Page 18 of Givin' Me Fitz!
The men and women who worked at the houses were nice people who had sex for money for their own reasons. They didn’t deserve to have anyone look down on them because of what they chose to do for a living, and I wouldn’t tolerate hearing bullshit about it from anyone. Thankfully, I didn’t hear it from Fitz.
Our food was delivered, but we didn’t talk much while we ate. As I expected, the food was delicious.
After we finished, it was awkward again, so I broke the silence. “You, uh, you wanna get dessert?”
Fitz had the whole meal to get a bead on my personality. If he wasn’t interested in anything more, then we’d say goodnight and keep things as landlord/renter. Maybe that was for the best anyway.
Chapter Seven
Fitz
“You, uh, you wanna get dessert?” Sawyer’s stare was intense as I wiped my mouth.
Was Sawyer really interested in tiramisu, which he’d mentioned was good, or did he want something else? Hell, maybe he found me as boring as I’d suspected and just wanted to go home.
“I’m not really a big one for sweets this late at night. I could have a beer, though.” I laughed at my own logic.
Alcohol was full of sugar, but I couldn’t have a slice of tiramisu? How fucking ridiculous was I?
“Yeah, sure. Let’s go somewhere quieter. I know a place we can listen to some music not far from here.”
I nodded and we split the check before heading out. “Why don’t you ride with me? We can leave your truck here for a while. I’ll bring you back to pick it up.”
I nodded before opening the door to get my badge and gun just in case. I hopped into his large truck and checked my Glock to ensure the safety was on before sliding it into the pocket of the passenger-side door.
Sawyer laughed. “You worried I might take you into the desert and shoot you?”
“Hey, I don’t know you well enough to make that call, but I like to be prepared.” He laughed with me. The crinkles around his eyes were sexy as fuck.
We made a stop at a gas station, and he ran inside, returning with a bag a few minutes later. He put it on the floorboard behind us and started the engine, making a couple of lefts until we were in the foothills of the Sheep Range Mountains.
“Where are we going?” His comment about going to the desert to kill me echoed through my head.
“There’s this great spot out here for stargazing. I like to ride my bike out here when I have some thinking to do.”
It was darker than dark by the time he pulled onto a dirt road that seemed to go nowhere and parked his truck. Sawyer left the accessories on and turned on a satellite radio station.
“I thought you meant a club.” I glanced out the front window to see a lot of stars, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since I was a kid on our ranch in West Texas.
Sawyer turned to open the sliding back window before he hopped out of the truck. He put the bag into the truck bed and lowered the tailgate. “This is better than any club.”
He pulled a blanket out of the toolbox and spread it on the tailgate before hopping onto it. “Well, come on.”
Beer cans hissed as Sawyer popped them open while I sat next to him. “Why do they call you Bones?”
It was something I wondered about but didn’t feel I could ask until now. My beer and glass of wine must have given me liquid courage.
Sawyer laughed. “I applied to nursing school after I graduated high school and when I found out how expensive it was, I knew I couldn’t afford to go. One of my friends talked to an Army recruiter about enlisting because he didn’t have a lot going for him, either.
“My friend told me his recruiter said I could get the training for free in the Army, so I enlisted, got the training, and became a medic. The club always needs someone with medical training, so I thought it would be a good skill to have. It kept me out of trouble, too.
“I’m a licensed practical nurse, not a registered nurse. I thought about getting my bachelor’s degree so I could be an RN, but I know enough for emergencies until we can get the doc we know to come to the club.”
That was interesting.“What does the club need with a nurse?” I had no idea what he meant.
“If we run into trouble with a rival club or anyone else, and some of our guys or girls get roughed up, we can’t go to the hospital. Doctors are mandatory reporters for gunshot wounds, and unless it’s life-threatening, we try to keep the hospital out of it. I can sew up cuts and tend to anything minor. Anything more serious, we have a friend in Arizona who runs a health clinic and will come up to give us a hand in an emergency. Oh, this is all hypothetical, I should say. I’ve heard that those things are possible.” He winked at me, the moonlight highlighting his handsome face.
“Ah. Is your club a one-percenter club?” A one-percenter club was an outlaw motorcycle club that operated outside of legal limits. I thought perhaps I was on the right track with my question.
