I had a spring in my step throughout the rest of the day. I was scatterbrained and excited. I couldn’t wait to get the salon closed and my last appointment was a no-show, so I was tickled pink to have more time to get ready to hopefully meet Rider.

But, as I was climbing the stairs to go back up to my apartment, I got a text from my mom, summoning me.

“We would like you to come over for dinner today.”

Damn it! She hated texting. She only texted me when she didn’t want me to have an opportunity to say No.

Me: “Can’t do dinner. I have a date.”

Mom: “With Daniel Sotheby?”

Double damn it!

Why did I say ‘date’? Why didn’t I just say I had ‘plans’? Better yet, why didn’t I wait to respond to the text tomorrow?

Me: “No. Daniel and I are still sorting out schedules.”

Mom: “What time are you meeting this date?”

Me: “I don’t know yet. He’s going to txt.”

My phone rang.

“You’re seeing someone?” was how Mom greeted me. Before I got the Hello fully out.

“Hiiii Mommmm. How are youuuuu?” I drawled out snarkily.

“Jenna, please. I hardly have time for nonsense. Who are you going on a date with?”

Sigh.

“It’s new. Brand new. You don’t know him.”

“Oh.”

Loaded silence.

Another sigh from me but done away from the phone as she’d get irritated if she heard two in a row.

“What about Daniel Sotheby?” she asked.

“I texted him. We’re gonna meet for a coffee. But it might not go further than that, Mom.”

“So, you’ve kept your evening open; you’ll be desperately waiting by the phone for some other man?” Her voice was laced with judgement.

She wouldn’t ever allow any man to think she was waiting by the phone for him. My mother loved having the upper hand in everything. My theory was that it was one of the reasons why she works for a bank doing what she does. She likes to deny people money, make them grovel, repo their dreams.

“Not exactly. We just haven’t set a firm time yet. I’ll come by for an hour, though, before dinner? I’m sure me and Rider will probably be grabbing a drink later on.”

“Then come for dinner, Jenna.”

“You and Dad eat late and... “

“And bring the books.”

“Mom, can we just do this another day?”

“We need to go over the books, Jenna. We’ll eat early. For you.”

She added the ‘for you’ in a way that was so condescending it made my scalp prickle.

As if we needed to do that today. As if something was that pressing.

No. This was punishment. It was her using the books as leverage. If I didn’t love the salon so much, I wouldn’t let her continue to have this leverage over me.

I closed my eyes and forced a quiet breath out, so it wouldn’t sound like I was huffing.

“Okay, Mom. I’ll come over now. How’s that? We’ll do dinner another time.”

“Did you say, Rider?”

“Yes.”

“Rider?”

“That’s right.”

“Does this Rider have a surname?”

“Well, ma… he’s like Cher. He doesn’t need one of each. He’s just Rider.”

“Genevieve.”

Ugh.

“Rider Valentine.” Shit. Here we go. She was like a dog with a bone.

“Do not call me ‘ma’.”

Eyeroll from me.

“Valentine?” she confirmed.

“He’s new in town.”

“Yes, I know who he is, Genevieve.”

Of course she did.

Silence. Loaded silence. God, this conversation was painful. No. Not silence. I could hear her typing.

“The son of Deacon Valentine Senior?” she asked with a shuffle of paper in the background and then more typing. Did she have notes on the Valentine family? It wouldn’t surprise me. She was probably looking up Rider’s credit score right now.

“I guess. Why?” I was wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. I didn’t normally tell Mom about guys unless I was at the “introduce him to the parents” stage, which didn’t happen much. Clearly, I wasn’t thinking clearly.  I must still be muddled by his kiss.

“Mom? Are you there?”

“Bikers, Jenna?” The disapproval in her voice? No, not just disapproval. Disgust.

“You know who they are?”

“I handled opening the father’s business accounts a few weeks ago. His sons came in and opened their own accounts as well. I didn’t handle that, but I saw them and had to have a talk with the girls who were inappropriately discussing those… boys afterwards. I don’t remember which one Rider was, but they were bikers. They’ve all got healthy accounts, Jenna, but that’s where the healthy ends.”

