“Can I at least have a coffee first?”
“Nope. We gotta get on the road. It’s a two-hour drive from here.”
“You want me to ride with you for two hours without a coffee?” I ask. “You don’t value your life very much, do you?”
He just winks and walks off, munching his apple. “You’ll need a jacket,” he says over his shoulder, and I give him a two-fingered salute.
I grab my jacket from off the bar stool and head out after him. Tank smiles as I walk down the stairs towards him. He looks as if he wants to devour me, which I guess isn’t that different—that’s how he always looks at me—but there’s a new intimacy to it that leaves me a little breathless.
He already has the bike beneath him in the driveway, jacket zipped against the weather, and helmet on. He slips on a pair of aviators and grins as if he’s up to no good. I pause, uncertain I really want to go any further but then he hits the button on the remote and I have to run for the door so I don’t get locked in.
Arsehole.
He’s fucking chuckling again as I stalk over to him and punch his arm. All my fingers crack at once. Stupid motherfucking giant. One day I’m going to kick his arse. Though I may need to master some kind of martial arts before that happens.
Tank revs the throttle. The sound vibrates through me. I love that sound. I close my eyes and take it all in: the primal grunt from his bike, the smell of exhaust, and leather, and … Tank. Interesting. I sigh and place my hands on his shoulders as I swing my leg over and nestle into the seat behind him. Slowly, I move my hands to his waist, resisting the urge to sink my fingers into the hard muscles flanking his sides. Tank places his hands over mine and moves them a little lower, until they’re resting on his hard cock. I laugh, and then I take back my hand in order to put on the helmet he passes to me from the handlebars. When I’m buckled up, I rest my hands on his sides and press my body closer, anticipating that first jerk of momentum that has a way of pulling you backward when you take off. He twists the throttle and we shoot forwards, down the long drive and onto the dirt road leading away from his property.
I tuck my head in against his massive shoulder and preen at the feel of wind rushing over my body. I may not know how to handle this thing we have going on between us, and I may not know how to get clean and stay clean, but this? This I know how to do, and being on the back of Tank’s bike seems as natural as breathing.
Close to two hours later, we pull into a quiet little seaside community. The houses are mostly all cottages as we drive through one end of the quaint little town, though they start to get progressively bigger the further we drive. Tank makes a left turn and we ride up a narrow, winding road only big enough for one car. On the top of the hill sits a big old-fashioned house, white with blue shutters. It’s the nicest house I think I’ve ever seen. Traditional, Victorian and … home. I know that sounds weird, considering I’ve never laid eyes on the property before, but there’s something oddly comforting about it.
We ride up the sandy driveway and Tank eases on the breaks. He sets his feet down and toes the kickstand into place with his booted foot. The second my feet are on the ground, I unfasten my helmet, slide off the back of the bike and glare at him.
“Where are we, Tank?”
“My ma’s house.”
My eyes widen as I mentally check over my outfit. I’m wearing skin-tight jeans, a ripped up Harley-Davidson tank, and come-fuck-me boots. And I have helmet hair.
“We’re at your mother’s?” I say, fidgeting with my top and attempting to get it to cover more of my breasts than it’s willing to.
Tank frowns as he watches me adjust my clothing, and says, “It’s Sunday.”
“And?”
“It’s Sunday lunch.” He shrugs, removing his helmet and placing it on the handlebars. “I never miss Sunday lunch.”
“Except for the last two Sundays that you spent trying to dry me out.” I run a hand through my hair in an effort to eradicate any kinks. I know without having to look that it’s a wasted effort. The only thing that gets rid of helmet hair is a GHD. “You didn’t think to tell me?”
“Why?”
“Because I would have chosen to wear something a little less … revealing.” I tug at my top again, and then I decide to just zip my leather jacket all the way up so the girls aren’t on show. Oh God, do I have panties on? It seems really, really wrong to meet the mother of your … well, you should just always wear panties around old people.
“Babe, do you even own anything less revealing?”
“No, but I would have made you take me shopping for something,” I say, and pull the waistband of my jeans aside to check on the panty situation. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the black lace staring back at me.
“And you’d have been miserable the entire time because it wouldn’t have been you.” He pulls me in against him and I push him away.
“What are you doing?”
“Jesus, Ivy. Would you calm the fuck down, please? My mum isn’t going to shun you; she’ll love you.”
“Yeah, what’s not to love about a strung-out junkie who dresses like a whore?” I say impatiently, attempting to work the zip on my jacket higher.
Tank grabs hold of the zipper and yanks it down until my tits are practically falling out. I shove his hands away. He pouts when I zip it up so that my cleavage is covered but it doesn’t look like I’m attempting to be a naughty nun.
He slides off the bike and takes my hand, then leads me up a cute cobble-stoned path. It’s flanked either side with bright yellow daisies. From the front porch steps I can just see the edge of the ocean peeking through the thick underbrush and tall gum trees.
Holy shit. This house must have cost a fortune.
Tank opens the door and shouts, “Ma?”
“In the kitchen.”
I’m assaulted by the delicious smell of roasting meat and baked vegetables as Tank leads us through the house. The rooms we walk past are tastefully decorated, not at all modern, but with antique furniture that looks expensive, yet lived in. We walk into a huge open kitchen with stained-glass windows and pristine granite benches.
I hover close behind Tank and peer out from around his side, as if I’m a little kid hiding behind her mother’s legs. A woman bends over in front of the stove. Her face is turned away from me, but even from here I can see she has perfectly coifed hair, nice clothing and an actual apron strung around her waist. She straightens, rubbing at the small of her back and letting out a cry of protest.
“You okay, Ma?”
“I’m fine, honey. Blasted back is playing …” She trails off when she sees me. She’s gorgeous, with soft blue eyes and very delicate features. She might have looked like an adorable little pixie woman when she was younger. “And who is this?” she asks. Her eyes are brimming with curiosity. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a guest.”
“Hi,” I say, cringing, because even my voice sounds crass compared to hers. Why would he bring me here? We’re not even together. His mother’s house? Really? I’ve never met anyone’s parents before. Not to mention a parent who … I don’t know, isn’t involved in club-life. He might have been right about me being uncomfortable in clothes that I wouldn’t ordinarily wear, but at least I wouldn’t look like a cheap biker whore.
What the hell was he thinking?
“Ma, this is Ivy,” Tank says, and it’s as if he’s proud of himself, or me, or something. Which just makes this so much worse. I’m not the girl you take home to your parents’ house. I’m the one you take home to fuck over the back of your parents’ couch and throw out before dawn. “Ivy, this is my ma.”
“Well, don’t just stand there, sweetheart. Let’s get a good look at you,” Tank’s mother says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ivy. I’m Adeline.”