Page 4 of Ruthless Malice

“Take a seat. They’re about to bring him out now,” I say, gesturing to the chairs out front.

Dave gets up to grab him.

But the sexy older biker stays near me at the front desk, offering me another warm smile. “Busy day?”

“Mm, not bad. It’s okay. Same ol’ in Serenity, not many changes.” I shuffle paperwork around at the desk and I can feel the weight of his eyes on me.

“Must annoy you being chained to that desk all day. I almost hate to tell you it’s a nice day out there.”

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t have much time to go outside unless it’s at lunch. Now that you’ve told me, I wanna go out,” I whine, and break out laughing.

“Ahh, what a shame. Sucks. I hope you have time to get out. That’s why I like my bike. That old hog is a man’s best friend. I’ve had it for over seventeen years. Boy, has it carried me some places on this open road.”

He stares outside wistfully and I’m becoming more and more drawn to him by the minute. What does he know? Where has he been? Maybe I could learn something. I’ve been nowhere out of Serenity. It’s been this place, and that’s it.

“That’s great. I wish I was adventurous enough to ride a bike,” I gush.

“Oh yeah? You never been on a bike, young lady? It’s an experience you don’t wanna miss out on. Make sure when you ride, you get on the back of a Harley with an experienced rider. Not an amateur.”

I giggle. “I haven’t been on one and don’t plan to, I guess. I don’t know anyone with a bike.” He’s an amiable guy to converse with, and that surprises me.

“Welp, now you do,” he grins. “I’m Robert, but my friends call me Bull.” He holds out his hand and I shake it. It’s rough and calloused, but I like the bumps; it shows he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.

“Bull, okay then,” I chuckle, surprised at the warmth of his hand.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot and I look at him in curiosity. It won’t be long before we let Jackson out. Maybe he’s restless. “That’s a great photo right there. Who is that?”

I light up. Any chance to talk about my grandfather is a good day. “That’s my grandpa. He was an Army General, an amazing vet. I miss him every day.”

“Wow.” He bows with prayer hands. “Shout out to your grandpa. What an amazing service. I get it.” He nods his head as if reminiscing.

“Yep. I’m so proud of him. He fought in the Vietnam war, but he died when I was twelve. He’s the best.”

“Twelve, huh?” He looks impressed. There’s a gleam in his eye, one that I know matches mine. “Sorry to hear. I served too. I was in Panama and Operation Desert Storm in the Persian Gulf.”

I can’t believe it. I suck in a breath, gasping. “Wow! You were there. Desert Storm. That’s nuts. That must have been a real trip.” I shake my head at him. I’m standing in front of a man who's been to war.

He chuckles humbly. “Yeah, yep, under the Bush administration. That war was about the oil and the fight for mineral resources. Scud missiles on the ground, and one of the largest air strikes there was. That desert sand with those high ass temperatures is no joke. Kuwait is not for the faint of heart. We rolled those huge tankers out across the Persian Gulf were sure fun to operate. All we had was our little maps, lightweight GPS receivers. We got hit more times than I could count. I swear-”

Enthralled by his story, I’d latched onto his every word. He reminds me so much of my grandfather relaying his war stories. I can’t take my eyes off him, but Jackson strolls past me to greet him, throwing off our conversation.

Damn!I want to hear the rest of what he has to say.

“Aye, fuck these bitches, keeping me in here on a fake gun charge. You know what I mean, Bull?”

This Jackson guy is cocky personified. I didn’t notice it before, but I can see it now.

“I do. Got your back, Snatch.”

I interrupt him because I want to hear the rest of the story. Why doesn’t this guy have any fucking manners? Can’t he see I’m talking to him? “Please finish your story, Bull! I wanna hear about the tankers,” I say enthusiastically.

Bull shrugs as the obnoxious fool keeps talking. “This old Bull? He needs to be put out to pasture. I wouldn’t let those war stories impress you, babe.”

“Shut up you,” he growls, but smiles sweetly at me. “If you want to know the rest of the story, you’re gonna have to buy me a beer. Quick, what’s your number?”

I give it to him without hesitation, barely realizing how rare it is for me to just give out my number to strange men. But I want to talk to him more, hear more of his stories in that smoky voice of his.

As this guy called Snatch comes out, other bikers stream in the door. I count five of them. I assume they’re from the same Dark Angels crew. Plus, it’s written all over their jackets. I’m distracted by all the whooping and hollering they’re doing, but Bull cuts through the noise to talk to me.

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