“He had the longest hair.”

“What?”

“Rider is the one who has the longest hair.” I said this to identify him and show her that I didn’t give a rat’s ass about any of the shit she’d just said, including about their bank accounts. I wasn’t surprised that all four Valentine men walking into my mom’s bank caused a stir. Three gorgeous 20-something bikers and their still hot late 40s / early 50s dad? Plus, she’d hate that the guy I was dating had long hair. Another bonus.

Deke must’ve had a healthy account for Mom to handle it. She handled the branch’s wealthiest clients and she also liked to oversee some of the foreclosure stuff. She liked wealth and she also had a sadistic streak.

“Genevieve.” Mom’s voice was filled with disappointment.

How could she be so prejudiced?

And how come I was being so forthcoming? I knew it’d buy me nothing but hassles with her.

“Come. Over.” she ordered. “We’ll eat early. I’ll head there now. Do not forget the books, Genevieve.”

So many Genevieves. Pulling out that name gave me the heebie jeebies. It never bodes well for me.

***

No one but Ella knows my name is actually Genevieve. People think Jenna is short for Jennifer. Or that I’m just Jenna.

My parents named me after Dad’s mother, Genevieve, and as a child, Mom never hesitated to complain to me at every opportunity how much she despised my father’s mother and only did it because she had no choice. I never got to meet her, but my father has told me many times (though never in front of Mom) that he thinks I’m blessed with a bit of his late mother’s spirit. He said she was loving, free-spirited, loyal.

I don’t think my name is all that bad, but the association upsets me, so I prefer to be called by a name that doesn’t make me think of someone my mother hates.

Case in point:

One day, I was eleven years old, and I was flipping through one of her decorating coffee table books, minding my own business, though reading upside down with my legs thrown over the back of the couch, my head hanging off the edge when she waltzed in and glared.

“Up. We do not throw ourselves on the furniture like that!”

I did a backwards somersault and landed on the Persian rug and looked up at her, apologetically.

“You look just like your grandmother. I can’t stand the sight of you. Go to your room!”

I got to my feet and put the book back down, on an angle the way it had been before, and then as I walked by, I sarcastically said, “Yes, Mommie Dearest,” having recently read the book of the same name, and she slapped me in the face. She slapped me so hard that my head hit the wall.

She just stared, nostrils flaring, and I just remember being stunned until she marched away.

I never told Dad. And things had always been strained between Mom and I, from as young as I can remember. But, from that day forward, things were almost always extra-strained or at least chilly between us.

She’d give me heck when I rode down the banister. She’d give me heck when I didn’t cross my legs while wearing a skirt. She told me I laughed too big and unladylike. Imagine how awful it feels to be mocked for your laughter? Someone takes a moment of your joy and stomps on it.

She was like a table manners Nazi with me at the dinner table up until a few years ago. She was the definition of a WASP Tiger Mom. But, even when I did things according to her rigorous standards, I didn’t get praise.

***

I was arguing with my mother. Dad was sitting there, quiet, letting her walk all over me. As per the norm.

She wanted me to start charging Pippa some rent. And she wanted me to up the rent for Debbie, who used to own the salon, too, and now rented a chair.

“We’re locked in to an agreement with Deb. We made the deal when she sold me the salon.”

“When she sold your father and I the salon,” Mom corrected, reminding me that it wasn’t really and truly mine yet. I had three more years to prove it profitable before it was fully signed over to me in exchange for a chunk of my trust fund, which I was supposed to get on my thirtieth birthday.

“Costs have risen. Utilities, products. All the stuff that woman uses. Your overall costs have risen seven per cent in the last five months. It only stands to reason…”

“We have a contract! I break the contract, she walks! And not only does she walk, but she takes her clients. Some of those clients bring their kids to me. Or buy my products after Deb does their hair. Or gets their nails and their Brazilians done from Pippa, who also pays rent.”

“Rent on the salon but not on the apartment,” Mom pointed out. And then she glared at my Dad. “Should have had me write up that contract, Paul.”

Dad’s expression didn’t change.

I sighed. This was a repeated argument, once she found out I wasn’t charging Pippa rent to live with me upstairs.

