Page 3 of Jagger
I’d looked at Hot Biker, who was calmly sipping his drink as if it weren’t strange that he’d invited himself to have lunch with me. I had run my eyes over his leather vest, noticing a patch on the front that said“Jagger”.
“So, um, your name is Jagger?” I’d asked hesitantly. At his questioning look, I had gestured to his vest. “I noticed the patch on your vest.”
He’d set his glass back down and nodded. “Yes, well, that’s what people call me, anyway.”
“Oh, it’s a nickname?”
“Road name, Angel. In an MC, they’re called road names. And this isn’t a vest, it’s called a cut,” he’d informed me with a grin.
I’d nodded my head, vaguely remembering that now from a book I’d read once. An MC was a motorcycle club, that much I’d known.
“So, what’s your name?” he’d asked again.
I had hesitated, taking a sip of my drink to stall for time as I debated giving him my real name. Setting my glass back down on the table, I’d decided to play him at his own game.
“Angel. Well, that’s what people call me, anyway,” I’d responded with a straight face, daring him to push the issue.
He had looked surprised for a second, then grinned widely and nodded. “Fine, Angel it is, for now at least.” He’d winked at me, and I’d felt my pulse flutter. Oh my. Flirting with Hot Biker was not what I had expected to be doing on a typical Saturday afternoon.
The server had suddenly appeared at the table with my plate and set it down in front of me. I’d looked at it in confusion, my mind too fogged by the steamy lusciousness of Hot Biker to even remember what I’d ordered.
“Great minds think alike,” Jagger had said, gesturing to the two burgers we had. He’d picked his up and took a bite, and I had realized he had waited until my food came to begin eating his.
There had been a comfortable silence for the next few moments, as we’d each started to eat our meals. The burgers were huge, and I’d cut mine in half before I started eating. I’d known there was no way I could eat it all, even as hungry as I was. I had moaned softly with the first bite. The burger was cooked perfectly. Jagger’s eyes had snapped toward me when he heard the sound I made, and I’d felt myself blush.
“Sorry,” I’d apologized, after I’d chewed and swallowed the first bite. “I’m starving, and this burger issogood.”
Jagger had raised an eyebrow and shot me a wicked grin. “Don’t ever apologize for making that sound, Angel. I’m hoping to hear more later,” he’d said in a panty-meltingly sensual tone, before returning his attention to his own food.
My mouth had dropped open at his brazen comment, wondering if he’d actually meant that the way it sounded.He didn’t mean…surely he wasn’t serious about…what???I was beyond flustered, so I busied myself pouring ketchup for my fries.
Jagger had continued eating, making small talk about the food and the diner. He’d told me that he had been a frequent customer for years, as the owner had been a friend of his late grandmother’s. I had smiled at that. For some reason, hearing a biker talk about his grandma struck me as sweet. It was clear that he missed her.
“You know, I intended to take my lunch back to work with me, but you distracted me, Angel,” he’d said as he picked up an onion ring and took a bite.
I had looked up at him, ignoring the part about being a distraction. “Oh no, are you going to be late getting back from your lunch hour?” I’d asked, not realizing he’d been working today.
He had flashed me one of his quick smiles. “It’s OK, I run the place, and we don’t open to the public for another few hours. My crew will have it under control.” At my confused look, he’d explained, “I run The Inferno over on Gray Street. It’s a bar our club owns. We’re open for club members at noon, but the general public doesn’t come in until five o’clock.”
I’d nodded as I ate another bite of my burger. I’d heard of it, but had never been there, of course. Biker bars weren’t exactly my natural habitat. I wasn’t much for the bar scene period, at least not since I’d gotten out of college three years ago. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, the last time I’d hung out at a bar was for my friend Emma’s bachelorette party in May.
“I’ve never been there,” he’d smiled when I said that, “but I know it’s been around for a long time. The parking lot is always full of motorcycles when I pass by it, so business must be doing well.”
He’d nodded and swiped a French fry from my plate. I’d shot him a startled look, which he hadn’t noticed as he was too busy popping it into his mouth. “Business is great. Always has been, since the day it opened,” he’d said, clearly proud of their success. “We’ve been lucky, and we run a tight ship. My dad opened it almost twenty years ago, and I took over management four years ago. Just because it’s a biker bar, doesn’t mean we allow fights and shit to go down. We want the average citizen to feel comfortable going there, as well as other clubs, so it’s neutral territory.”
“I don’t understand. Neutral territory?” I had asked, resisting the urge to swat his hand when he reached for another of my French fries. I had given him my best ‘teacher look’ but it had been lost on him as he’d answered my question. I had focused my attention on my burger, taking another delicious bite as he spoke.
“Yeah, neutral territory, so other MC’s are allowed in.” At my continued look of confusion, he’d explained. “So, clubs have territory, some more strictly enforced than others. This whole southwest area of Indianapolis is Guardian territory. Other clubs have to let our Prez know if they’re coming into our territory for any official business, club runs, that kind of thing. Think of it as a professional courtesy. Some clubs are really strict about even a casual ride through their part of town. We aren’t, so much, unless it’s a club with a bad rep. Then, we look at them a little more closely to make sure they aren’t trying to stir up any shit.”
“Uh…I see,” I’d said slowly, not really understanding but also not sure I wanted to know anything more about territories or stirring up any…stuff.
I tried hard to limit my cursing, even in my thoughts, although I used to be quite fluent at it. Those things tended to slip out at inopportune moments, and it only took one slip of the tongue in front of a group of five-year-olds to curb that habit in my first year of teaching. Joseph Wanecki couldn’t remember to flush the toilet after a visit to the restroom, but he could remember that Miss Walsh had said a bad word when she’d smacked her knee on the edge of his desk. Luckily, his mother had a great sense of humor, and cussed like a drunken sailor herself, so she hadn’t raised a stink and gone to the principal over it. I was grateful I hadn’t lost my job over an F-bomb flying under my breath in the middle of my classroom.
“We’re not one-percenters, so we don’t tolerate a lot of the shit that other clubs are into,” he’d said, as if that cleared everything right up.
“I see,” I had repeated, slowly dipping a fry in my ketchup, and taking a bite. I’d heard the term ‘one-percenter’ before but couldn’t remember what it meant exactly. I felt like I needed a Biker-to-English dictionary. I had idly wondered if such a thing was available through Kindle Unlimited, maybe a Bikers for Dummies or something.
“So, what is it that you do for work, Angel?” Jagger had asked, and out of the corner of my eye, I had seen his hand reach toward my plate, intent on grabbing another French fry. Without conscious thought, I’d reached down and smacked his hand before it even reached the plate. He had snatched it back in surprise, and I had frozen, horrified that I had just smacked a stranger – a leather-clad biker, no less.
