Biker with Benefits Read online

  Where the heck is this man taking me?

  My skin tingles even more when we pull up at the end of the road and he brings us to a stop. I gulp.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I chirp.

  He doesn’t answer.

  “No, seriously. Where are you taking me?” I ask, my voice shaky.

  He doesn’t turn back. “Do you like to eat food?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Fine. Have you ever been to Firehouse?”

  I scrunch up my face. “I don’t think I have. What is it?”

  “New place close to town. I want to stop there. They have the best late-night food. You in?”

  I feel a whoosh of relief. “Sounds perfect.”

  As we turn back onto the main road, he looks over his shoulder at me.

  “Where’d you think I was going?”

  I clear my throat, not wanting to admit the answer.

  Make-out point?

  The lake?

  “It’s just hard to make out where we’re headed in the dark, that’s all,” I say.

  He nods, turning back to the road.

  A few minutes later, we pull up in front of the bar, and relief pours through me.

  “Wow. It’s right downtown too,” I say as I get off the motorcycle. “I can’t believe I didn’t know about this place.”

  He shrugs. “Guy I know opened it up earlier this year.”

  We walk up to the entrance and hand our IDs to the bouncer before heading in.

  It’s a beautiful place, apparently an old firehouse that was made into a bar. The ceilings are super high on the first floor, and all over the walls are pictures of firemen saving homes and people’s lives. We find a seat out on the patio, a little away from the noise.

  The man pulls out my chair for me, and I have the urge to brush my hand against his, a compulsion bubbling up in me to know more about him.

  He takes a seat across from me, smirking a little in the glow of the outside lights.

  “So . . .” I fidget, uncomfortable with his silence.

  “So . . .” he imitates, and I get the feeling he’s not shy or lacking for conversation topics, but that he just wants to mess with me.

  A cool breeze washes over me and I realize something.

  “You haven’t even told me your name,” I remark.

  He tilts his head to the side. “Name’s Jax,” he says, and puts a hand out. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jax. I’m—”

  “Harmony. You told me.”

  “Oh. On stage. Right.” I twirl my hair and look in the direction of the kitchen to see if a server is coming out to greet us. My stomach rumbles. I bring my eyes back to Jax, whose gaze is searing through me.

  I’m struck again by how strikingly handsome he is. I can’t put my finger on the quality that makes him seem as if he’s already lived several lives. And he’s much more muscular than most guys his age. And what is his age, anyhow? He could be twenty or thirty-five.

  An enigma.

  A quiet enigma too.

  “Um,” I start, wanting to break the silence. “So tell me about yourself, Jax.”

  “Well,” he smiles. “The bad news is I’m a combo sociopath and psychopath. The good news is you’ll never get bored around me.”

  “Um, excuse me?” My breath catches.

  “And two of those three things are probably false.” He winks.

  I squint. “Well, which things are they?”

  I’m flabbergasted, unsure what to make of this sexy man when our server finally gets to our table.

  “Hi,” the pretty blond girl says. “I’m Clarissa . . . So sorry about the wait. We’re slammed at the moment. What can I get you two?”

  He orders a whisky and I order a mojito, and we get some late-night quesadillas and guacamole to share as well.

  “And tell Mason he absolutely crushed it with how well he opened up this place. And whoever his fiancée is—he said she had a hand in it too.”

  “Oh, that’s me.” She blushes.

  “I’ll be damned. He did well for himself. I’m Jax. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you! How do you know Mason? He never brought it up.”

  Jax heaves a sigh. “I used to help with the booze deliveries for the Watering Hole.”

  Clarissa nods, and they exchange a few more pleasantries before she heads off.

  My pulse races as I bring my attention back to Jax. He smiles as his eyes flit about the bar.

  “That was quick,” he says to the server after our drinks come out.

  I run my hand around the cold glass and hold my drink up in front of me. But I hold it short of his drink.

  “So are you going to tell me?” I spit out, still fixated on what he said earlier.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Which of the two are lies. Duh.”

  He shakes his head and takes a drink from his whisky, seeing me holding my glass short of his.

  “You’ll figure it out,” he says with another wink.

  I tap my fingers on the table as I take a big sip of my drink. Figures I’d have to get a ride from the craziest guy in town.

  But I think he’s right about one thing: I’m not bored.

  He leans in a little. “Now my turn to ask you a question.”

  “Okay. What’s your question?”

  “And no disrespect by this.”

  “Uh-oh.” The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Here we go.

  “What in the hell is a singer—and guitar player—as good as you doing playing in a place like LaRisa’s on a Thursday night? Ain’t seen an act as good as yours since I was in Nashville years ago.”

  At the very mention of Nashville, I feel a little dizzy.

  “The hell kind of question is that?” I mutter.

  “A fair one. You’re really fucking good. Can I be honest?”

  “Please,” I say, trying to fight the memories of the time I tried to make it in that amazing city—and failed miserably.

  Jax sips his whisky and looks away. Then he brings his eyes back to mine.

  “I was in a shit mood when I got to LaRisa’s. I don’t even know what propelled me to stop there. But you’ve got an incredible talent. Be a shame if you didn’t play some bigger venues.”

