Chapter One
Antonia
Monday is a man. Don’t try to argue with me, I am fully prepared to go to war on this one. Think about it, Monday comes too quickly…way too quickly if you get my drift. I mean, you’re not even finished with Saturday and bam, Monday is already picking up its pants from the floor and asking if we can do this shit again next week.
Yeah, no thank you.
Sadly, though, you can’t give Monday a phony number and write it off as a bad lover. All you can do is give Monday your middle finger and press on. Which is exactly what I did when my alarm clock failed to do its damn job. It wouldn’t have been a big deal if today wasn’t my first day as an intern for “Ask Ida,” the infamous advice column that prides itself on aiding the misguided fools of New York City.
Can’t get laid? Ask Ida.
Can’t get your pet goat to walk on a leash? No problem, just Ask Ida!
Does your underwear keep riding up your ass? Have no fear, Ida’s got you covered.
I couldn’t wait to meet this Ida chick, seeing as I had a couple of questions for her myself. Questions like, how the hell do you get your overbearing father and his outlaw motorcycle club off your back and find a man who isn’t intimidated by a girl who rides a Harley and swears like a sailor. I’d also like to know the winning lotto numbers and while I’m at it, who killed Jimmy Hoffa.
However, I wasn’t going to be working for the elusive Ida Goldman, so if I wanted any of my questions answered, I’d likely have to submit them to the column along with the rest of the Tri-state area.
My job was with her assistant Soraya Venedetta and while Soraya seemed cool as fuck and totally my kind of people, I doubt she’d be keen on having an intern who couldn’t get her ass to work on time. Especially on the first day.
So, I rolled out of bed, squeezed my ass into a pair of jeans and instead of my usual vintage rock band tee, I pulled a black thermal over my head. After all, I wanted to make a good impression. Lastly, I shrugged on my leather jacket and laced up my moto boots. My hair was a wild mess of curls, but there was nothing I could do about that except pray the helmet defrizzed the mane.
Ready to start my day, I made my way through the Corrupt Hellraiser compound. But there’s no clean break when living with a bunch of bikers, though, and I was bombarded with questions.
Where are you going?
Who are you going to be with?
What do you mean you got a job?
By the time I threw my leg over my Harley, I had a half-hour to get from Brooklyn to Manhattan and unless my bike sprouted chrome wings, I was undoubtedly going to be late. I thought about sending Soraya a text, or maybe one of those edible fruit arrangements—something that said Hey, I’m on my way. Have a strawberry and please don’t fire me. But I decided against both things, which I’m now regretting as I sit in bumper to bumper traffic on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway.
“Fuck this,” I hiss, throttling my engine as I weave in between a tractor-trailer and an SUV. People say it’s the early bird who gets the worm, but it’s the aggressive driver who really makes shit happen. Twenty minutes later I’m exiting the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel like a boss, wearing a grin that’s masked by my helmet. I might be running late, but I’m the envy of Uber drivers everywhere.
It’s the little things, man.
The things that get squashed when you hear the distinct sound of sirens blaring behind you. I tell myself the universe isn’t this cruel, that there is no fucking way I’m getting pulled over and I believe it so much so that I keep going—right through a red light. The sirens are soon paired with red and blue flashing lights, confirming I am indeed fucked, and the universe isn’t just cruel, it fucking hates me.
Muttering a stream of curses that would make a streetwalker blush, I veer my Harley over to the shoulder of the West Side Highway and drop the kickstand down. With an exasperated breath, I pull the helmet from my head, and shake out my wild curls. My gaze swings to the sideview mirror and I watch as the inconsiderate officer saunters over to me—it should be noted that this is all done at an incredibly slow pace like I’m not fucking late. Like there isn’t someone, somewhere in this great big city who needs a crime-stopper. Rolling my eyes, I plant my boots on the ground and carefully balance my helmet between my thighs.
There are two ways I can play this shit. I can take the ticket like a champ, be on my merry way and pray I’m not fired before I punch the timecard, or I can attempt to wiggle my way out of it. I shouldn’t really be considering the latter since I’m sure my hair looks like I stuck my finger in a socket, but I’ve lost count on how many points I currently have on my license. So, as the cop approaches, I throw my long locks over my shoulder and fix the girls. Luckily, in my haste of dressing, I grabbed a pushup bra.
Look who’s winning now.
Planting a fake smile on my face, I turn my head and bat my eyelashes just as the cop steps next to my Harley. The smile falls from my lips and my eyes widen as I take in the hunky officer scowling at me. Standing tall and straight, the first thing I notice are his massive shoulders and his bulging biceps that fill his uniform. My gaze travels lower. His stance emphasizes the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips where his belt sits holding his gun. It’s an impressive package and I find myself lifting my head to check out his face.
While his eyes are hidden behind a pair of aviators, everything else looks delicious with a capital D. His wavy brown hair is perfectly styled and compliments his olive complexion. My gaze moves to his straight nose before settling on his full lips that, like everything else, are seemingly perfect. I’m sure a police officer never looked so fine.
Widening his stance, he crosses his arms against his chest and my eyes immediately dart from his lips to his corded forearms that are covered in vibrant ink and dusted with a sprinkling of dark hair. There’s something about a guy’s arms that just does it for me. In fact, I once dated a guy just because he had killer biceps. Everything else was a bust, but those arms…man, they were what dreams are made of.
“License and registration,” he barks, startling me and forcing my focus back to his face. I swallow and remind myself that I need to get the hell to work, that there’s no time to drool over a hunky cop. So what if he ticks off all my boxes. He’s about to hand me my ass.
The thick gold chain around his neck and the gold horn that dangles from it, grabs my attention. Being Italian, I’m fully aware of the sentiment—well, I am now. As a kid, I thought my dad had a weird obsession with peppers, but it turns out the big burly biker known as Tank is superstitious and thinks the little gold pepper shaped pendant is going to ward off the evil spirits.
Suddenly, I feel a grin spread across my lips. Forget thrusting my double d’s in this guy’s face or batting my eyelashes at him, all I have to do is threaten the hunky cop with the malocchio and we can forget all about running the red light. He’ll go pray to his peppers and I can get the hell to work.
However, before I can throw up my fingers and give him the evil eye he reaches up and pulls the aviators from his face, revealing a pair of soulful hazel eyes. Did I mention I’m also big on eyes? A flirty smile, big arms, killer eyes, and a fresh pair of Nikes are the way to my heart. He’s yet to smile and in uniform, but two out of four isn’t too bad.