Smoke (Archer's Creek Book 5) Page 9

  “But yet you have plans,” he says, a hint of accusation clear in his tone.

  My inner child bursts to life, confessing everything, just like I did whenever my parents would question me about what I was doing as a teenager. “A friend from college recently moved here. She works in the city, so we’re meeting for sushi and drinks.”

  His shoulders relax and he reaches out a hand and strokes the side of my arm like he has the right to touch me. I stiffen and he notices. His hand drops and he takes a step back.

  “Have a good night, Riley. I’d love to have the pleasure of your company at dinner again soon.” Then with a small, brittle smile he turns and walks away, straight back into his office, closing the door behind him.

  I stare after him for a long moment. What the hell just happened? Dan and I aren’t a couple. We’ve known each other for three days, eaten dinner together twice, and shared a strange kiss. The way he’s behaving is almost possessive, when we really don’t have any history to warrant it.

  My cell beeps signaling a new message, and I shake my head, pushing away my confusing thoughts about him.

  Al: Outside whenever you’re ready. Al

  Riley: on my way.

  Dropping my cell into my purse, I glance at Dan’s office door a final time, sling my purse over my shoulder and leave. It’s Friday night and I’m meeting my girlfriend for sushi and cocktails. It’s time to forget all about my office drama and focus on the night ahead.

  Al drops me at the hotel and tells me to have a good evening and to enjoy the weekend. He offers to drive me to meet Rosie, but I wave him off, telling him to go home and enjoy his time with his wife, who I now know is called Janette and who he has been married to for the last thirty-five years.

  Quickly showering, I dry and style my hair, then pull on my high-waisted skinny black jeans and a gorgeous blood-red shirt that wraps around my breasts and flares out in a kimono style. My hair is long and straight, and my sisters would be proud of the dark, smoky eye I’ve managed to create.

  I look hot, and as I fluff my hair in the mirror, I smile at my reflection. In college, I wouldn’t have dreamed of perfecting my eye-liner or fluffing my hair. Back then I was at my happiest holed up in my room listening to music and maybe smoking a bit of weed. These days I enjoy a good night out, a strong cocktail, and an abundance of pretty men. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still at my most comfortable in a small group of fellow geeks, but I can turn my hand to a night of woo-hoos and Mardi-Gras beads when I need to.

  Sliding my room key, some bills, and my credit card into one pocket and my cell into the other, I leave the room and make my way down to the lobby, then outside into the cool evening air. Houston I’ve found is always warm, but with the sun out of the sky, the heat is sultry and teasing not oppressive. The hotel doorman offers to call me a car, but I’m a New York girl and I cross the street and flag down a cab myself. I tell the driver the name of the sushi place where I’m meeting Rosie and we arrive less than ten minutes later.

  I’m a little early, so I let the hostess show me to a table for two right in the window and people watch while I sip on an Asian Pear Martini, which the server recommended and I’m thoroughly enjoying.

  I spot Rosie the moment she enters the restaurant, her bright red hair impossible to miss. Pushing up from my chair, I wave, trying to get her attention. When she sees me, her face splits into an impossibly wide grin and she rushes toward me. I head for her and we meet halfway, throwing ourselves at each other in a hug that garners the attention of many of the people around us.

  We loosen the hug, stepping apart slightly, so we can get a good look at each other. She’s only gotten more gorgeous and curvy since we left college, and as I appraise her, I get that twinge of jealousy that all women get when they realize how beautiful their friend really is.

  “Rosie, you look fantastic.”

  “So do you,” she says, her eyes a little wide. “What happened to the goth hoodies and absolutely zero makeup?”

  I laugh, “I still have the hoodies, but I added a few going-out clothes into the mix too.”

  Rosie giggles, the sound so girly and feminine I almost want to swoon a little. On the Kinsey scale of sexuality, I’m definitely at the heterosexual end, but I can absolutely appreciate what makes a woman beautiful and my friend is stunning.

  “Well it suits you,” Rosie says. “You look hot.”

  I laugh again then let go of one of her hands and guide her back to our abandoned table.

