Tate

Bobbi and I had talked to each other every day for several months, but in many respects I felt like I’d just met her. Our previous conversations weren’t forced, but they weren’t leisurely, either. Now that I was out of prison, seeing her was a far more enjoyable occasion. Being at a swanky steakhouse with a candle between us didn’t hurt matters, that was for sure.

She spent a moment looking at the menu, and then picked up her phone. After setting the phone aside, she went back to the menu, only to pick her phone up again. I imagined her messaging her father, explaining how I wasn’t the savage that he suspected I’d be.

After another scan of the menu, she picked up her phone.

Maybe I was wrong. It very well might have been the opposite. She might have been describing what a terrible time she was having on our first date.

I leaned forward. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, flipping her blond curls over her shoulder. “This is embarrassing.”

I suspected she was going to tell me that her cat was sick with the flu or that her grandmother had broken her hip. Something that would let her sneak away without telling me what the real problem was.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Weight Watchers. I’ve got to check and see what each item on the menu has for a points value. Everything looks so good, and I don’t want to overdo it.” She set her phone aside. “I’m sorry. I’ll just get the chicken. It’s always a safe bet.”

I looked at her in disbelief. “You’re on a diet?”

“I am.” Her gaze fell to the table.

“Don’t know why,” I said. “You look fantastic.”

“Thank you.” She pushed the menu aside and then looked at me. “But, if I wasn’t on a diet, I’d be twice this size.”

I shrugged. “Okay by me, either way.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“What?”

She waved her hands toward her torso. “That I look like this.”

I took a moment to look her over. She looked breathtaking in the black dress she was wearing. Her curves were in all the right places. Being in her presence made me feel fortunate.

“You look like what? Beautiful? Personally, I think you’re one of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Hell, ever will see for that matter. I’m not sure what’s supposed to bother me.”

Her mouth curled into a grin. “You’re sweet.”

I gestured toward the menu. “What were you thinking about getting?”

She picked it up, glanced at it, and then peered over the top. “The shrimp scampi. The chicken marsala. The filet with the wine reduction sauce. They all sound so good.”

“And what are you going to settle for?”

“The grilled chicken breast with a side of steamed broccoli and a sweet potato. You?”

“I’ll decide when he gets here.” I set my menu aside. “What’s your favorite food?”

“Italian. But I can’t eat it. It’s sad. That stuff is like sex.”

“I don’t know about that, but it’s pretty damned good.”

I no more than finished speaking, and the waiter stepped to the table. “Have you made a decision?”

“I think we’re ready,” I said.

“For the lady?”

“I’ll have the grilled chicken breast.”

“Two sides?”

“Broccoli and a sweet potato.”

“Brown sugar and butter?”

“No thank you. Just plain.”

“Very well.” He looked at me. “For the gentleman?”

“The shrimp scampi, the chicken marsala, and two of the filet specials.”

He stared back at me as if I was crazy.

“I’m serious,” I said.

“How would you like your steak, I’m sorry, steaks cooked. Medium, and…” I looked at Bobbi.

“Medium,” she said.

“Make both medium, please.”

“Okay. One chicken breast, grilled, with broccoli and a sweet potato, plain. Then, one shrimp scampi, one chicken marsala, and two filet specials. What would you like for sides?”

“Broccoli and sweet potatoes.”

“For each of them?”

“Please.”

“Alright. I’ll be back in a minute with some bread.”

Bobbi let out a long sigh.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “We’re both gluten intolerant.”

He gave a sharp nod. “Very well. Your meals will be out shortly.”

Bobbi laughed and then shook her head. “What are we going to do with all of this food?”

“Eat the broccoli first. Then, half the baked potato. You’ll damned near be full. Wait a few minutes. Take a big bite of the filet, a bigger bite of the chicken marsala, and then close with two of the shrimp. It’ll be about the same points as eating that boring chicken breast.”

“What do you know about Weight Watchers points?”

“During my course of writing, I’ve researched just about everything on earth.”

“Really?”

“Want to know the best burger joint in Augusta, Georgia?”

She smiled. “Sure.”

“Farmhaus Burgers. And, if you go, be sure to get the fried pickles.”

“Are they good?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “Never been there.”

“That’s funny.”

