Page 15 of Moto
“Damn.”
“So what’s the issue?” She pours some cream into her coffee and stirs.
“We work together.”
She stops mid-stir. Not a good sign. “I would advise not to do it.”
“Because he’s a manwhore?” There’s no point in beating around the bush; she knows exactly whom I’m talking about. He was practically humping me in front of her the other night.
“There’s that, yes.” She purses her lips. “But, honey, I think you should steer clear of all the bikers in this town. Even if they are a doctor.”
That response sounds more like the detective talking than my aunt.
“Why are you suddenly changing your tune?” I probe. “You were telling me to offer myself up on a silver platter the other night.”
She glances around the room. It’s barely seven a.m., and the place is virtually empty.
“Someone has been dealing dirty drugs,” she relays in a low tone. “Seven ODs in the last month alone. Bad heroin with the same insignia on the bag. A motorcycle wheel. We’re trying to find the source.”
“And you think it’s a local?”
She shrugs. “You know this place; drugs run rampant through all the trailer park compounds. It’s easy to distribute low-quality, high-priced junk to a community of crackheads.”
“I saw it every day I worked in the ER. Drug addiction and motorcycle accidents were the main attraction.” It’s part of the reason I became a per diem nurse. I liked the action, but the severity of every injury started to weigh on me. Too much blood and bad reminders.
“So you understand why I’m telling you this?” she asks.
I nod.
“I would hate for you to get wrapped up in anything, even if it was only by association.”
“Well, you make a compelling argument to sway me to the no side,” I contemplate.
“But?” She sips her coffee, peering at me over the rim of the chipped white cup.
“No but,” I lie.
“Clear as glass,” she reminds me.
I huff. “I’m definitely attracted to him.”
“I can see why. Young, good looking, smart . . . And he doesn’t have a record.”
“How do you know what? Did you do a background check?”
“After the way I saw you two the other night, I thought it couldn’t hurt.”
“Seriously?” I splay my hands on the tabletop.
“I’m basically your mother. It’s my job to protect you.”
“You mean overprotect me?”
“However you want to interpret it.” She smirks darkly.
“I’m twenty-six-years-old. Maybe it can just be semi-protect now?”
“You can be one-hundred-and-twenty-six-years-old, and I will always be overprotective. When you’re a mother, you’ll understand.”
