One
I’m ninety-nine percent certain my blind date belongs to a one-percent motorcycle gang.
Near a row of Harleys, I text Charlotte. You failed to mention this is an actual biker bar.
Oopsie daisy! she replies within seconds.
Srsly?
In my defense, isn’t the name Handle Bar obvious?
Not really. Handlebar is also a kind of mustache.
How many mustache bars have you ever seen?
She has a point, but this is Boulder, so I can’t rule anything out. Still… Not to be judgmental, but is this safe?
Until now, letting Charlotte play Cyrano de Bergerac and use my FriendsOfFriends account to select a guy seemed like a brilliant idea. Since I seem to pick duds, why not let the person getting married choose? Now, showing up to meet a stranger, armed with only a name, seems foolish.
That’s very judgmental, but yes.
A flurry of texts reminds me of why I agreed to do this.
In a crazy small world, Dune knows my cousin, Ben, in Seattle, whom she vetted him with.
It’s been two months since the Finn fiasco, and more than ample time to pursue a rebound.
I’ve decided to be more daring this summer, and meeting someone sight unseen is for sure daring.
You can’t back out, she finishes. Walk in like the lioness you are.
Honkey tonk music filters from the sprawling wooden saloon, and if anything, I want to promenade, not rawr. But I’m already here, so I’ll follow through, because I can’t wait to see who Charlotte has picked for me.
Okay. Going in. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Just remember… You’re trying new things.
My sanity is questionable, but I drop my phone into my handbag and forge ahead.
“Are you lost?” a gruff voice asks as I take baby steps toward the building.
I glance over to a strapping man with a beard to rival Santa’s.
“No, I’m supposed to be here.” The furrow between his bushy brow says he doesn’t believe me, so I elaborate, “I’m meeting someone inside.”
“Who?”
Even if it’s not wise, the authoritative tone of his voice compels me to answer, “Dune.”
“Ah. Follow me.” His tree trunk legs power forward to the wide door.
“It’s okay,” I say to his leather-vested back. “I can find him on my own.”
“Don’t be shy, girl,” he says. “We’re all family here.”
When he swings open the glass door, I step into a fantastical alternative world made of leather. As we amble into the rowdy crowd, it’s painfully obvious why he thought I was lost. In my sundress and wedges, I might as well have outsider written on my forehead. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing here. A multitude of biker people gawk at me with unbridled curiosity as I follow my guide across the hardwoods. His beefy frame barrels through the patrons, until we stop a few feet away from a dark-haired man. “That’s him at the end of the bar.”
“Thank you. I didn’t catch your name...”
“Call me Hambone.”
Never in my life have I called anyone Hambone, but I do now. “Thank you, Hambone.”
With a nod, he drifts into the melee mingling nearby and I shake off the urge to bolt when mystery man stands. All the blind date advice I read said to smile a lot, but that’s impossible when your jaw is on the floor. Charlotte straight up chose the bad boy. That old three-second rule to determine attraction is a non-issue. A millisecond is all I need. Full sleeves of vibrant ink cover his arms from wrist to the edge of his white T-shirt, and anyone who thinks tattoos aren’t sexy can never be my friend.
“Chloe, I’m Dune.” His black boots stop in front of me. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too.” I’ve only seen one episode, but Dune looks like he leapt out of Sons of Anarchy right into this bar. And I am…living for it. Full on reveling in the way his tongue peeks out to make love with the lip ring in the corner of his mouth. I’ve never gone for a bad boy before, but hey, it’s summer, and I’m learning to be brave.
With a hand on my lower back, he guides me over to his previous spot at the end of the bar.
“Frog, I need that stool,” Dune says to a guy popping peanuts in his mouth, like he’s catching flies. With fascination, I watch Frog all but leap from said stool.
“Is this your old lady?” he croaks out.
Biker or not, it’s not nice of Mr. Absurdly Long Legged Man to call me an old lady. Way to make me focus on the fact I’ll be graying in five years. Of course I don’t say those things, because I value my rapidly aging life, so I wait for Dune to defend my honor.
“Not yet,” Dune says with a thick-lashed wink.
“I’m only twenty-six.”
Frog chortles. “An old lady is someone you’re committed to. Girlfriend. Wife. Off-limits.”
“Oh. Awkward,” I joke.
Dune said “not yet,” so that must mean he’s attracted to me as well?
“You’ll learn all the rules,” Frog says before clasping Dune on the shoulder and leaving us alone.
Disappointed there are rules, I slip onto his vacated seat. As someone who is still googling dating rules, adding another set seems downright impossible.
“What would you like to drink?” Dune asks.
Wine would get me laughed out of here, I’m sure. “Beer is good.”
In an amazing display of alpha, he looks over his shoulder at the bartender and telepathically orders by holding up two fingers.
“So you’re a potter?” He straddles the stool, facing me, and reaches in to scoot my seat closer, leaving my knee a centimeter from his package.
“Yes.”
“You don’t strike me as a weeder. You seem too wholesome.”
Hm. Wholesome isn’t the vibe I was hoping to radiate, but more importantly, “Weeder?” The bartender slides two bottles toward us as I try to figure out if he means what I think he means.
Narrator: he does, in fact, think being a potter means I grow cannabis.
“Oh gosh, no. I make pottery.”
“No shit? That’s cute,” he says. “My friends will be disappointed, though.”
“Good thing family has to accept you anyway,” I say, shocked I’m not darting out of here.
In fact, I’m more shocked at the intensity of my attraction. It’s the tattoos.
“So”—he takes a long pull—“what made you use a dating app?”
Directness is an admirable quality, even if it causes me to squirm in my seat. Perhaps if I took his approach, I’d have better luck and avoid things like bowling myself into a breakup. Here goes nothing.
He listens as I explain myself by blaming Charlotte, and then I confess, “She picked you, and we agreed to keep you a mystery until tonight.”
He takes it in stride and explains how he ended up on the site. “My buddies forced me into it too.” Dark eyes ravage my face. “Glad they did.”
I guzzle my beer for courage. “If you don’t mind, I have a few questions for you.”
“Ask away,” he says.
“Let me just get my list.” Thanks to internet expert Henry—and the Finn fiasco—this time, I’m discarding the masquerade outfit and making sure what I want is front and center.