“What if you’re on Mission Beach, and you need a surf board?”

She shrugged.

“Go see Luke Eagan. He’s got a place right off the boardwalk.”

“Do you surf?”

“Never tried. But I researched it. No differently than Weight Watchers.” I cocked my head to the side and did my best to recall my research. Upon doing so, I met her gaze. “Let’s see. Unaltered fruit is zero. Veggies? Zero. Sugar, for the most part, is a point a teaspoon. Coffee is zero, as long as you don’t add anything to it. White turkey meat and white chicken meat is roughly a point an ounce, unless it’s skinless boneless breast meat, which is a point for each three ounces. Eggs are two points each. Ice cream is a no-no, unless is Halo Top, and then you can go wild. A cup is only four points.”

Her eyes went wide. “You know about Halo Top?”

“Again, I’ve never had it, but I’ve read about it.”

“I’ve had it,” she said. “It’s so good.”

“We should have some.”

“You can have regular ice cream. Why would you want Halo Top?”

I chuckled. “Most people think I can eat whatever I want. I eat egg whites, turkey, chicken, Kashi Go Lean cereal, green vegetables, almonds, a little bit of brown rice from time to time, and very little fruit. For the most part, that’s it.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Seriously?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“You forgot oatmeal,” she said.

I chuckled. “Never ate it once.”

“But. You said the breakfast was your favorite meal.”

“It was. Not because of the oatmeal. Because of the eggs. I flushed the oatmeal.”

She let out a laugh. “Really?”

“Every day.”

“You seemed so happy to get it.”

“I was happy to see you. The oatmeal? Not so much.”

She rolled her eyes, and then looked at me. “You could go on a date with anyone you want. Why me? Is it a gratitude thing?”

“Gratitude thing?”

“You know. Because you appreciate that I wasn’t like Perry?”

“I asked you out because I like the way you look, act, and think. If I didn’t like all three, you wouldn’t be here.”

“How do I think?”

“You’re not prejudiced. You don’t have Instagram because you think it’s a waste of time. You’ve got no use for child molesters, but a man who robs a bank to feed his family doesn’t seem to bother you much. You’re the real deal.”

She blinked a few times, and then simply stared. “How did you…how did you know what I thought about those guys?”

“While I exercised, I listened. I counted the bean slots as they opened. Price was in number one, and Grossman was in number three.”

“You were in twenty-four. There’s no way you could hear what I said.”

“You’re right. But I can count. You’d spend five seconds at everyone’s cells, except for the ones you talked to.”

“Interesting,” she said. “I had no idea you paid that much attention.”

“Not much else to do,” I said. “Being attentive is pretty cheap insurance.”

“Insurance on what?”

“Life.”

“If I would have spent time talking to Jerry Porter Price, you wouldn’t have had the same interest in me?”

“I would have had no interest in you.”

“None?”

“Zero.”

Her eyes thinned a little. “Why?”

“If you could find a way to be compassionate with someone who molested children and filmed it, there would be no way you and I would have got along.”

She clenched her fist, and blew into it while she looked at me. As she inhaled her next breath, she lowered her hand. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“A serious question.”

Her face washed with worry. I wondered what might be troubling her, and decided it could be nothing other than Gravy’s death. I was afraid she wouldn’t like my answer if I gave it.

“Go ahead.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am right now, but you better hurry up before I change my mind.”

If she was going to ask what I suspected she was going to ask, I didn’t want to tell her the truth, but I damned sure couldn’t lie to her. There was no way I could build a relationship using a lie as the foundation.

She locked eyes with me. “Did you kill Darin Wheatland?”

“Are you asking me as a cop, or as my date?”

“Your date.”

There was tremendous risk in telling her the truth, and no future ahead if I lied to her. I let out an exhaustive sigh. “I did.”

“Okay.” She leaned against the back of her chair. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

“Why?”

“I was curious more than anything,” she said. “But I wanted to see if you’d tell me the truth.”

“Did you already know the answer?”

“No. I saw you and Tink walk in that direction, but that’s about it. You were too far away, and there were too many people in the way for me to see much of anything.”

“So how would you know if I was lying?”

“I wouldn’t. But I know now that you’ll be truthful with me.”

“Can’t be much future between us if I’m not willing to be truthful.”

