“I’m sure I did,” I retorted. “That still doesn’t explain why I have one.” Before he could say anything, I added, “A free one.”
He leaned slightly back while crossing his arms on his chest.
It was then I noticed his chest was rather well-defined—as could be seen through his tight, black T-shirt—and his arms were even more well-defined. The biceps bulged and his forearms were all sinewy.
“You got a couple grand to lay down on a new transmission?” he asked and my gaze shot from its sudden rapt contemplation of his arms to his eyes.
“If I had a couple thousand dollars to lay down, as you put it, on a new transmission, I’d buy a new car,” I returned.
“And that would be a good call,” he muttered.
I ignored that. “But at this moment I don’t need a new car since I have a new transmission, new tires, new wipers, an oil change, it’s a far sight cleaner than this room and smells like pine.”
“What? Did you want new car smell?” he asked and I stared.
Then I cried, “No! I didn’t want my car detailed. For free.”
He shook his head. “I don’t get your problem, Butterfly.”
I ignored the nickname, which was definitely cute and made me feel nice, and declared, “I’m not a charity case, Joker.”
“I know that,” he returned.
“Then why do I have a spick-and-span car that runs better than when I bought it and a new attorney that’s taking my case through retainer with the Chaos Motorcycle Gang?”
“Club.”
“Sorry?”
“We’re a club, not a gang.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Absolutely.”
I shut my mouth since his answer was so firm, it was granite.
He didn’t keep his mouth shut.
“Listen, you might have an idea about bikers. And in some cases, that idea would be on the mark. In the case of Chaos, boys here, they don’t like women to get jacked around by assholes. You lose it in our common room when you’re gettin’ jacked around by an asshole, and a kid’s involved, then their old ladies take your back, they’re gonna wade in. The Club waded in. That means you got people lookin’ after you. My advice, don’t bounce in here with your attitude and get shitty about it. Let ’em do it. You fight it, they’ll still do it and you’ll lose the face you’re tryin’ right now to save because you’ll have no choice but to give in.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I declared.
“That’s Chaos,” he retorted.
“They barely know me. In fact, outside of you, none of the men actually do,” I told him.
“Don’t matter. You walked in with homemade pie. You strutted your ass right onto Chaos with homemade pie for a brother who did you a good deed. Then you got kicked in the teeth by your ex. No good woman gets kicked in the teeth on Chaos without retribution. He’s gonna feel our displeasure, and that’s just the way it is. Again, don’t fight it.”
Although something about that made me feel something that was not unpleasant in the slightest, still, I couldn’t let it go.
“That’s slightly insane.”
“That’s our world,” he returned. “We claim you, you’re ours. No goin’ back.”
I shook my head in confusion. “You’ve claimed me?”
“I haven’t. Chaos has.”
That didn’t feel pleasant. It kind of hurt.
“Listen,” he kept going, “I saw the way you looked at me when I stopped to deal with your tire. That’s the way a lot of people look at my brothers and me. They make assumptions. They judge. You mighta done that for a second, but then you let that go. After that, you showed here, and I’ll tell you straight up, unless they want auto parts or a custom ride, no one shows here. Definitely not with pie. Not unless she’s a biker groupie, a girl who gets off on rough trade, or a woman fit for the life of an old lady who’s throwin’ her hat in the ring. And none of those bitches bring pie. We judge right back and that would be, we judge people who judge us or live narrow lives or have sticks up their asses. But people who open themselves to our world without bullshit coloring it, we let in. You met Elvira. She’s one of ’em. Now, you’re another. Anything threatened Elvira, every man who has a patch would throw down to protect her. As insane as you think that is, yesterday, you became Elvira but in a cute butterfly dress and sexy shoes.”