I got her though I kinda blocked out some of the parts I got.
She was right, of course. Shy already made it worth it, of course. But I was too stubborn to admit defeat (yet), of course.
I rang off with Ty-Ty, called Natalie (again), got no answer (again), and avoided Shy by hanging out in the bedroom until bedtime.
Or, I should say, I avoided Shy until Shy was done with me avoiding him.
I knew he was done, because he made this clear by walking in the bathroom while I was brushing my teeth. His hands at my hips, he turned me, lifted me, planted my behind on the vanity, pulled the toothbrush out of my hand, and tossed it into the sink.
Then he leaned into me, hands on the counter on either side of me, and ordered, “Stop bein’ pissed. You know you don’t give a fuck if I vacuum the fuckin’ floors.”
Truthfully, I didn’t. Rush used to vacuum until I made him stop because he sucked at it. It wasn’t like I didn’t know this was his ploy. It was just that it wasn’t worth the headache of calling him on it when I could just vacuum and be done with it. And I discovered it wasn’t worth the headache because I’d spent years getting a headache calling him on it before I got smart, gave up, and just did it myself.
At that moment, however, I had a mouth full of toothpaste foam and face to save.
Priorities, I twisted, spit the foam in the sink, reached and grabbed the hand towel, wiped my mouth and tossed the towel on the counter.
Then I glared at him and shared, “Just so you know, there’s really only one kind of biker. He might share his feelings, he might not. He might fuck around on his woman, he might not. He might carouse a wee bit more than is healthy, he might not. But down deep, a biker is a biker and I know you’re a biker.”
“All right, and…?” he prompted when I shut up and didn’t keep going so I kept going.
“There’s only one kind of biker, Shy, but there are three kinds of old ladies. One lets her man walk all over her. One turns into a bitch like Mom or Mitzi. And one is like Tyra, who gives but also expects to get her take. I’m like Tyra. I’m not Tyra, but you should know, I’ve considered the options and chosen that biker-babe life plan. You don’t wanna vacuum, I’m not gonna make you. But don’t cut me off by making asshole remarks because you’ve decided the conversation is over. Respect me or, truthfully, I love you, you know it, you mean the world to me, but that will dig deep, fester, and there will come a time when I don’t mind your clothes are on the floor at the Compound.”
His face changed, I held my breath at the change as he growled, “There will never come a time when you don’t mind my clothes are on the floor at the Compound.”
A vow.
Absolutely.
Not an apology but I got him and I’d take it.
I was smart enough not to gloat.
“Right, so, I’ve brushed my teeth, you haven’t, so you’re free to eat something before you go to sleep,” I declared. That intense look left his face, his eyes flashed with heat, then I was off the vanity, in the bedroom, tossed on the bed, my panties were gone, and Shy ate something before he went to sleep.
Truth was, I used my mouth before finally falling asleep too, but fortunately what I used it for wouldn’t give me any cavities.
Also, before falling asleep, Shy proved he intended to make it worth it, and it wasn’t by giving me two orgasms (or it wasn’t only that).
It was by muttering right before I fell asleep, “Just so you know, babe, the kind of biker I am does not fuck around on his woman.”
Other women might not think it was worth knowing she was the one who would be cleaning the toilets without a break for the rest of her life, but it worked for me.
That was the worst run-in we’d had. Although we’d butted heads a couple of times, it was nothing that sent me to fuming alone in my bedroom.
And in an effort to continue that run, I was not sharing with Shy about Dr. Dickhead.
Shy, like all the members of the Club, got a monthly cut of the profits from Ride Custom Car and Bikes as well as the three auto supply stores they ran, one in Denver, one in Colorado Springs, and one in Fort Collins. The boys moseyed their badasses into the store to work the counter, stock the shelves, keep the inventory, and those, like Shy, who had the skills worked in the garage on the cars and bikes. No one scheduled it but such was the loyalty to the brotherhood, not to mention their livelihood, no one sluffed off either.
The cut of profits was only graduated as to whether you were a full member or a recruit.
Every member had to pledge the Club and put up with however much crap the brothers made him do for however long they decided it lasted. Chaos wasn’t into rules, so it wasn’t like if they pledged, they’d be facing six months or a year and the boys knew when the torture would end, they’d get their cut, ink their tat on their back, and they could sally forth as full-fledged badasses. It was never six months or less, but it could be over a year before the boys sat down and voted a new man in.
And by crap they had to take from the members, I meant anything.
Anything.
And anything was really anything when you lived in a biker world.
So recruits got paid because they also worked in the store or the garage but they got paid less.
The Club made no distinction on pay according to terms of membership for full brothers. Although the cut went up and down with the profits, according to Shy, the checks tripled between recruit and member. The amounts, even in leaner months, were also not shabby.
This meant, with Shy keeping a low-profile apartment and not buying clothes for about six years, he was sitting on a mountain of money.
So Shy, like all the brothers, did his bit at the store and he also worked in the garage. As far as I could see, he pretty much did both in equal measure. Therefore, he didn’t keep a schedule, he went when he went, came home when he was done working, but he was at Ride often.
He also did things with his brothers and for the Club in daylight hours and sometimes at night that he didn’t share with me, and I knew enough about the life not to ask. No, strike that, never to ask. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me. I’d heard my mom and dad fighting enough to learn that lesson.
I knew the Club was clean, Dad fought to make it that way.
But the golden rule for any Chaos old lady was to take her man’s back when needed, stand at his side when needed, ask no questions in order to get no lies, and know the goodness of her man outweighed the things he might need to do to keep the Club thriving. If she didn’t follow this golden rule, she would find herself no longer an old lady.
In other words, Shy was around, we spent time together, we talked, we made love, we ate together, we watched TV together, but Shy also had his own life, his own things to do, and his own things on his mind so not sharing about Dr. Dickhead had been successful.
“He still fuckin’ with you?” Lan asked, and I focused from my thoughts onto him.
“It’s his way,” I tried to blow it off, but his eyes narrowed on me.
“Better or worse?”
“Depends on the day, Lan.” I shook my head. “It’s just him. He does it to everybody.”
Though not as much as he does it to me, I thought, but didn’t share.
“Not cool, you’re quiet, off work, at a party with your man and family, and it’s on your mind,” Landon pushed.