Beauty & The Biker

I look over at him as he walks next to me, we probably look like such an odd pair. Him being covered in tattoos almost appearing corpse or zombie like and me being normal and pretty. Not that I am conceited but I have always been known as a rare beauty since I was a child. Everyone has talked of it and I am what you might consider exotic in appearance. Long dark hair, flawless olive skin, long lashes and full lips.

But I don’t care much about appearances, they can be deceiving. It’s what’s on the inside that counts.

My ballerina flats are leaving black scuffs on the floor as Tristian’s heavy boots thump against the tile, but something about the sound of his boots next to my quiet steps calms my nerves.

At the end of the hall behind a curtain, my father is sleeping on a gurney. “What’s wrong with him?” His coloring looks off—ashen whereas before he was only pale. I stroke my fingers over the knuckles of his balled hand, his skin feels clammy.

“Heart attack,” Doris says in a clipped tone looking at his chart. “He was brought by an ambulance from the bank. The doctor will be in shortly, to talk to you.” She puts his chart back in the pocket on the wall leaving us alone.

Feeling exhausted, I collapse in the small chair against the wall. I can still feel the vibration of the motorcycle between my legs. The ride was exhilarating and terrifying for many reasons. One, it felt amazing to feel the wind against my face even if it was whipping me with my hair. Two, when I pressed my face closer to Tristian’s neck for protection, the way he smelled was intoxicating and oddly familiar. Three, my instant attraction to this man scares me. I’ve never felt such a connection—so infatuated by any one person.

Then there was the fear my father would be dead when I walked through the sliding glass doors with ominous red crosses painted on them. I feel emotionally exhausted.

Taking a deep breath, hoping I am able to still smell Tristian I am met with a foul scent. The smell of urine and sanitizer mixed with my nerves is taking its toll, reminding me of why I hate hospitals so much.

It reminds me of losing my Mama. I can see her in my head, puny and dying. The last time I hugged her, the flowery scent that had once perfumed her was replaced with the stink of death.

I look at my father and he seems to be resting peacefully, the sight provides me with small comfort.

Tristian stands next to me in a protective stance with his arms folded across his chest. To most he would appear as a menacing brute, but to me, he looks like a beautiful art sculpture and I want to spend hours studying him.

“Need me to call anyone for you?” He offers.

I shake my head twisting my fingers out of nervous habit.

I don’t see any point in calling my sisters until I speak with the doctor and find out how bad it is.

Looking up, I find Tristian studying me.

“I appreciate the ride and you getting me back here, but you don’t have to stay, I’ll be fine,” I tell him, but a part of me wants him to stay.

“Nah, I’ll wait. Your Pops and me have some business to discuss.”

“Wow, really. Are you joshing me right now?” I shouldn’t be surprised, honestly, but my father just suffered heart failure and he wants to wait to talk business. And a piece of me wanted him to say he was staying for me, so I’m not alone.

He snorts and he smiles and my heart stops. He has a charismatic grin. “Did you just say joshing?”

He has the nerve to mock me right now. What a jerk! He laughs louder, holding his stomach. “I bet you have never uttered a dirty word in your life,” he teases further. “I bet you can’t even say asshole.” His grin widens, entertained with his own antics.

“Get out,” I whisper trying not to disturb my resting father. I don’t know what I was thinking wanting him to stay.

Tristian bends down getting in my face, trying to intimidate me with his threatening looks and nasty attitude. “I don’t take orders sweetheart, I give them. You need to get that through your pretty little skull.” He grabs both sides of my face squeezing my jaws hard. Tears prick at the corners of my hazel eyes. “Told you once and I won’t tell you again. I’m going to talk to your father when he wakes up and not you or any damn-body-else will stop me,” he declares with a dangerous air about him.

Swallowing hard once, he lets me go. I nod and twist away from the pressure of his intense glare. I continue to sit while Tristian continues to watch me, keeping me on the edge of my chair. I don’t appreciate the way he commands attention constantly. It’s overwhelming. His presence is disarming and the need to stare back at him confuses me, with how unattractive his attitude comes across. He is so damn moody. Even his eyes have black circles tattooed around them. And yet I long to touch them—him. He confounds and intrigues me.

Trying to avoid his eyes, I study the tattoos on his hands giving his fingers the appearance of a skeleton. His left arm has a flaming skull with the word HELL in fancy scroll inked on it. On the right is a pair of praying hands with the word HEAVEN to match. Seems appropriate. He appears to have a devil on one shoulder with an angel rarely appearing on the other.

The doctor comes in eventually and I ask Tristian to kindly step out while we discuss my father’s prognosis. He doesn’t appear happy about my request but he obliges. The devilish smirk he throws in my direction before he exits doesn’t escape my attention either.

“How serious it?” I cut straight to the point.

“It could be worse but I won’t lie to you. Your father had a close call.” I would hate to think what we would be facing had he not been sitting in a chair at the bank when it happened. He could have been driving. “He will be okay as long as he makes changes to his diet, reduces his stress, and doesn’t overextend himself. I am going to keep him overnight for observation, but I don’t see any reason why he won’t be released in the morning.”

I thank him for taking care of my father and he says, “that’s what I’m here for.”

As soon as the doctor leaves, Tristian comes back in with a peace offering. A bottled water and a candy bar.

“Thanks, but I don’t need any more of your charity.” I don’t need anything from him. But I want to know him, even if he is a big jerk. There has to be so much more to him than his tough exterior.