“A restaurant,” I say, heading to the door. She trails after me.

  “Which one?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Whichever one is expensive and open.”

  I lead her down to the street, to my bike. Then I look at her hair and her outfit again. “I’ll call a car,” I tell her.

  I take out my cell phone and dial the club.

  As we’re waiting for the car, I back Jasmin up against the wall and kiss her for a damn long time. At least it feels like a long time. I don’t even care that I get lipstick all over my face. When I try and grab her, she shoves me away lightly.

  I take a step back, grinning at her. “All right then, ma’am.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “You’re a dog.”

  “I won’t argue that.”

  The jeep pulls up and a pledge steps out. He nods to me. “Boss,” he says, which is what the pledges call every patched man. He opens the door and nods to Jasmin. “Ma’am.”

  I grab Jasmin by the hand and lead her to the car. The pledge looks down at the ground though; it must be a damn strange sight to see. An Executioner enforcer trying to play like he’s some gentleman.

  “Where are we goin’, boss?”

  “A restaurant, the most expensive one that’s open right now.”

  “I’ll have to look it up.”

  “Look it up, then.”

  Jasmin smiles over at me as we have this exchange. I’m not really sure what the smile is about. Maybe it’s the sex. Her cheeks are flushed; her neck flushed too. It just makes me want to jump on her again. If it wasn’t for the pledge, I’d slide my hand up her skirt and touch that perfect pussy again.

  “Is Italian okay, boss?”

  “Yep, get moving.” I turn to Jasmin. “Fine?”

  She nods. “Yes, I like Italian.”

  “Good.”

  He takes us to a place with an Italian name I can’t pronounce. When he opens the door, I leap out into the night and take Jasmin’s hand, helping her out of the car.

  We walk up to the bouncer. He’s a white-haired man with a giant gut and big chunky arms all stuffed into a tight-fitting T-shirt. He looks ridiculous, but the civilian uppity types lined up outside don’t seem to think so. He’s clearly just had a talk with a ginger-haired man. He’s shrinking next to his lady like a little flower. I feel sorry for her.

  “We need your best table. Tell the manager or whoever’s in charge tonight.”

  “Wait a second.” Jasmin walks up behind me. She gestures at the people waiting. It’s late, so there are only two couples, I notice when I look closer. The ginger man with his brunette, curvy girlfriend or wife. And an older couple standing just behind them. I was so caught up in how goddamn weird I was feeling, I didn’t even see the older couple.

  “What about these people?” Jasmin goes on. “We can’t just push in.”

  I don’t care about the ginger fella, but a man should respect his elders.

  “Fuck,” I growl. The bouncer and I meet eyes. Part of me wants him to make a big deal out of this, so we’ll fight. That’d be a hell of a lot easier than this social bullshit. But obviously he doesn’t. He must know who I am, or at least be able to guess. It doesn’t even matter that I’m not wearing my leather. That’s another thing. Jasmin’s all dressed up, and I’m still in my hoodie.

  “All right then.”

  I trudge to the back of the line and stuff my hands in my pockets.

  “How you doing, son?” The man must be at least seventy. He’s got a full suit on, buttoned right up to the top.

  “Very well, sir. How are you?”

  He smiles. “Very well. Enjoy your evening.”

  “You too.”

  Jasmin grins at me. That helps some. She has the nicest smile I’ve ever seen, and that’s the truth.

  We get into the restaurant after about ten minutes of waiting, so it ain’t even that bad in the end. The hostess leads us to a corner booth when I slide a crispy fifty-dollar bill into her hand. It’s a fancy-looking place, with sconce lights in the walls and a thick patterned carpet and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

  “Isn’t this amazing?” Jasmin says, gliding into her seat.

  “Whiskey,” I blurt when the waiter comes over. “Make it a double. Jasmin?”

  “Um, a glass of rosé please.”

  The waiter leaves with one of those small bows they like to do. As soon as the whiskey gets here, I drink down half of it in one gulp. It makes it easier to sit in a place like this, whiskey going around and around my head.

