5 Bikers for Valentines

“Maybe I'm just a normal guy in a confusing situation,” he said, looking up at me.

His face was serious, his jaw tight. He wasn't smiling, nor happy about this conversation. That much was clear. Why, though? The contradictions and confusion about him left me reeling, and completely curious.

“I told you my predicament,” I said. “Now it's your turn.”

“I can't,” he said.

“Because then you'd have to kill me?”

He chuckled. “Something like that, yeah.”

The waitress cleared our table and didn't bother to refill our water glasses. There was no reason for us to stick around, but I could see that Malcolm wasn't in a hurry to leave. Neither was I. As rough a start as our evening got off to, I was enjoying spending a little time and getting to know Malcolm a little bit better. Which surprised me. A lot.

Plus, it helped take my mind off the fact that I now had no job and no idea what I was going to do. Anything that would help take my mind off the current clusterfuck that was my life was a welcome distraction.

“Would you like a ride home?” he asked.

“I'll be fine,” I said, a little disappointed that our evening was coming to an end. “The train takes me right down the street from my place.”

“No, no train for you tonight,” he said, putting a wad of cash in the little black book with the bill.

It was more cash than it possibly took to pay the damn bill and yet, he'd tossed it in without even thinking about it. I don't even know that he actually looked at the bill. Our waitress was getting one hell of a tip.

Not that I was going to complain about it. Someone who tipped well always got brownie points in my book. When you work in the service industry, you get it. Too many people don't. Especially those like Malcolm who were born into a life of luxury and who never had to work for anything in their lives. They never really saw people like me for the hard workers we were. They never took the time to appreciate us or understand how much a decent tip meant.

It sometimes literally did mean the difference between paying the light bill or putting food in the fridge. A generous tip sometimes allowed us to do both.

He smiled at me. “What is it?”

“Just – nothing,” I said.

“My car is parked at the club,” he said. “Think they'll let me retrieve it?”

A devious grin spread across his face.

“We might have to steal it,” I teased.

“Stealing back my own car,” he said. “Sounds exciting.”

“Life is always an adventure when you hang with me.”

I winked at him as we stood up. I couldn't help but smile as Malcolm continued chuckling. Most people don't appreciate my dry, sardonic sense of humor, but Malcolm was an exception.

He seemed to be an exception to a lot of things. He certainly wasn't the man I had thought he was.

As we walked out of the diner, I thought that for how shitty the night had started, it didn't turn out all that bad.

~ooo000ooo~

We didn't have to steal his car back, thankfully. The valet was happy to retrieve it for him. When a black luxury sedan pulled to a stop at the valet station, I groaned.

“You drive a BMW,” I said. “Why am I not surprised?”

Malcolm opened the car door for me, an amused smile on his face. “What do you have against BMW?”

“Just that every rich asshole seems to have one,” I said.

He closed the door and walked to the other side, climbing into the driver's seat. When he was buckled in, he looked at me with that mischievous little smirk on his face.