said.

He let out a laugh. “I’m guessing it wasn’t a peaceful gathering of townsfolk.”

“Actually, it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“Not as bad as it sounds, huh?” He raised both eyebrows and grinned. “Let’s hear it.”

“Remember that kid that got shot at the gas station in Compton?”

“The black kid who was holding a gas pump? White cop thought it was a gun?”

“That’s the one.”

“How in the hell do you think I’d forget that? I was so damned mad when that verdict came out. Still mad about it, to tell you the truth. Son-of-a-bitch killed an innocent kid, and got off without so much as a slap on the hand. Justified shooting, my ass.”

His anger toward the incident gave me some comfort in telling him about Tate’s past conviction. “Well. He was charged with starting a riot in protest of the not guilty verdict of that officer.”

He sipped his coffee, and then set the cup aside. “Anyone get hurt?”

“No.”

“Shots fired?”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “Was it a peaceful protest?”

“Pretty much. People picketing.”

“Bikers?”

“No. It was just angry citizens. I read the report in his file. According to him, he was riding down the street and pulled over when he saw the people protesting. According to the cops, he changed a peaceful protest into a riot. A few windows were broken by protestors who were throwing rocks and beer bottles, and that’s what brought on the charges.”

“Is he a Hells Angel?”

“No.”

“Is he that kind of biker? The kind that rides in a gang?”

“He’s not a Hells Angel, but yeah. He’s in a biker gang.”

“Tattoos?”

I laughed. “Yeah.”

“Wears a leather vest with a logo on the back and such?”

“Yep.”

“That’s why they charged him. That vest and that insignia made him a target.” He reached for his coffee. “That was his original crime?”

“That’s it.”

“What about the second charge. Why’d he have a gun?”

“That’s another good one. Get this. He was in a bar and a fight broke out. He stepped in to help a guy who was being beaten by a group of men, and when things got out of hand, someone handed him a gun. That someone was an ATF agent, and when he accepted the gun, he was arrested. That’s why the US Attorney’s Office dropped the charges. The ATF agent set the whole thing up.”

“Both incidents are a perfect example of the risks associated with the choices we make.”

I looked at him in disbelief. “So, he shouldn’t be a biker because of the risks it brings?”

“I didn’t say that. Regardless of who he might be, a good portion of society will always look at him with jaded eyes. They’ll see him as the biker that’s portrayed on the news. The one who shoots up the other bikers in a bar fight or manufactures dope for a living.” He reached for his coffee. “Does he have a job?”

I laughed. “You’ll love this.”

“He’s an aeronautical engineer?”

“No, better.”

“A hairdresser?”

“Almost. He’s a romance novelist.”

Midway through a sip of his coffee, he coughed the drink into his cup and then looked at me no differently than if I’d just told him I was going to have triplets. “He writes romance books? Like your mother used to read?”

Until the day she died, my mother always had a paperback in her hand. She read while she cooked, while she watched television, and while she rode in the car on the vacations we took as a family. It was her love of reading that prompted me to follow in her footsteps at such an early age.

They were a little more graphic than the novels my mother read, but for the sake of conversation, I agreed. “Just like mom used to read.”

“He sounds like an interesting fellow. Is that why we’re having this conversation? Because you find him interesting?”

“We talked every morning for the entire time he’s been in there. Then, when they dropped his charges, Perry walked him out without telling me. He took him out the back, and I know he did it just so he couldn’t say anything to me on his way out.”

“I’m sure he did.” He scowled at his coffee cup and pushed it aside. “And, you’re upset because you didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Is that it?”

He gazed across the kitchen table and waited for my response.

It wasn’t exactly why I was upset, but it was part of it. After reading two dozen of his books, I couldn’t help but wonder exactly who Tate Reynolds was, and just what might become of our friendship.

I dropped my gaze to the table. “Kind of. Yeah.”

“You’re wanting to get to know him a little more?” he asked. “Is that it?”

“I suppose.”

“Have you read any of his stuff?”

I looked up. Despite my struggle to prevent it, my face went flush. “Twenty of them.”

“Damn. How many has he written?”

“Forty-something.”

“Jesus. He’s been busy, hasn’t he?” He gave a few nods of approval, and then looked at me. “Pretty salty stuff?”

“It’s really good, actually. Why?”

“Well, from that look on your face, you’ve enjoyed it to the point you’re embarrassed. I doubt they’re like those Harlequin novels your mother used to read that had Fabio on the cover, are they?”

“Not exactly.”

He pushed his chair away from the table, and then looked me over. “What’s the problem, Bobbi?”

He could tell something was troubling me. There was not much sense denying it, so I decided to own it.

“He’s really a nice guy,” I said. “It bothers me that we didn’t get to talk before he left.”

“Your buddy Perry saw to it that he didn’t get a chance to say anything to you.”

My gaze dropped to the table. “I know.”

“There’s more to it than that, though. Isn’t there?”

There was. I couldn’t decide just how much I wanted to tell him, though. I couldn’t lie to him, but that didn’t mean I had to tell him the complete truth, either. Not unless he asked, anyway.

I looked up and met his gaze. “I’m just. I don’t know. I want to see him again. I want to talk to him. You know, without the restriction of having a steel door between us.”

“Now that things are different.” He raised both eyebrows. “Things might be different.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He reached for his coffee. While he sipped it, he studied me. “I’ll go back to my original question. What’s the problem, Bobbi?”

In short, the answer was easy. So, I gave him the short answer. “I miss talking to him.”

It was true. I did. It may have seemed inconsequential to most, but short of Andy and my father, I talked to no one. Talking to Tate for 5 minutes a day over the course of two months was a significant achievement. It was more interaction with the male species than I’d had in the last three years combined.

My father rested his chin in his hands and looked me over. “You’re quite resourceful. I’m sure you can find him if you want to. But. I don’t think that’s what you want right now. I think you’re hoping that those books give you an insight to just who the man on the other side of the cell door was.” He arched an eyebrow. “Am I far off?”

I chuckled. “Probably not.”

“Your reading pace is what? A book a night?”

“Pretty close.”

“Well, here in a few weeks, you’ll have read everythibng he’s put out there. If you still think you need to talk to him when you’re done, I’m sure you’ll figure something out. If you wanted me to tell you I think you shouldn’t have interest in a biker who stands up for what he believes in, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

He didn’t tell me much, but he said what I needed to hear. I glanced at my watch, and realized the morning had somehow escaped us.

“I think I’m going to go. It’s almost noon.”

He smiled. “Keep me posted?”

I nodded. “I will.”

“Everything that’s meant to be, will be,” he said.

I’d heard that phrase so many times, I’d come to believe it. “I know.”

My fear was that my relationship with Tate had run its course.