Instead, I quietly searched for a piece of paper (this was not hard to find) and a pen (also not hard to find), and I wrote him a note.

West,

Thank you for the offer, but I need to start making the right moves.

You’re a fantastic man and I’m glad I met you.

~Clara

PS: Thank you, too, for making me laugh. I haven’t done that in a long time.

I studied the paper and considered thanking him for kissing my nose then I reconsidered thanking him for making me laugh then he moved on the bed. I froze, and my eyes shot to him.

He rolled to his side and shoved a hand under the pillow.

I stayed still, but he made no more movements.

Not wanting to take any more chances, I didn’t touch him, and I laid the note on his nightstand.

But I did clear some of the bits away so he’d see it.

I walked out of the room, closed the door and put my shoes on in the hall.

I was walking to my purse that was still on the bar (these boys definitely were clean, it was a nice purse, one of the few I didn’t hock due to its size and versatility, and there it was, safe on their bar) when I heard, “Yo.”

I jumped and turned to see the big, dirty-blond, long-haired man standing several feet behind me, smirking.

He had a ponytail today.

“Hi,” I greeted.

“Babe,” he replied.

Something about the way he was smirking made my cheeks turn hot. It wasn’t ugly, it seemed almost teasing.

It was also knowing.

“You gettin’ Buck breakfast?” he asked, coming toward me.

Oh dear.

Was this what a biker expected from a woman the morning after?

“Um…” I replied.

He made it to me, stopped to tower over me and advised, “You should hold out, woman, the brother is serious as shit with a fryin’ pan.”

I tilted my head back to look at him and asked, “What?”

“Buck can cook. We don’t got a kitchen here, but it’s worth the wait to get to his place.”

“His place?” I queried.

“Yeah, babe, he doesn’t live here.”

“Oh,” I whispered.

Of course he didn’t.

And, wow.

I wondered where he lived.

I also wondered what he cooked.

No, no, no, I didn’t.

Well, I actually did, but I couldn’t focus on that.

I had to focus on Tia, coffee and Seattle.

When the big blond guy didn’t speak, I said, “We didn’t meet.” I extended my hand. “My name is Clara.”

His big mitt engulfed my hand and squeezed a hint too hard before he let it go while saying, “Ink.”

“Right,” I muttered.

Ink. Buck. Where did they get these names?

I should have asked during twenty questions.

“Anyway—” I started but stopped when I saw him smirking again, so I asked, “What?”

“Just a heads-up, now you got another name,” he told me.

“I do?” I asked.

His smirk became a grin and it made him kind of cute, even though he was about four days away from a clean shave and a lot more than four months away from a decent haircut.

“Yeah, Redhot.”

“Sorry?”

“Your nickname, babe. Redhot. Jesus, woman, listenin’ to you all night, a man don’t need porn.”

Oh…God!

My face had been warm, but I knew instantly now it was pale.

Ink kept talking.

“Thought you were ice, but you ain’t. You’re fire. Buck can always pick ’em.”

He grinned through that sock to the gut (Buck can always pick ’em?) as I stared up at him, and then he continued, leaning in.

“But breakfast?” He shook his head and finished on a meaningful, “Babe.”

I should point out this “babe” was meaningful to him. It was confusing to me.

He shoved my shoulder playfully like he hadn’t told me not too long ago to get out, gave me another big grin and sauntered away.

I stared after him, not knowing what on earth he meant, and I did this for a while trying to figure it out.

Then I thought about Buck always picking them and I felt that hollowness in my stomach again. The despair I forgot through tequila, beer, pool, hamburgers and Buck slid right into its place alongside the nausea of my hangover.

On that thought, I remembered Seattle, ran to my purse, grabbed it, and dashed to my car.

I lifted my fist to knock on Mrs. Jimenez’s door, but it opened before my knuckles hit the panel.

Her bony hand came out, grabbed hold of my forearm, and she yanked me into her apartment. She swiftly closed the door behind us.

I turned to look at her.

Mrs. Jimenez was my next-door neighbor and she liked me.

She was a Mexican American woman who said she was seventy-eight, but she looked ninety-eight. She had pictures of herself, her husband, her kids and grandkids all over her apartment and I knew from those she’d shrunk about a foot. Her entire face was lined, and her hair was coarse, gray and always twisted into a bun at the back of her head.

She also had the brightest, sweetest smile I’d ever seen in my life, beautiful, warm brown eyes, and she made great homemade tamales. Her cooking, and Tia’s, was the only food I’d eaten in the last two months. Without the two of them looking out for me, I’d be in more of a mess than I already was.

“Tell me you hid your car,” she said.

“Of course,” I replied then deduced, “The repo men have been here.”

“Nosin’ around,” she said on a nod then her eyes got sharp. “The Jackal’s been here too.”

“The Jackal” was what Mrs. Jimenez called our landlord, Dallas Hill.

Mrs. Jimenez had been living there for years, and Dallas Hill had owned the apartments since she moved in. He raised the rent on a regular basis but didn’t raise the level of service provided. Which meant, if a toilet flooded, a roof leaked, the hot water went out or a refrigerator stopped working, he’d take his time coming to fix it and the time he’d take could be weeks. In apartments with one bathroom, waiting even a day to have your toilet fixed was seriously not fun.

However, if you were a day late paying rent, he’d come around to call.

This meant I drove him batty, and Mrs. Jimenez was loving every minute of it.

So much so, she had her son, Raymundo, come in and change my locks so Dallas couldn’t get into my apartment.

This was probably illegal, but when Dallas made an issue of it while standing outside my door shouting (while I was standing inside my apartment hiding) Mrs. Jimenez had come out to the open-to-the-elements walkway that the doors to the apartments faced.

I saw her out my kitchen window with her phone to her ear and heard her say loudly, “Hello? Can I speak to a building inspector?”

At that, Dallas had scowled at her and stormed away.

Still, rent was cheap, and my apartment came furnished.

Mrs. Jimenez had her own stuff in hers and her place was far homier than mine. This was because Dallas decorated in castoffs from Goodwill and Mrs. Jimenez decorated in history, love, memories and family.

“Are they gone?” I asked.

“They’re never gone, but they’re out of sight,” Mrs. Jimenez answered. “Where’d you hide your car?”