“The apartment is mine, as part of our deal I don’t pay rent. So, why should I charge Pippa? She uses the spare room, so it’s no skin off my nose, and she splits on utilities and groceries. She chipped in for the paint and everything when we redecorated, too.”

“You paid for the carpet yourself and you carpeted her bedroom,” Mom said.

“We’re splitting hairs, here, girls,” Dad finally spoke up. We both looked to him at the head of the dinner table, set with white linen and Mom’s second-best china set.

We were eating take-out Chinese food, but in normal Mom-fashion, we were eating it on fine china out of serving dishes on a fully laid dining room table, rather than at the kitchen table with paper plates or directly out of the cardboard containers in front of the TV. We were even using fancy chopsticks that had gold-plated monogram m’s on them. M for Murdoch. M for miserable.

Dad looked to Mom. “The books look relatively good, Karen. What we should do, Jenna, is discuss your marketing plan for the balance of this year and the start of next year. Have you thought of that at all?”

“Yes. We do need to discuss that, Paul,” Mom said, “because she’s not investing back into the business. She’s spending any profit she makes,” Mom waved her hand at the printout sitting beside her dinner plate.

“Actually, I have a plan,” I said.

“Do tell,” Mom said with a roll of her eyes. Mom would be attractive for her age. She took care of her skin. She exercised. She had dark hair like mine, but it was cut to her collarbone and her hair style along with her ultra-conservative wardrobe choices made her look much older.

Dad was tall and trim, too, with just slightly greying dark hair and blue eyes. He was always dressed either in a suit or in golf clothes, and he turned women’s heads. 

Dad didn’t show much of a personality. He was all business. He was quiet. He seemed like he mostly glazed over when Mom talked.

My mother showed her personality all right, and it wasn’t a nice personality.

“I have four weddings booked outside normal salon hours. I’ll attend the bride’s home and me and my crew will do hair, nails, and all of that for the bride and her bridal party. I’ll hand out cards to bridesmaids and coupons and I’m sure some of them will come to the salon after.”

“That’s a great idea, Jenna,” Dad said. ”Isn’t that a great idea, Karen?” He looked to Mom with far too much enthusiasm.

Mom sipped her wine. She didn’t reply.

I continued, “I’ve talked to some wedding businesses within a five-block radius of the salon. Me, a florist, a DJ, a caterer, and a banquet hall are all networking and referring for one another.”

“Excellent.” Dad’s face lit up.

“That’s all fine, Jenna,” Mom started. “But you need to find a way to…”

“There’s more. I’ve had two meetings with a cosmetics and hair tools company,” I said, cutting her off. She instantly began to seethe but I sallied forth. “They’re going to send in some stock on consignment, so it’s risk free. I’m getting good sales from the hair products and the few make-up products I’m shelving, so I’m adding more shelving so that I can display more. Make-up brushes, hair tools, some high-end skincare products.” I went on and rattled off some of the brand names and if I wasn’t mistaken, Mom looked a little bit impressed.

I continued. “I’m getting busier. The book is filled to the brim more than 85% of my opening hours. If it keeps up like this, I can hire a part-time stylist to work the days Deb doesn’t work. When Deb’s ready to retire in six months, I’ll hire someone established full-time who’ll bring their own clients and to replace her and do profit sharing rather than paying hourly or renting a chair. I’m also thinking about bringing in Ella to do reception on the busiest days, if she can work her hours out between the cab office and the salon, which’ll help me get more people in chairs, and help sell stuff on the shelves when people pay. Ella can do sales as she cashes them out. It should buy me an extra one or two appointments a day and maybe mean I can take a lunch break occasionally. I’ll have more income and won’t give myself a raise. I’ll be putting money into the business to upgrade the space.”

“Well, Ella’s hardly refined enough to sell expensive cosmetics. She looks too much like a cheerleader to appeal to high-end clientele,” Mom put in with a sneer.

“Does she look like a cheerleader here?” I pulled out my phone and scrolled to show Mom the picture we took before we went to Deke’s Roadhouse on Saturday night when Ella’s hair and make-up had been done.