  “I don’t play big venues.” I shake my head, averting my eyes. “It’s just a hobby.”

  “Oh. Just a hobby?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

  “That’s right.”

  He looks at me and kicks back in laughter.

  My blood boils. “Hey! What’s so funny?!”

  He pounds his fist on the table and I jump. “You’re telling me talent like you just walks around Blackwell every day? Ha! That’s funny. And you’re the one who wants to know if I’m a liar. You’re the one who can’t tell the truth.”

  “I am telling the truth!” I yell back, and a few people glance over at us. “It’s just a hobby.”

  “Calm down, sugar. No reason to get those panties in a bunch!”

  I clench my fists and feel my jaw tightening. “Who do you think you are? I am telling the truth.”

  “Bullshit. And if you really think you are telling the truth, you’re lying to yourself too.”

  I suddenly feel the need to slap this guy across his smug face.

  “Who the hell are you? You’re just going to give me a bunch of unsolicited life advice tonight?! I asked for a ride home, not a damn pep talk about my music career.”

  I cross my arms right as the quesadillas arrive.

  “Oh. Delicious,” Jax says, rubbing his hands together.

  “You are a sociopath, aren’t you?” I accuse.

  He stops before he puts a quesadilla in his mouth and shakes his head.

  “Nah. I’m just a guy who knows a musician who knows how to speak to a man’s soul when I hear her. And you, Harmony, are it. Now I’m done talking about that. Let’s enjoy some damn quesadillas, shall we?”

&nb
sp; I blink a few times at the man in front of me. I’m envious of how unencumbered he is. Even if I don’t necessarily like what he has to tell me, the way he’s so confident and direct enthralls me.

  We shift subjects to small talk about the bar and the drinks menu.

  As we talk about frivolous things—my fault for steering the conversation away—I get a strange feeling that Jax is someone I’ve known for a while. In spirit, at least.

  He drives me home and I jump off his motorcycle with my guitar. Before I can head inside, he waves me back and hands me a folded-up piece of paper.

  “What is this?” I furrow my brow.

  “Open it up in two months,” he says. “Until then, don’t touch it.”

  “Okay.” I tilt my head a little, giving him a weird look.

  “I’m serious. It’s bad luck if you do.”

  “Can I—”

  “And don’t hold it up to the light to read it. I know how you girls bend the rules.”

  “Damn,” I snap.

  “Good night, Harmony.”

  “Night,” I echo.

  I linger for a few extra beats. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s got something to do with the way my body’s heating up in spite of the cool temperature.

  “And Harmony,” he adds. “Thanks.”

  Kicking his bike into gear, he speeds off and into the night.

  I clench the note tight, a burning desire to open it and see what this stranger wrote down.

  I shake my head as I hear his bike in the distance, breaking through the quiet of the early-morning hours.

  He said “thanks.” But for what?

  3

  Harmony

  The next morning, I wake from a dream with a jolt.

  In my dream, I kept asking Jax what was in the note, but he wouldn’t tell me. “Nah ah ah,” he’d say with the same confident look he had plastered on his face yesterday at Firehouse.

  For some reason, I have the feeling that whatever message is in that note is the key to everything.

  I roll over in bed, viewing the folded-up piece of paper on top of my nightstand, and then I put it away in a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.

  I grab my iPhone to check the time.

  Almost eleven.

  Damn. How late were we out last night?

  And seriously, who the hell is this Jax guy? In my head, I repeat the line he said to me about being a sociopath.

  What kind of guy says that, even as a joke?

  And what kind of guy tries to tell me I’m too talented to be playing at LaRisa’s?

  What is he, a professional music scout?

  But he sure hit the nail on the head when he said he hadn’t heard music as good as mine since he’d been to Nashville.

  I hover my thumb over the Instagram app on my phone before pulling it up.

  Part of me doesn’t even want to know what they’re up to.

  But ever since Jax mentioned Nashville, I can’t stop wondering.

  I type in my ex’s name to look at his profile.

  My skin tingles with anxiety. Why do I torture myself like this? I want to throw my phone out the window.

  But I can’t. I have to see what he’s up to.

  I swallow as I pull up the first picture. It’s Roddy and Francine. Singing side by side into the same microphone.

  My blood boils.

  Well aren’t you two just a regular Johnny and June?

  My fingers tense, and I accidentally like the picture, so I have to unlike it immediately.

  Uh-oh. Does that show up on his notifications?

  I take a deep breath to try to steady myself as I scroll through more of their pics, but when I see the third picture, I want to scream and chuck my phone again.

  Just playing our new hit single, “Flowers in June.” Love this girl more than anything.

  My head throbs, and I feel so strong and angry I could pick up a car.

  But the feeling passes, and seconds later I’m weak. Pathetic. Pale.

  It’s been well over two years since things went south in Nashville. Why can’t I just let it go and start new?

  Jax’s gritty voice rings in my ear.

  “You’re too good for a place like LaRisa’s. Honestly, what are you doing there?”

  Summoning all the willpower I can, I text my friend Rose, throw on shorts and a tank top, and head downstairs.