  “So, this is a date,” I mutter as Jasmin sips her wine. She drinks a lot too, though. Even if she does it in a much more civilized way.

  “So that’s why you’re being so weird? This is your first ever official date?” She leans in, lowering her voice. “Mason, you didn’t tell me I was taking your virginity!”

  I almost cough out my whiskey. I force it back down, swallow. And then let out the laugh. “I’d be more comfortable in a pit in the ground than here. I feel too dirty for this place.”

  She places her hand on mine. “Just relax,” she whispers.

  “What’d you think I’m doing?” I toss back the rest of my whiskey and gesture for another.

  “Shall we order some food?” she asks. “I’m starving. I’ve hardly eaten today.”

  “Yeah, shit. Me neither.”

  We order some garlic bread and mushrooms to start, which sounds like the sort of thing a man orders when he comes to a place like this. I also order two more whiskeys as we’re waiting for them. I can hold my liquor well, but I’m a human, after all. No man is above alcohol, even if some of us like to think we are.

  “So what do you do?” I ask after a mouthful of garlic bread. It costs twenty-five dollars, but it tastes the same as the frozen stuff. But maybe that’s just me.

  “You know what I do.” She giggles. It’s music.

  “No, I mean … when you’re not there. What do you do? With your time?”

  “Oh.” She shrugs. “I read. I paint a little. Not much. Just silly things that pop into my head. Sometimes I go rollerblading.”

  “Rollerblading?” I laugh. “I didn’t know people still did that.”

  “They don’t, not really. But some do. I do. Not very often though. What about you?” She sips her third glass of wine. Both of us are drinking far too much, far too fast, but I don’t think either of us cares.

  “What do I do?” I think on it. “I ride, I work, I drink, I fight. That’s about it. Unless you count bullshitting with my friends in the house. That takes up more time than you’d think.”

  “What do you bullshit about?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I don’t reckon you’d wanna hear it. It’s just stupid stuff. Like the other day, me and Danny and Rickshaw were in the parking lot and Rickshaw bet us all he could jump from the roof into this big waste bin we’ve got around back. He ended up winning a hundred dollars.” I laugh at the memory. “He looked like a crazy motherfucker when he climbed out though. Covered in all sorts of shit.”

  I can’t help but be a little shocked when Jasmin explodes into laughter. She covers her mouth as her giggles quiet down.

  “Oh, wow. That actually sounds like a lot of fun.”

  I grin, wondering for the first time in my life if women can really get all the stupid shit we talk about.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  I order some fancy pasta dish and they give me some sort of science kit to eat it with. I end up just spinning it around my fork and stuffing it in my mouth. If anybody’s got a problem with it, they can come and talk to me about it. Jasmin doesn’t seem to mind, even though she eats like somebody who has been taught manners.

  I wipe my mouth with the napkin and then drain the whiskey. I’ve lost count of how many now. I just keep knocking them back, again and again. I’m getting drunker and drunker, but that’s the thing. When a man’s drunk, he doesn’t really care. I remember, vaguely, that I need to stay sober and alert. Otherwise I just let myself go a bit.

  “You really are damn beautiful,” I tell her, slamming my whiskey glass down.

  She rolls her eyes. They seem loose somehow in the sockets. She must be pretty wasted too. “Thank you,” she whispers, shaking her head at the compliment. “Nobody’s ever really told me that before.”

  “Bullshit!” I growl. “Don’t be playin’ those games with me, Jasmin.” Her breasts are pushed up slightly in the dress, giving me all sorts of ideas. Her skin is smooth and freckled here and there. I reckon a man could die happy connecting the dots on her chest.

  “I mean it!” she shoots back. “Just because you feel that way doesn’t mean the rest of the world does!”

  “Shall we go for a walk?” I blurt after yet another whiskey. Jasmin has just finished her wine. She totters slightly from side to side, but otherwise she seems okay.

  “Now?” she asks.

