Becca Vs. Biker

1

Becca

I wake up with a groan, whacking my iPhone into submission. I stare up at the ceiling. God, I am starting to hate my job. Three weeks ago, my law firm had me start working with some clients on Long Island, and the commute … it’s murder.

I roll over and stare at my boyfriend, Tye, for a moment. Speaking of murder...

I push myself out of bed before my body can relax back into sleep. I pad into the bathroom and pull out my toothbrush. Brushing my teeth through a haze of exhaustion, I stare back at Tye, snoring loudly in my bed.

Well, his bed. His apartment. Not that he’s doing anything, like pay the rent. He lost his job at Carter Jeffries, an investment bank, like a month ago, and fuck all if he hasn’t just started spending his time partying and drinking. The bills are all on my shoulders now, and I just don’t have enough energy to keep paying for them.

I spit into the sink and then turn back to stare at Tye, brushing away. Should I wake him for a morning fuck? I mean, fucking him lately has been about as much fun as going to work, which is to say exactly no fun whatsoever, but damn, it’s the only thing we have left. I usually just close my eyes and think about Paris in the springtime. You know, the kind of trips I used to be able to take before all of our household bills landed squarely on my shoulders.

I move on to a shower and then a PowerBar for breakfast, leaving Tye to continue sawing logs in bed. Fuck it. He hasn’t been able to keep it up lately anyway. Talk about a turnoff. Not only is his dick on the small side, but his adventurous side has totally disappeared. I can’t even remember the last time he talked dirty to me, let alone gave me a nice spanking.

I paw through my closet, looking for something to wear—anything even remotely appropriate—and realize that I haven’t done laundry in like three weeks. Dammit. I have no lawyer clothes left—you know, beige skirts with matching jackets, that sort of thing. The sort of thing that a lawyer should be wearing.

Instead, I can only find my party clothes or my gym clothes, which says a lot about my life that the only clean clothes that I have left should either be worn to a yoga class or on a dance floor because lately, I haven’t been able to spend much time at either place.

My hand hovers over my bright purple Fabletics yoga pants, and I imagine walking into my client’s office in them, but with a sigh, I move away. As much fun as that’d be, and as comfortable, I really don’t think Mr. Williford, my boss, would appreciate it.

Which only leaves my party clothes. I eye my skirt choices, trying to judge which one is the longest. I usually don’t go out with much covered on a Saturday night—c’mon, what’s the point in that?—but I really don’t want to spend the day trying to keep from flashing my clients accidentally by simply leaning over. They probably don’t need to see my thong panties, and I’m thinking that if they did, I should start getting paid more for this gig. Just sayin’.

I finally pull a black miniskirt with silver threads running through it off the hanger and pair it with a low-cut black silk blouse. There would be no bending over today. This is my punishment for sleeping on Saturday instead of doing laundry. I shimmy into the skirt, taking care not to breathe too deeply—the whole point of it being to show off every curve I have, so it’s…a little on the clingy side.

Saran Wrap would be less form fitting, really.

I put on some low-heeled black pumps. The least I can do is not wear stilettos. Mr. Williford’s tongue is already going to be hanging out of his mouth when I come walking in.

With a sigh, I head out. Now comes the worst part of my commute: The driving. Seriously, who drives in New York? It’s madness, I tell you. But ever since they started me on this Long Island job, I’ve had to rent a car every Monday morning and then return it on Friday nights. I’m lucky I even know how to drive a car. Half my friends have no clue. Owning a car in Manhattan is just stupid. But taking a taxi cab from Manhattan to Long Island every day? Even dumber.

I walk into the rental office.

“Hey Becca,” Roger says, looking up from his paperwork. He’s like 19—a kid, which means that I’m usually able to flirt my way into an upgrade. If I’m going to be stuck driving in NYC traffic, at least I get to do it in style. God bless hormonal teenage boys. And this week…

I walk in with a sultry sway to the counter, leaning over and giving him a nice eyeful of my tits. I figure if I’m gon

na wear it, I might as well get mileage out of it, right? With this much cleavage showing, I figure I’m probably gonna walk out of here with the keys to a Porsche 911.

Today is already starting to look up.

“Hey, Roger,” I say with a flirty smile. “What do you have for me this week?”

“Uhhhhh…” His pimple-covered face falls, and I look at him, worried. That isn’t the response I wanted, and it sure as hell doesn’t bode well for me.

“So, we had a spate of tourists this weekend, and…well…allIhaveleftisaminivan.”

It comes out in a rush and it takes my brain a moment to process what he just said. I really need to add more coffee to my morning routine if Roger is going to start talking like an auctioneer.

“A minivan?” I finally repeat, having pulled the words apart enough to understand them.

With a guilty look plastered all over his face, he nods.

Ffffuuuucccckkkkkkk…

Minivan? A minivan?

I wonder if my ovaries are going to start spontaneously producing children if I drive a minivan for a whole week. Is parthenogenesis a thing in humans? I could be the first human in history to end up prego from driving a fucking minivan. Will I lose my ability to speak in complete sentences and only leave the house in sweat pants and a sports bra?

Will I stop highlighting my hair?

With a sigh, I hold out my hand. “Give ‘em to me,” I say, and with another guilty look, he hands over the keys.

“Red, back of the lot,” he says and I head out the door without another word. Usually, I like Roger, truly I do. Mostly because I can show him a generous amount of cleavage and I’m in a sports car for the week.

But this morning?

It’s a little questionable.

I spot the minivan—not hard to, since there’s hardly anything else in the lot—and mentally revise that to “a lot questionable.”

I unlock it and climb inside, instantly feeling my ovaries going into overdrive. I get a mental picture of having two squalling babies in the back, and shudder. I’d let myself dream about that when Carla’s boyfriend, Chase, first came into town with his riding partner Jason, but as soon as Carla told me that Jason had a wife and 2.5 kids at home in Oklahoma City, I squashed that dream real quick. Me and kids just aren’t going to be a thing.

I throw the van into reverse and back out of the parking spot.

I can do this. I can drive an Aerostar Ford minivan for a week.

It won’t actually kill me.

Right?

Right?

I take the Midtown tunnel to the Long Island Expressway, which is when I hit a traffic snarl. Fuck. I don’t know what god I pissed off to earn a day like this, but I decide to take up virgin goat sacrificing, or at least incense burning sometime this next weekend. Something for a little luck. I’m sure as hell not producing any luck on my own.

I blast my horn at the guy idling in front of me. Traffic has started moving again, and he’s just sitting there, staring off into space.