  To my surprise, I smell eggs and bacon as I get to the main room.

  My stepmom flashes me a plastered-on smile as I step into the dining room.

  “Well, if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty. Glad you got up before noon today.”

  “Good morning . . . You’re making breakfast?” I ask, and I’m sure she can hear the surprise in my voice. This isn’t a regular thing.

  “Yeah. Janie had soccer practice this morning, so she needs a good meal after that physical activity,” she says as she loads bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast onto two plates.

  “Oh.” I swallow a lump in the back of my throat as my stepmom heads into the dining room and sits down across from Janie. Part of me wants to point out that she wasn’t able to drive me home yesterday, and here Janie is getting the full treatment, but at this point that seems pointless. “Morning, Janie! How was soccer?” I say instead with a grin as I grab the last cup of coffee.

  “It was sooo good. I got a goal and everyone high-fived me.”

  “Aw, that’s awesome.”

  “You got back late last night,” Janie continues as she takes a bite of her eggs. “I heard you when I got up to go to the bathroom.”

  My stepmom’s jaw drops a little. “Just how late did you get home?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Two thirty, maybe?”

  My stepmom scrunches up her face. “I thought your father and I made it very clear that while you’re under our roof, your curfew is one a.m.”

  I crack an egg and it makes a searing sound as it hits the already-hot pan. Grinding my teeth, I have a hard time holding my smile.

  “I don’t think this is an appropriate conversation to be having for the morning,” I say, but what I really mean is I don’t think it’s appropriate to have in front of Janie.

  My stepmom sits back and crosses her arms. “I’m not going to just allow this. When your father gets back from his run tonight, he’s going to hear about this.”

  All right. Fine. She wants to do this right now?

  “Maybe if you would have given me a ride, I wouldn’t have gotten home late.”

  She scoffs and shakes her head. I angrily crack the second egg and stir it around the pan, adding salt and pepper.

  “Don’t give me excuses,” she adds. “You’re resourceful. I know you have friends and you can get rides. I mean, if you want to do this music thing—”

  “I did get a ride, eventually. But I felt like staying out late. What’s the big deal? I’m twenty-three. This is a little ridiculous.”

  She raises an eyebrow and holds a piece of toast with eggs on it in front of her face. “While you’re under my roof, honey, you’ve got to deal with my rules. Understand?”

  Oh no she didn’t. Not the my house my rules BS.

  I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Looking back at the eggs, I lose myself in them and sort of unfocus my eyes and listen to Janie and her go back to chatting.

  As much as I know my dad loves Lisa, I can’t help but wish my own mother were still in the picture.

  Turning the oven off, I push eggs onto my plate and grab the last piece of bacon. Then I go sit at the table with the two of them.

  “So who gave you a ride home, anyway?” my stepmom asks.

  “Yeah!” Janie chimes in. “I heard the loud motorcycle! That’s what woke me up!”

  My stepmom turns her face to me, her mouth open and jaw tilted. “Are you serious? WHO brought you home, Harmony Lane?”

  My emotions swirl with an odd combination of dread, anger, and resentment.

  “My new boyfriend brought me home,” I say, squinting at
both of them. I don’t know why I say it, but the lie feels good as it rolls off my tongue.

  She shakes her head. “You just wait till your father gets home,” she says as she shovels another piece of bacon into her mouth.

  4

  Jax

  “Jax, what’s with you? You’re like a tornado trying to get out of here.”

  In the Pizza House kitchen, my old friend and fellow cook, Kevin, has been watching me clean up my area like the Tasmanian devil since we closed down at ten and served our last customers.

  “Sooner it’s clean, the sooner I leave,” I say, putting some elbow grease into it as I reach to the back of the stove.

  Kevin just stands there, leaning against the counter, sipping his Diet Coke and watching me.

  “Dunno what you’re in such a hurry for,” he adds. “You got a hot date tonight or something?”

  I frown at him and don’t answer his question. “So are you gonna help, or are you just gonna stand there?”

  “Free Diet Coke here!” he emphasizes, shaking his cup at me before sucking on the straw again, emphasizing that it’s all gone.

  I let out a breath and pause, looking Kevin over. “Besides,” he adds, “the party is at Malek’s tonight. He’s got an OC situation—that’s open crib. His parents are both out on runs with their trucks across the country. And there’s not going to be any shortage of the good stuff there. So why hurry?” He makes a little sniffing motion and shoots me a devilish grin.

  He’s been one of my best friends for a long time. Since before I went to prison. And when I got out, he was there to help me get this job. And I appreciate that, but sometimes I can feel him pulling me back into old habits when I’m trying my damnedest to break away.

  I clench my fists, feeling the rage building inside me. Why’d I have to be born into this damn small town where it’s so hard to be someone else? No matter what I do, the people in my life always seem to see me the same way: I’m the life of the party and the guy who never turns down a dare or a drug.

  Correction: WAS.

  “I’m good, man, I’ve got stuff to do tonight,” I say, and go back to cleaning.

  He laughs. “Stuff to do? What on earth are you talking about? Taking up a new night-time hobby or something?”