  I shrug. “This summer is a wicked bitch. I’m sweating my life away sittin’ here.” I paw at my face with a napkin. It comes away slick. “See?” I hold it across the table, jabbing it near her face.

  She squeals, batting my hand away. “You’re a monster!” she hisses. “Get away from me, you creep!”

  “Creep?” I throw the napkin at her and jump to my feet.

  She squeals again, giggling at the same time as she tosses it back at me. It’s a good throw. It ends up hitting me right in the face.

  “Come on.” I toss it down and grab her by the arm. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

  “Or some slightly less thick air?”

  “Yeah, well, however you wanna put it.”

  I lead her out of the restaurant into the street. The bars are up one way and the deep night the other, a long stretch of quiet street with the stores all closed down until tomorrow morning. I head down the quiet way with Jasmin at my side.

  “Can we walk slower, please?” she asks. “These heels are trying to kill me.”

  “I never get why women wear those things.”

  “Because they make us feel fabulous, that’s why.”

  I shrug. “Fair enough. Seems to me the last thing you need in a fight is fuckin’ …” I trail off. “I guess you could use them as daggers, though, come to think of it.”

  “Only you would think that.” She hugs close to me. Despite everything it feels good to have a woman hugging close to me late at night. It feels good to know that I’m the one who’ll protect her if any shit goes down.

  Maybe it’s the whiskey, but maybe not.

  “I’m a tiny bit drunk,” I tell her when we reach the end of the street. That’s how I know I must be far gone, because I never say shit like that. Not to the brothers, not to anybody. Admitting to being drunk is a sign of weakness. Hell, getting into this position is a sign of weakness.

  “Me too.”

  We turn, still holding each other. But facing now. The moonlight makes her cheeks glow.

  “Tell me something about you, Mason.”

  I don’t think I’ll ever know why I say what I say next. Whiskey, most likely. The words just come out.

  “I was raised on a cattle farm, and the first thing I remember is sitting knee-deep in blood. My dad beat the shit outta me every day.”

  I turn away from her as soon as the words are out of my mouth. I hate myself for saying them, hate myself for being so weak, for making myself so vulnerable. I try to walk away, but she has her hand on mine. I could just yank myself free, but then I might accidentally hurt her.

  “Look at me,” she says. “It’s okay. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Just forget I said anythin’.”

  “We don’t have to talk about it.”

  “You’re right!” I growl. “We don’t, and we’re not.”

  I grab her again, but this time I pull her close to me. I crush her lips with mine. It feels good to kiss her this hard, to take her like this. She moans, looping her hands around my neck. Even as we kiss, I hate myself for sharing that. I’ve never shared it with anybody.

  And yet there’s something else too. Almost like relief.

  “Let’s get a car,” I whisper in her ear. “We’re going back to your place.”

  “Okay,” she pants. She takes my face in her hands. She’s cold, despite the heat. “Please don’t be embarrassed, Mason.”

  I look away from her. Her bright green eyes see too damn much.

  “I’ll get the car,” I growl, taking out my cell phone and stepping back from her embrace.

  8

  Jasmin

  Two days after the date with Mason, Tiffany and I sit in the bar drinking. If I want to be super technical about it, she’s sitting at the bar drinking and I’m standing behind the bar, sneaking drinks when I’m not supposed to be. I’ve only ever done this twice before, but each time Tiffany has loved it. She wriggles her eyebrows at me, making her blue-tinged eyes look even more electric.

  “You haven’t given me every disgusting detail yet,” she says.

  It’s a quiet night, only a few people milling around. We have plenty of time to talk. I can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing.

  “I don’t understand why you need every disgusting detail,” I counter.

  “What?” she snaps. “Are you joking?” She shakes her head at me as though profoundly disappointed. “What sort of a friend would I be if I didn’t know every position you did it in?”

  I sneak another quick sip of my wine. It swills around my head nicely. There really is something magical about rosé. “A respectful one?”