  “What are you drinking?” she asks.

  “It’s an Asian Pear Martini. It’s amazing. Here, try,” I offer, sliding the glass toward her.

  She takes a sip then sighs. “Wow, that is good. I’m getting one.”

  The server arrives at our table a second later and after Rosie orders her drink, we peruse the menu and end up ordering several different dishes to share.

  “So catch me up, what have you been doing the last few years?” I say.

  “Oh God, I basically finished school then worked at the newspaper in my home town until a few months ago; then I met Park, took a job at a magazine, and moved to Houston.”

  “I feel like maybe you’ve missed a few things out there,” I say dryly.

  She laughs, “Well, I mean obviously other stuff has happened, but that’s the highlights.”

  “And you’re all loved up with this Park guy?”

  She sighs and her eyes get a little dreamy. “Ridiculously loved up.”

  “So, how did you meet? What does he do? When do I get to meet him?”

  A shrill laugh bursts from her lips and she slaps her hand across her mouth to stifle the sound. I widen my eyes, now incredibly intrigued to hear whatever it is she’s about to tell me.

  “Okay, so I actually met Park at a biker club,” she says, laughter still clear in her voice.

  “A what?” I ask.

  “A biker club.”

  “What, like a bar?”

  “No, like an actual motorcycle club clubhouse.”

  My mouth falls open and I stare at my wholesome, sweet friend. “What the hell were you doing at a biker club?”

  She giggles again. “It’s a long story, but Park is a member.”

  My mouth moves, but no words come out. Of all the people I’ve ever met, Rosie is the person I’d say was the absolute least likely to end up in a relationship with a biker.

  “Your face,” she says, grinning at me.

  “Oh my god, you’re joking, aren’t you? Park is an accountant or a dentist, isn’t he?”

  “Nope, not joking. He’s a tattoo artist and a member of the Doomsday Sinners MC based out of Archer’s Creek.”

  “Well, holy fuck! Now I really want to meet him,” I cry.

  “You might get your wish. He’ll probably insist on coming to pick me up. He hates me getting a cab back at night.”

  “Does he ride a motorcycle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you ride with him?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says, a naughty grin tipping at the corners of her lips.

  “Who are you and what did you do with Rosie?”

  She giggles again, lifting her glass to her lips and taking a sip.

  We spend the rest of the meal catching up on everything that’s happened to us in the last few years. She tells me about her job and the magazine she’s working for, and I tell her about deciding to go freelance and how I now get to work in bed in my pajamas.

  “So, do you have a man in your life?” Rosie asks.

  Sighing, I take a long drink of my Martini, savoring the sweetness. “I actually broke up with my boyfriend a month ago.”

  “Oh no,” she cries. “Was it serious?”

  Laughing bitterly, I smile. “I thought it was serious. I found out on the day we broke up that him, not so much. I’d been in an exclusive relationship; he’d been fucking everything that came near him.”

  “What a dick,” Rosie hisses and I adore her sisterly outrage.

  “Agree
d,” I say, raising my glass to tap against hers. “So I’ve sworn off men, especially the really good-looking-and-they-know-it ones.”

  She giggles but raises her glass to mine as we toast my singledom.

  Once all of the sushi has been devoured and we’re just debating either getting dessert or going to get more drinks, Rosie’s cell phone rings. Pulling it from her purse, she checks the screen, then rolls her eyes. “Sorry,” she says, before she swipes at the screen and lifts it to her ear.

  “Hi, friend,” she says.

  I can’t hear whoever is on the other end of the call, but she listens for a minute then sighs. “I can ask.”

  She pauses again, listening to the other person. “Okay, I’ll ask.” When she looks at me, she lowers her cell away from her ear. “I know this might not be your kind of thing, but there’s a party tonight at the club. Did you maybe want to go? I have a spare room you can stay in, or one of the guys can drive you back to your hotel whenever you’re ready.”

  “A party at the biker club?” I ask, wanting to clarify exactly what she’s saying.