“Club business is club business.” Her mouth twisted into a smirk. “Sound familiar?”

“This wasn’t club business,” I said flatly. “It was personal.”

She raised her hands and turned her palms to face me. “I don’t want to know.”

“And, I don’t want to say. So, we’ll agree that this subject is closed?”

“There’s nothing else I need to know.”

“Next subject,” I said with a laugh.

“What’s it like--”

“I thought the subject was closed.”

“Not that. What’s it like to write a book? To have all those characters running around in your head?”

“Confusing. Fun. Rewarding. Confusing. Did I already say that?”

“You said it twice.”

“Sometimes I can’t write fast enough. They get to doing and saying things, and if I don’t write it as fast as it happens, I lose half of it.”

“Do you make outlines or take notes?”

“I don’t. It’s fly by the seat of my pants. I just let the characters do what they do.”

“I like that. So, the books are more of reality TV show than a movie script.”

I chuckled. “I guess that’s one way of putting it. The characters do what they do, and I edit it for grammar. I rarely change content. As far as I’m concerned, it’s like changing history.”

“Is that why you choose to self-publish?” she asked. “You don’t want an editor making you change content?”

“To change content would be to restrict a character’s ability to convey his or her tale. It doesn’t matter if it’s narrative or dialogue, it’s all the same if written in first person. It’s the character’s voice.”

“Have you ever had to pull the reins on a character?”

“What do you mean?”

“Restrict them? Keep them from doing or saying too much?”

I let out a laugh, and then raised my index finger. “Funny you ask. There was one. Well, probably more than one, but one that stands out more than any other. I wrote this series about boxers, and there was this guy. Big bald-headed guy named Mike. He was always doing and saying crazy shit, and I’d get done writing a scene and then I’d look at it and think what in the fuck did this guy just do? I’d delete it and start over. The same thing would happen. A few times, I left the chapters, thinking I’d just go back and delete them. It didn’t matter. Eventually, he did something even more ridiculous. I decided it was just who he was.”

She smiled, and then covered her mouth with her hand. “He cut off a guy’s finger and grilled in on the barbeque grill.”

I was embarrassed. “You read that one?”

“I liked him.”

“I guess that’s good.”

“Do you think when you have characters like Mike that they’re really the inner you? Your subconscious? Maybe that’s why you can’t change them.”

“I’ve wondered about that.” I tapped the tip of my index finger against my temple. “I mean, it all comes from in here.”

“I think it’s amazing.”

“What?” I chuckled. “That I subconsciously want to cut off a guy’s finger and grill it?”

“That you’ve got what seems like an endless supply of stories, characters, and life lessons rattling around in your head.”

I relaxed in my seat and studied her for a moment. “Do you believe in God?”

“I do.”

“I believe God has a place for all of us. I think it’s our responsibility to find that place, not his responsibility to put us there. Some people spend a lifetime on that journey. Trying to find out where they belong. I’m lucky I found my place this early in life.”

“Do you think being in the MC is where you belong?”

My response came without thought. “I do.”

“Don’t take this wrong, but do you think it’s God’s will that you be there?”

“I found the MC immediately after my parents passed away. They’re my family, and they’re the only family I have. God’s had many opportunities to change things, and he hasn’t done it yet. So, yeah. I think it’s his will.”

“You want to know what I think?”

“Absolutely.”

“I spent a lot of time thinking about this after what happened to Wheatland. Here’s what I came up with.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and leaned forward. “Law enforcement officers are vigilantes. Most people don’t see them that way, but they are. They seek those who’ve committed acts against others, and they administer justice. In Psalm, the bible said, ‘give justice to the weak and the fatherless; maintain the right of the afflicted and the destitute.’ And, in Genesis, Simeon and Levi avenged the rape of their sister, Dinah. They killed all the men in the city where the rapist lived. So, the bible not only mentions vigilantes, but it makes no mention of condemning their actions. Maybe you are right where you belong.”

Finding a woman as beautiful as Bobbi was a once in a lifetime occurrence. To have her be open-minded was a one in a million chance. Her support of me and my actions with the club was something I would have hoped for, but never expected.

I gazed into her brown eyes and smiled.

She was right.

I was where I belonged.