Home > Motorcycle Man (Dream Man #4)(12)

Motorcycle Man (Dream Man #4)(12)
Author: Kristen Ashley

I didn’t need more of Tack screwing up my workdays. And I didn’t need thoughts of how cool Tack looked sitting on a Harley. So the minute the clock hit five, I closed up shop and got the hell out of there.

Now, I was perusing want ads on-line. I needed a new job. What I did not need was my body (and heart, I had to admit) to jump every time the door opened and I worried Tack was walking into the office to f**k with my head in his own, unique, scary biker dude way. And I certainly didn’t need to leap off the roller coaster that was my life to leap right back on a different one.

Lanie was all for this plan. Actually, Lanie was all for the plan where I walked into Ride on Monday whereupon I would instantly give notice. But I’d spent Wednesday night paying bills and examining my bank and investment accounts. I’d downsized my living operations when my paychecks quit coming but that didn’t mean the money quit going. My calculator and I deduced I could live frugally for another six months. I could live seriously frugally for seven, maybe pushing it to eight.

But that meant no yoga classes with Lanie and I liked my yoga classes with Lanie. That also meant no Sunday night self-facials where I used the expensive stuff that made my skin feel freaking great. That also meant no Thursday pig outs on takeaway. I could live but I couldn’t live like I liked to live and I’d worked hard to get to a life I liked to live and I didn’t want to let it go.

I bought my house ten years ago when it was a buyer’s market. My house was two blocks from Porter Hospital. It was small but had a big yard and sat amongst a bunch of other small houses with big yards or huge houses that had been built after the old house was scraped off or small houses that were now larger because their tops had been popped.

Because I bought my house ages ago, my mortgage was low. It was a one-story, two-bedroom adobe with a living room, dining area and huge-ass kitchen. I’d fixed it up exactly as I wanted it, even splurging on a fabulous kitchen including top of the line appliances and kickass countertops. There was a two car garage out back and a nice-sized shed. There was also a great deck. I had fantastic furniture in the house and on the deck, fabulous décor and a well-landscaped yard that looked good only because I spent a bunch of time in it.

This was the one downfall of my house and if I had to do it again, I would buy a house with zero yard. I wasn’t a fan of mowing my yard and had quit my job before I’d purchased a riding lawnmower. Even though I had a kickass power mower, it still took me hours to mow my huge yard. This was not my favorite activity. Part of the reason my yard was well-landscaped and I spent so much time in it was because I was incapable of not having my surroundings be the best they could be. It gave me a sense of peace and if I had to work at that peace, so be it.

Still, that didn’t mean I liked it.

I was about to get up, make myself a cup of tea and peruse my cupboards for dinner ideas when the doorbell rang.

I felt my brows draw together as I stared at my front door. No one came calling without warning unless it was some religious person wanting to help me find God (just as long as it was their God) or someone wanting to sell something which was both kind of the same thing.


I took the laptop off my thighs, put it on the coffee table, pulled my ass out of my couch and wandered to the door. I opened the little, wooden baby door that had a wrought iron cross outside that gave me a view to my stoop and I stared at Tack.

What the hell?

“Hey, babe,” he greeted.

“What are you doing here?”

“Open the door.”

“What are you doing here, Tack?”

“Open the door, Red.”

“Not until you tell me what you’re doing here,” I returned.

“Darlin’, you don’t open the door, a minor injury might turn into a major one,” he stated.

“What?” I asked.

“I’m hurtin’ out here.”

Ohmigod! He was injured!

I threw the wooden baby door closed, unlocked the front door and pulled it open to see Tack wearing his uniform of tight tee (this one black), faded jeans and motorcycle boots. He was also carrying an enormous pizza box and a six pack of beer. What he wasn’t was visibly injured.

I blinked.

Tack pushed in.

“What…?” I started and trailed off as Tack sauntered into my living room like he’d done it a million times before, dumped the pizza box on my coffee table then rested the six pack on the inside of his forearm.

“Fuck, they don’t mess around at Famous. That pizza burned the shit outta my arm,” he muttered.

I stared at him.

Then I asked, “Are you saying the minor injury you were mentioning was a pizza box burn?”

“Yep,” he answered casually, rounded the coffee table, planted his ass on my couch, put the six pack on my coffee table (my wood coffee table which required coasters or some other protective accoutrement) and flipped open the pizza box. Then he ordered, “Come eat.”

I stared at him again.

Then I repeated his words in a question, “Come eat?”

His eyes lifted to me still standing in the open door. “Yeah, come eat.” Then he tugged one of the beers off the plastic and snapped it open.

I resumed staring and while doing this watched Tack take an enormous swig of beer.

As he was swallowing, I started, “Tack –”

He dropped his beer and interrupted me. “Red, close the door and come eat.”

“I –”

“It’ll get cold.”

“But –”

His eyes traveled the length of me and as they were doing this, he cut me off again. “Jesus, what the f**k you got on?”

I looked down at my yoga clothes then back at him. “I just got back from yoga.”

His eyes took their time sliding back up my body before they locked on mine. “You finish that Employee Handbook, you make that,” he tipped his head to me, “the dress code.”

“I’m not wearing yoga clothes to work, Tack.”

He held my eyes, his lips turned up slightly then he looked down at the coffee table, put his beer on it and reached for a slice of pizza saying, “Probably a good call. Every guy who works there is takin’ their break in the bathroom, jackin’ off, thinkin’ of you in your tight skirts and sex kitten shoes. You wear that to work, no one’d get any work done.”

Um… gross!

“They do not,” I snapped.

His eyes lifted to me as his hands lifted a slice of pizza and he said only, “Darlin’,” before he guided the pizza to his mouth and bit off a huge chunk.

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