  She visibly cringes. “I know, it’s not everyone’s idea of a good night and it will probably be exactly what you’re expecting. It’s fine. I’ll tell Park you don’t want to go, and we can go find a bar and get some more drinks.”

  “Hell no! Let’s go to the biker party,” I say excitedly. “That’s some bucket list shit. I mean, is it like in Sons of Anarchy? Please tell me at least one of them looks like Jax Teller.”

  Rosie barely manages to contain her amusement and stifle her giggles, then she lifts her cell to her ear and speaks to who I now realize is Park on the other end. “Riley’s in, shall we get a cab?” She stops speaking abruptly like she’d been interrupted. “Fine. Yes. Yes. Okay, see you in twenty minutes.”

  Ending the call, she looks at me and sighs. “He’s coming to get us.”

  We order another drink and the bill, then she tells me about the Doomsday Sinners MC or the Sinners as she calls them.

  “They’re a family. All of the guys think of each other as brothers and some of them live together at the clubhouse. That’s where Park and I stayed until the renovations on our apartment were finished. There are two women that live at the club and they cook three big meals a day, enough for all the members if they want to eat there, and almost everyone has breakfast there every day. All the guys and a lot of their girlfriends and wives work for businesses owned by the club. It’s a huge community that behaves like a big, dysfunctional family.”

  “Wow, that actually sounds kind of nice,” I say, surprised.

  Rosie nods. “It is. The first time I ever went there it was with Taylor and I mean obviously she loved it, but I was terrified. I thought it was dangerous and there were just so many of these huge guys. But now I know them, I see them for exactly what they are, family. Park’s family. My family now, I suppose.”

  Reaching over, I squeeze her hand. “It sounds great. They’re lucky to have you. Park’s lucky to have you.”

  She scoffs slowly. “I’m lucky to have him.”

  I’m happy for my friend. I’m glad she’s found Park, and unexpectedly the bikers sound nice. “I’m so happy for you,” I say. “But please tell me at least one of his pseudo brothers looks like Jax.”

  Her smile widens until her eyes crinkle. “I thought you’d sworn off men?”

  “I have,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t still look.”

  Rosie giggles, then winks at me, “Jax Teller has nothing on these guys.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but her cell rings again and I wait as she answers it. “Hi. Yeah, okay. Bye.”

  She ends the call, lifts her glass to her lips and drinks the last of it. “They’re here.”

  “They?” I ask, drinking the last of my drink too.

  “One of the guys is with him, probably Smoke.” She says, rising to her feet and tucking her purse under her arm.

  “Smoke,” I say on a laugh, “Oh my god, do they all have stupid nicknames?”

  She smirks. “All of them. In fact, I think Park is the only one who doesn’t. Hmmm, I wonder why he uses his real name? I never thought about it before.” she says, her brow wrinkled in thought.

  “So what are all of their real names?” I ask, as I follow her as she weaves through the tables and toward the door.

  “The only one I know is Smoke. His real name is Justin, but don’t ever tell him I told you,” she says over her shoulder with a conspiratorial wink.

  I snicker as we push through the door and into the night air. Having lived in New York for years, I love the way the city comes to life after dark. In the daytime, everyone moves with purpose, rushing to get from point A to point B. At night, that changes. People still have direction, but the pace is lazier and more relaxed. The sounds change too and although I can still hear the honks of horns and the noise of people and cars, there’s also the dull thud of bass, the tempo of music from a bar or club, and the laughter of the hordes of people all out for a good time on a Friday night. I love it.

  Rosie grabs my arm and pulls me toward a big black truck, jacked up on huge wheels. “Bikers drive trucks?” I ask her.

  She chuckles, “This belongs to the club. They have trucks and vans that anyone can use when they need to.”

  As we step closer, the driver’s door opens, and a guy climbs out. He’s tall and covered in tattoos. His hair is messy and dark at the roots, but white blonde at the tips. Somehow, he’s both intimidating and friendly at the same time. His gaze is fixed on my friend and when she gets close enough, he pulls her into his arms and kisses her. When he separates himself from her lips, he turns her so her back is against his chest. She’s so tiny that her head is rested against his pecs.