Mom didn’t reply, but this was a good sign, because if she didn’t think Ella looked transformed, she’d have said something.

“I’m thinking of getting our friend Andie, who’s a baker next door but also a good photographer, to do photo shoots and do some befores and afters in a social media blitz for the flat iron and hair gloss, and I’m thinking about doing a Groupon for a flat iron bar, too. Ella fixed up my website a few weeks ago and it looks great.” I passed Dad my phone, so he could see Ella. He made a ‘wow’ face.

I still had to talk to Ella about it, but I knew she’d be game, especially if she knew my parents were pushing me and holding the salon over my head, she’d do what she had to do to help me fight back and hold my position.

“And…” I straightened up and put my phone back into my pocket. “I talked to the local high school and a few students interested in cosmetology are going to do an afternoon a week as part of their credit, starting after Christmas, so it won’t cost me anything. I’ll do a flat iron bar those days and they can demo the product. I’m thinking Tuesdays as it’s my slowest day and it could bring more people in. I’ll market to the students for prom time, too.”

“What a great idea,” Dad said.

“If the hair irons do well, I’m thinking of bringing in this company that has an all-natural hair straightening treatment, too. My closest competitor does these Brazilian blow-outs that are filled with chemicals. People might like my alternative.”

“All well and good in theory, Jenna. But, are you ready to stop acting like a teenager and…”

“Seriously?” I cut her off.

She raised her over-tweezed eyebrows up at me critically. She didn’t come to the salon to Pippa for her brows. She also didn’t let me do her brows or her hair. She also never recommended her friends come to me. And that kind of hurt.

“I work six days a week. My business is profitable. I’ve got a good and diverse plan for growth. What is this really about, Mother?”

Mom glared at me.

“I’m full. Thank you for dinner. If there’s nothing else, I’ve gotta go get ready for my date.”

“Then go,” Mom folded her arms, “Out on a date with a…biker.” She stared at my father pointedly. He didn’t react. He rarely did.

I shook my head, dropped my napkin on the table, and took my plate to the kitchen, kissing Dad’s cheek on the way.

I dumped the mostly uneaten plate of food in the trash and put the plate and fancy chopsticks into the dishwasher. I was trained. Not a single dish was allowed to sit in the sink. Ever. Even if I was pissed at her. And him. He wasn’t as hard on me, but with the exception of the salon being his idea, he never stood up for me much, either. Yeah, it was his idea, but he allowed her to control me with it. She wanted to control me, controlling me made her giddy, so in a way, maybe he did it for her, to help her continue to lord over me so she would be on his back less.

Sometimes, I wished I could just walk away and tell them to stuff it. But, I love my salon. I love where it is and the rooftop terrace and my neighbors and working with Pippa and having fun making people feel great about themselves. I continue to recite the countdown in my head, knowing I’ll be at the end of five years eventually. In a couple months, I’ll be at the halfway mark. And then once I’m over that hump, I’ll see the finish line in sight.

I grabbed my purse and jacket and went outside and crossed the lawn past my mother’s perfectly manicured rosebushes, which were still in bloom alongside the pots of Fall mums that lined the property line, over to Ella’s. I didn’t walk the path. That was the extent of my rebellion…walking on the grass instead of down the path.

I went in through the side door and painted a smile on my face as I got a hug from Bertie, Ella’s mom, and a bunch of waves and helloes from her dad, Rob, who tried to coax me out to the garage to have a beer with him and several friends and a couple bikers in Dominion Brotherhood vests. I declined, but said hello to everyone and grabbed two cans of Pepsi and as I climbed the stairs to Ella’s room on the third floor of their old farmhouse, I thought about how welcoming it was.

The house wasn’t dirty. It was cluttered, mis-matched, and lived in. Mom would be mortified at the sight of it. She’d never been inside, but she’d bitched about the exterior of it since I was six. Things didn’t match. It wasn’t perfect. There were all sorts of noisy windchimes outside and metal lawn ornaments everywhere, but it was a home. And it felt like it people lived there, loved there, laughed there.

There, I was offered affection, invited to stay for food and festivities. At my parents’ house, Ella was never treated like she was even welcome unlike when I came over to her place and was treated like family.

