Motorcycle Man(22)

Yes, he’s here. I told Lanie.

I’m emailing you your letter of resignation now. You just have to print it, sign it and give it to him. Easy. Lanie replied.

She’d written my letter of resignation. Totally Lanie. I smiled at the phone. Then the door to the garage opened, I looked up and Tack stood there.

Damn.

I felt my smile fade and my throat clog at the same time my palm itched to find something to throw at him.

He walked right to my desk, eyes on me, hand to his back pocket and he said, “Do me a favor, babe. I’m starved. Go out and get me a sandwich.”

I stared up at him as he pulled out his wallet, opened it, yanked out some bills and tossed them on the desk in front of me. He was shoving the wallet in his back pocket when my throat unclogged but that itch in my palm intensified.

He hadn’t said word one to me after barging into my place and pretending to be a decent guy. Four and a half days later, he strolls in and tells me to get him a sandwich?

“Pardon?” I whispered.

“A sandwich. Roast beef and swiss. Get me a bag a chips and a pop while you’re at it. Don’t care where you go.”

“Pardon?” I repeated and his eyes narrowed.

“A sandwich, Red. Roast beef and swiss, chips and a pop.” When I simply continued to stare at him and said not a word, he added, “Jesus, you want me to write it down?”

My stare turned into a glare and I snapped, “No, handsome, you wrote it down, I wouldn’t be able to read it and I’m not getting you a sandwich. I have things to do. If you’re hungry, jump on your bike and go get your own damned sandwich.”

Then I turned to the computer and opened up my e-mail in order to find Lanie’s resignation letter because I was done with Ride Custom Cars and Bikes but mostly because I was done with Tack, the big, fat jerk.

“Say again?” I heard Tack growl.

“You heard me,” I bit out and clicked on Lanie’s e-mail.

“Babe, look at me.”

“Kiss my ass,” I replied, double clicking on Lanie’s attachment and ignoring the sparking, scary biker dude vibe that was suddenly saturating the room.

“Red, look… at… me.”

I looked at him, or, more accurately, glared at him.

“You got a problem?” he growled.

Did I have a problem? What a jerk!

“Yes,” I told him. “I have a problem.”

“What’s your problem?”

What was my problem? Ohmigod!

I didn’t know what to do. I was so angry, I couldn’t think. Anything I could say would expose too much. For some bizarre reason, I fell in love with him over tequila and really great sex. Then I fell out of love with him because he used me and he was a jerk about it. Then I started to fall back in love with him while he was using me again, being the jerk he was. In the meantime, I knew he slept with at least one other woman. And all I got out of all that was a lot of hassle, two beers, two slices of pizza and a number of really great orgasms.

Without any way to explain it and not put myself out there, I stated, “My problem is none of your business.”

“You made it my business by telling me to kiss your ass.”

“If you have an issue with the way I communicate, Tack, fire me,” I retorted.

“Jesus,” he crossed his arms on his chest then asked rudely, “You on the rag?”

I felt pressure build in my head and fired back on a near shout, “No! And if I was, that wouldn’t be your business either.” The pressure kept building and it forced me out of my chair, it forced my torso to lean across the desk toward him and it forced out of my mouth, “In fact, nothing about me is any of your business. I’m in a shitty mood and it’s none of your business why. So, if you’re hungry, go get your own stupid sandwich. I’m busy.”

Then I sat back down, turned to the computer and without reading the letter, I moved the mouse so the cursor on the screen was at the print button and I clicked. As I did this, through the pressure in my head and the thundering of my pulse beating in my wrists and neck, I heard Tack moving through the room. It wasn’t until the room darkened that what he was doing penetrated. But I had no opportunity to react before my chair was swiveled around forcefully making my body sway with the movement. Before I knew it, my head was tipped way back because Tack, hands on the arms of my chair, was leaned deep into my space.

“Explain the attitude, Red,” he ordered, his voice a low, angry rumble that I felt pulsating against my flesh.

“Are you insane?” I cried.

“Explain the fuckin’ attitude, Tyra.”

“Move away!” I demanded then I gasped because he didn’t move away.