Making Her His (Beating the Biker 1)

She laughed again and then sighed. “I should probably go.”

Instinctively, he touched her arm lightly with the tips of two fingers, and was hit with a shot of electricity.

She noticed it, too, and looked at him with surprise.

“Don’t go.”

“Gee,” she said, glancing at his fingers on her arm. “You’re a shocking person.”

Saks pulled his fingers away. “Me? Maybe it’s you?”

“I don’t think so. I’m unexciting.” Then, incredibly, she picked up her wine and knocked it back in one gulp. “See,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Very boring.” She stood. “Thanks for the drink. See you around.” She glanced around the bar one more time before heading out.

Saks picked up his beer and took the last swig. She wasn’t interested, which oddly disappointed him. She was obviously a classy woman, and her type didn’t go for a biker/motorcycle mechanic, not unless she had a kink for slumming. And he’d had women like that. They didn’t last either. Once they satisfied their itch for a biker they went back to their white bread lives.

He pushed his empty beer mug away and shrugged into his jacket. He inhaled deeply as he walked out into the night air. Saks parked his bike toward the back of the building, and as he walked to it he heard laughter. He looked up to see a flash of blonde hair and a group of men surrounding her.

“...You don’t want to mess with me,” he heard the woman growl.

“You, chica?” The men laughed uproariously.

“Come here, mamacita. You might like to mess with me.”

Saks recognized the voice, and it raised the hackles on his neck. Damn Pez. Fucking Rojos. Saks still had a score to settle with those guys, and he didn’t mind doing it right now. He pressed a speed dial button on his phone that sent a specific message to his cousin in the bar. Then he strode purposely to the white Cadillac, where the woman stood with her hands clenched. “What the hell you doing here, Pez? You’ve been banned from the Red Bull.”

“Ah, pendajo,” said the wiry Hispanic. “I’m not looking to go in. I’m looking for your boy, Luke.”

“Not here, asshole. Get on your bikes and ride.”

“Or what?” growled Pez.

“Or I’ll make you a red blot on the ground.”

Pez and the other Rojos laughed. “Against me and my homies? I don’t think so.”

“What? Not man enough to take me yourself?” taunted Saks.

Pez’s eyes grew hard as Saks took off his jacket and handed it the pretty blonde from the bar, who stood, mouth hanging open. “Hold that, darlin’. I don’t want to get this idiot’s blood on my coat.”

The Rojos leader laughed coldly. “Who says it’ll be my blood?”

“My blood, your blood,” said Saks with a shrug. “Doesn’t matter. I’m just keeping you here until the police arrive... which should be,” he said, looking at watch, “about now.”

In the distance, the screech of police sirens sliced through the night.

The Rojos muttered and Pez apparently thought better of escalating the situation. He waved to his men to get on their bikes. “Just having fun, carbon; but, hey, I guess you don’t have no sense of humor. Later, holmes,” he said to Saks.

Saks watched Rojos get on their bikes and rumbled away. “Are you okay?” he said to the blonde.

“Yeah... sure.” In the halogen parking lot lamps, her face looked drained of color.

“Bring her in, Saks,” said John, walking from by the bar. He stood there with a sawed-off shotgun in his hand.

“You can put the gun away, John. Everything’s handled.”

“Yeah, I see that.”

“Really, you’ll take an eye out with that thing.” He waved his hand in the air. “Sirens are gonna to be here in a moment.” He nodded knowingly, not wanting John to get in any sort of trouble with the cops.