I climbed up the attic stairs and found my beautiful petite curly-blonde bestie (who was built with double Ds). She was rifling through her dresser drawers, looking like she was on a mission. Ella’s room was the bomb, too. The ceilings were sloped, and it was a total she-cave decorated in Betty Boop with a rustic yet frilly feel to it.

I put the Pepsis down and flopped onto her bed.

“Hey you,” I greeted.

“Hey you,” she returned, still rifling through her undie drawer.

“I tried to call you last night,” I started, trying to think about how to broach the Deacon subject. I felt bad that I’d caused a misunderstanding.

I reached for her phone, which was lying on the bed.

“Don’t touch it!” she snapped, pointing at me with accusation. I was famous for fucking with her phone settings, particularly her ring tones, which I’d always set to Gangnam Style just to be a little shit. This time, I’d just reached for it out of nervous habit.

“I was with Deacon,” she told me as she pulled out a scrap of black from the drawer. Sexy undies.

She did a little twirly dance of excitement and threw the panties into the backpack that was there beside her.

She lifted and opened her can of Pepsi, took a sip, and made a Pepsi commercial “Ahhhh” sound.

“I know. I’m glad,” I said. “I talked to Rider about his brother and he told me some stuff. About how Deacon got fucked over repeatedly so he’s cautious about relationships and … I’m gathering that you got that info from Deacon already, since you spent the night with him.”

“Yeah, I blew him off and hid and then when cornered I threw what I’d heard in his face and called it quits and then he schooled me on the facts and then walked away from me. I had to grovel.” Her eyes had a bit of a haunted look to them.

I winced. “That’s some heavy shit he went through. Sorry, Elle.”

“Don’t be sorry for sharing facts. You were having my back. I’d have done the same. He told me that there was stuff, that I’d hear things, and I agreed to discuss them with him but then I jumped the gun. I just didn’t think there could be reasonable reasons for that, you know?” Ella’s chin trembled.

I knew. I agreed. And she did have my back that way always. She’d been the one who broke it to me when my high school boyfriend was cheating on me.

She took a big breath. “And with everything else? Getting held at knifepoint, the shit I’ve heard about Jay, and now dating a guy who’s going to war against the MC my uncle---" She winced. “Forget that last part.”

“I already know,” I waved at her. “Rider told me to stay away from those guys and said we had to keep quiet about it. Said he figured you’d tell me anyway so he wanted to get in front of it. So last night? You groveled and all’s good?”

She flopped onto her bed beside me. “He’s amazing, Jen. I’m falling hard.”

“His brother is amazing, too,” I told her.

She rolled over and we were face to face. “Are you falling?” she asked.

“Little bit...” I said.

She smiled.  “Look at us! Dating brothers. Biker brothers. Can you believe this?”

I laughed, filled with glee. “Did you… do it?” I asked in a whisper.

She nodded big, “Yes and oh my God! It was phenomenal. Is his brother phenomenal too?” Ella had stars in her eyes, the likes I’d never seen. I was so happy for her.

“Oh my God. Yes. The best I’ve ever had. Not to mention the biggest.”

“Me too,” she said, and we broke out into uncontrollable peals of laughter, ending in an excited hug.

“Oh my God, Jenna. I’m in so much trouble. So much.” Ella shook her head, eyes filled with doom.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’m so totally cock whipped it’s not even funny! Deacon just, like, puts me in this cock fog…”

I laughed. “If you’re gonna be foggy, that’s the kinda fog to be in, I guess. I feel ya, sister.” She was staring off into space and I knew by her face she was having some sexy flashback about Deacon’s man parts.

I took the opportunity to slide my finger over to her phone and covertly re-assign her not-so-favorite song as the ring tone attached to my name.

Hehee.

She had this dreamy look on her face, staring at the ceiling. I snapped my fingers in front of her face.

“Earth to Ella, come in, Ella.”

She gave her head a shake. “See what I mean? I just think about it and I go all…” she went cross-eyed.

I chuckled. “It’s a good thing. Good you got some decent tail for once.”

“But I’ve gotta dash, babes. I’m going to his place. Spending the night again.”

