Biker's Virgin

The incessant knocking at my door betrayed who was behind it. Emma had never been very patient. Rolling my eyes, I went and answered it.

“Took you long enough,” she said, breezing in without an invitation.

“Hello to you, too.”

“You haven’t spent any time with me since I arrived,” she said accusingly as she spread herself over my sofa and made herself comfortable.

“You’ve been here barely two days,” I pointed out. “And I greeted you when you arrived, didn’t I?”

“What am I?” she asked. “Just another random guest at your fancy ass resort?”

“Uh no…a random guest would be paying for room and board,” I said, sitting down on the chair next to her.

Emma gave me a wink. “Aw, come on,” she said. “Those are just the perks of having a powerful big brother.”

“How’s Mom?” I asked dryly.

“Mom’s fine,” Emma shrugged. “You know.”

“I don’t know actually,” I admitted. “I haven’t spoken to her in months.”

“Really?”

“Not since her birthday.”

“Wow,” she said. “No wonder she complains about you so often.”

“She complains?”

“Of course,” Emma nodded. “She’s always talking about her successful son… I mean, she’s proud and all that, but she’s kind of bitter, too. But don’t worry, she doesn’t blame you.”

“Who does she blame then?” I asked.

“Your father,” Emma smiled. “Obviously.”

I rolled my eyes. At the time, Mom and dad’s divorce had been contentious. Of course, I had been young enough that I didn’t remember any of that. The summer after their divorce I had been enrolled in an exclusive boarding school in England and had left the troubles of my parents’ marriage behind me. After that, I had swapped off summers and holidays between them.

I had been six when Mom had remarried, a full six months after the divorce had been finalized, and I had been seven when she had given birth to Emma. I still remembered the pug-faced infant that Mom had shoved in my face like some kind of prize. I had just arrived from boarding school with plenty of stories to tell, and a pink-faced baby with the most annoying voice I had ever heard had upstaged me.

I looked at Emma in mild amusement and thought how lucky it was that she had grown out of her pug face, her excessively pink cheeks, and her freckles. She had turned from an ugly child to a gangly teenager to a woman that many men would consider beautiful. The only thing she had kept from her youth was the shrill and annoying voice. Emma had been nothing more than an irritation to me growing up, but adulthood had created an unlikely friendship between us that had evaded our younger years.

“Of course,” I nodded dryly. “Whatever she can blame on my father, she will.”

“To be fair, she blames my father for just as many things,” Emma said, with a shrug.

“Oh?” I said, with some interest. I had never particularly warmed to my stepfather, who was as overwhelmingly boring as he was arrogant. “Like what?”

“Like my rebellious nature,” Emma said, with a satisfied smile. “She claims I inherited my sharp tongue, my brash manner, and my willfulness from him.”

“Huh, I wasn’t aware he had that much character,” I said slyly.

Emma shot me a sharp look that was laced with amusement. We had developed a shorthand over the last few years that some would describe as dark humor. Despite my best efforts today, however, I was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation. It was taking a lot of energy and concentration to attempt to appear calm and unfazed.

“As much as I would like to defend my father, I’m forced to agree with you,” she shrugged. “Although what he lacks in personality he makes up for in mystery.”

“Meaning?”

“He has secrets,” she replied. “Kind of like you.”