  “You must be Riley, I’m Park,” he says, reaching his arm over Rosie’s head to me.

  I smile warmly and take his outstretched hand and shake it. “Hi, Park. Nice to meet you.”

  Somehow, I hadn’t noticed the guy that had climbed out the passenger side and was now standing at the front of the truck. I’m fairly tall for a woman, but I have to tip my head all the way back to look at the new guy’s face. He must easily be well over six feet tall. He’s absolutely huge, his muscles straining against the material of his simple white cotton t-shirt.

  His face is almost too pretty for such a big guy. It’s unexpected and I think I might actually gasp a little when my eyes finally settle on his face. His skin is a warm caramel color that contrasts beautifully with his dark hair. His square jaw and high cheekbones give him an almost regal appearance, that’s completely at odds with the colorful tattoos that are coating almost all of his visible skin.

  His eyes hood as he takes in my body, his eyes raking from my toes upwards, until his gaze locks with mine. He’s beautiful, like a Greek god or a marble statue; gorgeous, but untouchable. Then he smirks and all thoughts of his ridiculous good looks dissolve.

  Why is it that all hot guys have this smirk that tells the entire world that they know they’re hot and that they know you’re checking them out? I recognize that look, Greg wore it every day as well as his ridiculous sense of superiority. Like his good looks gave him the right to think he was better than everyone else.

  God, I used to love that look. I used to think his confidence was sexy and then after we’d been together for a while, I just accepted his arrogance as part of who he was. But now I know there’s nothing remotely attractive about a man who thinks he’s the king of the goddamn world.

  Asshole. The word jumps into my mind and starts to perform a musical number. This guy may look like a male model, but he’s obviously an asshole. My spine stiffens and I feel my inner bitch rising to the surface. I know I should introduce myself, play nice with this guy, even if only for Rosie’s sake, but I just can’t. He’s too similar to Greg, and that wound is too new, too raw. So instead of being polite, I go for bitchy. Offense is a good defense after all. “Do you have to buy all of your clothes at one of those Big and T
all outlets?” I ask him, smiling brightly.

  His smirk slides from his face and he looks at me as if he doesn’t understand why I’m not drooling or offering to have his babies.

  “Have you ever read comics?” I ask him, thinking about the show I recently watched on Netflix. “Have you ever seen the Umbrella Academy? There’s this huge guy and he’s been like injected with ape blood and it just turns him into this like huge, tall, half-ape creature,” I say, barely containing my amusement as I gesture to his broad chest and massive arms. “Oh, I’m Riley, by the way.”

  He pauses and looks at me, like he has no idea what the hell is happening. My inner bitch grabs her pompoms and cheers my tiny, probably easily achieved victory at having thrown this guy off his game. But then his eyes sparkle again and he glides toward me smiling, as if he’s brushed off my barely contained insults and wants to get right back to the drooling part of the evening.

  He pushes his huge paw like hand toward me and I respond, taking his hand, intent on shaking it and then maybe disinfecting mine, just in case another stupid woman has already drooled on it today.

  As soon as our palms touch, he holds me tightly. “Hi, Riley, I’m Smoke.”

  I stifle my laughter. Smoke. Seriously, how can a grown man introduce himself as Smoke with a straight face? He turns my hand and starts to lift it to his lips.

  “Oh yeah, Rosie mentioned you. Justin, isn’t it? It’s nice to meet you.” I say.

  His movements halt, my hand half-lifted to his lips, then he twists his head and throws a glare in Rosie’s direction. I’ll have to remember to apologize for throwing her under the bus later.

  “It’s Smoke,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “Of course,” I say, lacing my tone with sarcasm. “Cool, err pet name.” While his brow is wrinkled with confusion, I pull my hand from his and look to Rosie and Park. “You guys ready to go hit that party?” I say brightly.

  What the actual fuck?

  I mean, what the actual fuck?

  Who the hell is this girl, and how, in less than a minute, has she managed to throw me completely off my game? I know women, I understand women, and yet she hasn’t done anything like a normal woman would.