“Ooh. I haven’t seen where they live yet. What’s it like?” I rested my cheek on my palm.

“I haven’t seen where Deke, Rider, and Spence are. They live above the Roadhouse. Deacon has a trailer out in the back.”

“A trailer?” I made a face and stuck my tongue out. My ex, the asshole who broke my heart now lived in a trailer. A run-down trailer.

“Nuh-uh, nope, Jenna. When I say trailer, it’s like a rock star pad. All new and cherry wood and granite and modern. And it’s spotless.  Like, what biker lives in a spotless rock star trailer? It even has a dishwasher.”

“Your biker?” I offered.

“My biker,” she breathed in dreamy-eyed agreement.

She got up and reached for her phone, which was between us.

“Well, if you were ever gonna hook up with a biker, this sounds like the biker, the only kinda biker you’d have. Girl time soon, okay? And double dates soon, too.”

“Absolutely.”

I gave her a big hug. I loved my bestie. I loved seeing her like this. “You seem happy.”

“I’m scared shitless,” she said into my shoulder. “This is so far out of my normal comfort zone, Jenna. But I am falling hard and fast.”

“Rider says he’s had a lot of pain. A lot of it. But he is tough and loyal and smart. Rider says you couldn’t ask for a better guy to have in your corner.”

“That’s really good to hear. Rider seems like a good guy.”

“He does, doesn’t he? It feels almost too perfect. He’s gorgeous and sweet and funny and smart and amazing in bed. I’m so fucking scared, Elle.” I was. I was warring between letting my guard down and keeping my heart safe.

“Trust it. Maybe it doesn’t have to be so hard.”

If only.

Before I left, I went on to tell her about the part-time job I wanted to offer her at the salon doing reception as well as to help me with the upcoming weddings.

I’d offered Ella a job before, told her to go to beauty school and come cut hair, but it wasn’t her thing.

She’s smart, business-minded. She’d fit in perfectly at Mom’s bank or at Dad’s real estate office.  But, she wouldn’t fit in with their stuffy attitudes.

She agreed to take the job with me, temporarily, as her hours were being cut at the taxi company she answered phones for, and I was glad to help her out with some hours for now, suspecting she wouldn’t be with me for long.

As I turned the key in my car, my mother looked through the front drapes. She shot eye daggers at me.

I looked at her with unguarded sadness. I didn’t normally let her see that from me.  But this time, I did. And she startled, and her lips parted.

I pulled away and headed back home.

***

I was getting ready for Rider and heard a text alert.

I grabbed for my phone, which was plugged in, lying on my bedside table.

“Been thinkin’ about dirtying that duvet all day.”

I smiled and chewed my lip.

Me: “It’s spotlessly clean. It’s very ready to get dirty.”

Him: “Been thinking about your smile, your legs, that gorgeous hair, too.”

Me: “Me too. Your smile and your hair. Your eyes. Not sure I’ve had a chance to develop a thing for your legs yet, but I seriously dig your gear stick.”

I laughed at myself. How lame was that?

Him: “My gear stick? Funny babe. It’s now twitching, thinking about you too.”

Me: “See you soon. I look forward to you taking me for a ride… Rider.”

Him: “Not as much as I look forward to it. Not sure I can get away yet. But I’m tryin’.”

Me: “Lookin’ forward to getting dirty with you. That’s from my duvet. lol. I concur.”

Him “Can’t wait. Text you soon.”

Me: “Hurry.”

I was ready. Hair and makeup. Casual jeans with a sexy top and heels and hidden away for (hopefully) unwrapping later: ultra-sexy undies. I got my bedroom ready for what I hoped would be a great night. Duvet off. Seductive scented wax melting in a warmer for a half an hour and then shut off, letting the aroma linger but not be too in-his-face.

I got a text from Rider.

“Sorry, gorgeous. I can’t get away after all.  Raincheck?”

Seriously?

 “K”

He hadn’t promised. But, I guess I’d hoped.

I put the phone down, changed into a pair of sweats, and ate my feelings in the form of three bowls of Ben & Jerry’s in my room, avoiding the living room because Pippa and Joe were watching a movie, snuggled up like lovebirds.