Page 32 of Riding the Edge

Chapter Nine

I tried to push the call from Dr. Kennedy’s office to the back of mind. I helped Lauren and the baby get settled at home and I paid a visit to Anthony and Adrianna. After I took the kids for ice cream, I went home and got myself ready for my shift at the bowling alley. I knew I was being irrational that there was nothing wrong with me. The doctor was just being cautious, and I appreciated that, but no matter how hard I tried, my mind always diverted back to that phone call.

I needed a distraction, something to keep me from counting the minutes until Friday.

Between the traffic from the leagues and the cosmic bowling, Wednesday’s were packed at Rab’s. making me sure I’d be too busy to dwell on words like cysts and nodules. My plan was working until one of my regulars showed up. Ricky hadn’t been to the alley in weeks, which was odd and, so, I made it my business to greet him. It was then he told me he had lost his son in a tragic car accident. Last year the man lost his wife to breast cancer and now, he buried his son—I couldn’t imagine his grief.

Immediately my thoughts went to Wolf, and I decided to swallow my pride and drop him a text to see if there was any change in Nico’s condition. I didn’t expect him to call me back and if I’m being honest, I panicked. I know it sounds foolish, but a friendly text seems a lot less personal than a phone call. Declining the call, I text him back informing him I was at work. I had no intentions of calling the man. The last thing I wanted was to hear his gruff voice in my ear after a long day.

Shortly after, Lenny started getting fresh. It was nothing I wasn’t used to and the main reason I dumped his ass years ago. Before I got the chance to set him straight that masculine voice I was avoiding sounded from behind me. I never had a man speak on my behalf and I didn’t have a need for one either. To say I was ticked off would be putting it mildly. Wolf followed me outside and the moment we hit the fresh air the scales tipped. I barely got the chance to tell him I didn’t need him interfering in my business before he cut me off and made it his point to tell me a man’s hands don’t belong on a woman unless she asks for them.

I have to tell you, those words—his words, they resonated with me, and I realized I’ve never been bold enough to ask for a man’s hands. Isn’t that strange? I have no problem telling a man where to go and how to get there but telling him how and where I want him to touch me—well, I’ve never done that.

Unsure what to do with that revelation, I changed the subject and asked him why he was there. He told me his son had woken up and then he asked me to dinner. Talk about being blindsided. Yes, over the last few days, Wolf has been on my mind more than I care to admit. That didn’t mean having dinner together was a good idea. He and I aren’t compatible. He’s crass, rude and let’s face it, an outlaw and I’m the woman who swore off that breed the day my husband skipped out on me. However, when I tried to point that out to him, he managed to show me there are similarities between us. More than that, he showed me there is a side to him, I never knew existed—a side that resembles a gentleman.

Call me weak or call me a pushover but I found myself unable to ignore that and before I could change my mind, I agreed to have dinner with him.

A biker who goes by the name of Wolf.

I don’t think I can go through an entire meal referring to a grown man as an animal so at some point he’s going to have to deal with me calling him Al. We’re also going to have to talk about this motorcycle thing. I’ve spent all day looking in my closet for something suitable to wear when a woman loses her mind at forty-eight and decides she’s going to live on the wild side. Deciding on a pair of jeans was the easier part of the task, casually pairing it with a top was a bit harder.

Now, it’s a quarter to seven and I’m standing in my bedroom wearing the jeans and my bra, staring at the mountain of clothes on my bed.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, moving towards the dresser. Pulling open the first drawer, I grab the first shirt I see—a gray cotton tank top. Throwing it on, I smooth it down and stare at myself in the mirror. Accepting I’m no Reina Parrish, I decide this is as good as it’s going to get and slide a few gold rings on my fingers. Slipping my feet into my favorite pair of heels, I grab my purse and make my way into the living room just as a knock sounds on my front door.

Rolling my neck, I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath.

“It’s just dinner,” I murmur, pulling open the door.

Leaning against the frame, I watch his eyes start at my shoes and travel up my body in an agonizingly slow sweep. When his gaze finally meets mine, his lips quirk behind his beard and for the briefest moment, I wonder what lies hidden behind all that scruff. As curious as I might be, I’m not sure I really want to know. There’s something about a man with a neatly trimmed beard. If I ever discover what that something is, I’ll be sure to share but for now, I’m going to say it’s the mystery that sparks my interest and leave it at that.

“Lookin’ good, Lady,” he murmurs.

I could say the same thing about him. I expected the usual attire—jeans, t-shirt and vest. He wore the jeans but aside from the band around his wrist and the worn boots on his feet, there was no trace of leather. He also opted for a simple black t-shirt that stretched across his broad chest and hugged his bulging biceps.

“Thank you,” I reply. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Touching a hand to his chest, he glances down at his shirt.

“I pulled this out of the hamper,” he deadpans, tossing me a wink as he pushes off the doorjamb. “You ready to roll out of here?”

“Yes,” I say, sliding the clutch bag under my arm.

“Whoa,” he mutters, diverting his eyes to my bag. “No suitcase?”

“Very funny,” I reply, pulling the door closed. “I wasn’t sure where one puts their purse when traveling on two wheels. I figured the smaller the better.” As the words leave my lips, I realize the clutch was probably a bad choice. Something with a shoulder strap would free my hands and allow me to hold on for dear life.

I’m about to ask him if I should change bags when he takes my hand in his.

“We’re not riding,” he reveals as he leads me down the walkway.

As far as I knew, Al didn’t own a car.

“We’re not?”

Keeping our fingers intertwined, he reaches into his pocket with his free hand and produces a key fob.

“Didn’t think you were the riding type.”

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