And over all that, Dog said, “Next time,” which was a total lie as there’d be a next lunch or dinner, but Dog wouldn’t let Archie pay for it.
Jagger, sure.
Archie, never.
Archie turned to Jagger. “I see the patriarchy is strong with this bunch.”
“Babe,” was all he said in reply.
She gave him a grin and reached out to nab her beer.
Lunch didn’t last much longer, and Jag rode back to work with Archie tucked close, her arms around his middle, her chin on his shoulder.
And…
Yeah.
He again felt a foot taller, even sitting his bike.
Before she left, they made out in the forecourt next to her car.
And she lowered the hammer she’d come there to lower and didn’t get the chance to do it since his boys commandeered their time.
“Told Dad we finally hooked up, and he wants you over to dinner. His choice, that dinner would take place yesterday. I renegotiated that.”
Fuck.
Okay.
Right.
There was one thing about being “Arby’s Guy,” sensing she needed someone to help her navigate grief because he’d lived his life with the people he was closest to navigating grief.
It was another thing, that guy being a biker.
And yet another one, him belonging to an MC.
Chaos was not unknown in Denver, even before an award-winning documentary was seen in theaters before it was made accessible on Netflix.
What was unknown was how Archie’s dad would feel about that.
Archie gave him a squeeze. “He wants me to be happy.”
He looked down at her beautiful face.
Another squeeze. “And, boyfriend, you make me happy.”
He drew in a deep breath.
Let it out.
Then he did the only thing he could do after she said something that dope.
He kissed her again.
When he lifted his head, she asked, “So, since this weekend we’re riding, is next Tuesday good for you?”
Fuck.
“Sure,” he lied.
She smiled at him. There came another squeeze.
Then she got up on the toes of her Adidas and they were making out again.
Eventually, she had to get back to work.
And so did he.
But before she folded into her car, she caught sight of the Bronco that was sitting out in the forecourt. It was running, they’d sent it off to be painted earlier that week, it looked shiny and new and shit-hot, and they were going to list it on their website for sale soon.
Studying it, she said, “You’re so freaking right. That Bronco is boss. Maybe tomorrow I’ll come by and take it for a test drive? Would that be cool?”
It was then, already knowing he was falling for this woman, it cemented that he was falling for this woman.
“You bet,” he replied.
Part of their getting-to-know-you time had been learning she got by with the store and wasn’t destitute, but most anything she wanted (usually vacations and getaways), she had to save for. Whereas, his ma socking money away for him and Dutch, and both of them getting their brother’s cut of what came in from Ride, these things meant Jag was comfortable (and then some).
So he knew she couldn’t afford the price tag on that truck.
But he could.
In other words, maybe they wouldn’t be listing it on their website soon.
She folded in her car, which was nothing exciting. She’d stuck with Honda, and it was a solid ride, probably got great gas mileage. But it was seriously not Archie.
She’d kill it in that Bronco.
She blew him a kiss as she drove away.
This meant he was smiling when he got a chin jerk from Dog as he headed back into the garage.
Approval.
He already knew that.
He got a shit-eating grin from Shy.
Again, approval.
And again, he knew that.
He joined Joker at the car they were now working on.
Joker said nothing.
“So?” Jagger pushed.
Joke looked to him. “You already know she’s the shit, you don’t need me to confirm it.”
Jag tilted his head to stretch his neck and felt something pop.
Joke heard it.
“Your mom’s gonna dig her, man,” Joker went on.
He focused on his friend.
“I got—” He cut himself off.
“You got what?” Joker prompted when Jagger didn’t say more.
Jag coughed when he didn’t need to and said, “Nothin’. She wants to test drive the Bronco. Tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Joker said, bending back over the engine, nodding distractedly, head back in the engine. “She’s the shit.”
They got about an hour’s worth of work done before Jagger got a string of texts.
The first from his mom.
The last one was not, and that was the one that spurred him to action.
The ones from his mom started with, So, you’re blowing your mother off but your girl has lunch with your brothers?
He suspected it was Dog’s big mouth that caused that. No doubt Dog told Sheila, and then Sheila got right on with his mom.
Even if he meant to reply, which he didn’t, not until he figured out what to say, she shot off another text before he could.
Tack’s been in touch.
Shit.
Tack told her Jag had reached out, then canceled.
His mother wasn’t stupid. They were close. Even not being around him, she’d sense something was up.
The next was, I get when it’s new and you want it all to yourself.
Okay, that was a good excuse, and maybe actually part of why he was hoarding time with Archie.
Then came the next, But I sense that isn’t it. Word is, you’ve known this girl over a decade.
Not exactly.
But still…
I don’t know what’s happening with you. The next began. And went on with, What I hope you know is the path is always clear to me.
He was about to text back, I know and then some words about how she could chill (even though he knew she’d never chill, at least he could try) when he got a text from Archie.
Shit is real, baby. Mal came in and he’s being a little dick. Something has gone down. He won’t talk. I think I need you.
He had no idea why she would need him.
He just saw that she needed him.
So to that, he texted back.
Be there in twenty.
Then he got on his bike.
* * * *
Jag parked at the back of S.I.L., hoofed it around the side of the building and went in, almost immediately hearing a whistle.
He looked right, saw Joany up behind the cash register, ringing someone up.
She jerked her head toward the bookshelves.
Jag nodded, even though he didn’t know if she was directing him to Archie or Mal, and scanning for either, he moved that way.
He didn’t have to find Archie, she found him, coming quickly out of the homewares section with Fabe at her side.
Jag had met Fabe. A very tall, skinny Black dude with a fade at the sides of his head, twists at the top, a bent toward electronic music and a vibe that Jag couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Björk was playing, and Jag wouldn’t put it past Archie to throw that on. Joany, no way in fuck. Fabe, definitely.
Fabe seemed like a pretty laidback guy, usually.
Now he looked pissed.
Shit.
“Hey, honey,” Jag greeted Archie. Then to Fabe, “Yo, dude.”