  “There you go then.” She smiles widely at me. I wonder if there’s anything she enjoys more than making me squirm. “When have I ever, in all the years you’ve known me, claimed to be respectful? So let me have it.”

  “There’s nothing to have!” I leave her quickly when a customer comes over to the bar. I take my time serving him. It gives me a break from Tiffany’s onslaught. But all too soon I return to her.

  “Well?” she prompts, shaking her wineglass for a refill.

  “That’s going on your tab,” I tell her. “If it gets over one hundred, I have to tell Jackie.”

  “What’s it on now?” she asks.

  “Eighty-five.”

  “So why are you bothering me about it then?” She tosses her head. Flutters her eyelashes. She plays the Little Madam very well. “If this date was so bad, I don’t see what you lose by telling me about it.”

  I finish my wine, glancing toward the back. Jackie is nowhere to be seen. I doubt he’s watching the security cameras either. If he was, he’d be out here by now. I pour myself a half and take another small sip. “Who said it was bad?” I ask, far too snappishly. Maybe I come close to biting her head off.

  “Well, if it was good you would’ve seen him again, right?”

  “It’s only been two days!”

  “Has he called you?”

  “No.”

  “Does he have your number?”

  “Yes, Tiffany. He has my number. We exchanged them the morning …” I trail off. I was about to say ‘the morning after,’ but that will just give her more fuel. “We exchanged them, all right?”

  “I bet that wasn’t all you exchanged either.”

  I shiver in exaggerated disgust. “Not all of us are as sexually open as you, so maybe you should shut your slut mouth.”

  “Hey, bitch!” she cries, giggling at the same time. “Talk to me like that again and you’ll see how sexually open I am!”

  I laugh in disbelief. “What does that even mean?”

  She smiles as though she’s just checkmated me. “Exactly,” she says.

  “Exactly—what?”

  “So why haven’t you called him?” She fiddles with the bar mat, picking at the small rubber things. They spring back and forth. “What are these called, nipples?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “About what? What these things are called or why you haven’t called him?”

  I groan, finding refuge in my wineglass. “Has anybody ever told you that you ask too many questions?”

  “Listen, I feel like you and that man have treated me very unfairly here.” She has a wicked grin-grimace on her face, an expression that’s almost unique to her. She leans her elbows on the table and squints at me, as though I might be confused. I can’t help but laugh. She looks so ridiculously quizzical.

  “How?” I demand. Maybe the wine is swilling around my head faster and faster as each second rushes by. I miss Mason, that’s the truth. I shake my head, shaking thoughts and wine away. I have to remember that I’m at work.

  “Some brave, handsome, strong biker comes in here and scares off a bunch of men and you’re the one who gets to suck on his big—”

  “Okay!” I throw my hands up, walking to the other end of the bar. “I’m done!” I call back at her.

  “You should call him,” she says seriously, when I return. She has stopped flicking the rubber nipples. Instead she’s sliding her finger around the rim of her glass, making a ghostly echoing noise.

  “I can’t just call him.”

  “Why not?” she asks. “Or is this one of those unspoken dating rules I’ve always ignored?”

  “I think it might be.” I finish my wineglass and then purposefully put it on the dishwashing tray for the busboy. Then I go to pour myself a big glass of water. When I return, Tiffany is staring at me like I just killed a child.

  “Water,” she says like a curse. “Any by the way, I think all of those unspoken dating rules are absolutely ridiculous. Just call him. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “He could answer,” I retort. “Or he could not answer.”

  “And what, they’re both equally bad?”

  “There you go with the questions again.” I roll my eyes, but she’s not playing anymore. Maybe she really does have a point. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “Oh, come on!” She almost knocks her glass over. A few people in the bar turn their heads, but they turn away just as quickly. “You’re telling me you’ve been with this man and spent time with him and all that stuff, but you can’t talk to him on the phone? What sort of crazy world are we living in?”

  “You just answered that yourself. A crazy one.” I take out my cell phone, laying it on the counter. “Can I really just call him?”

 

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