“Did you say something, Ronnie?” Nick asked above the roar of the Indian FE.
She sighed and let the cool evening breeze knock a little sense into her.
“Nothing,” she mumbled in his leather jacket.
Her hands idly caressed the tight, black T-shirt he wore. His body was beautiful, what she’d seen of it. She wanted to lie back on a bed with hands folded behind her head and watch him undress. Veronica shuddered with lust at the thought. She pulled herself closer to him. Nick took her hand and placed it on his heart. She felt his heart beat wildly. The staccato pounding almost matched hers. He moved his hand back to the handle bar of the motorcycle as he turned a corner.
Veronica left her hand there and caressed his chest. His heart was strong, wild and thumping like mad. She could have sat back here curled around his solid frame all night. The heat he radiated was enough to bake her bread. His nearness certainly raised her temperature. She closed her eyes. He felt so right, so unyielding, and rock-hard.
The motorcycle had stopped; they had arrived at his bar. Veronica blinked slowly as if coming out of a trance. Removing the helmet, she had a look around. His bar was housed in a small building, all red brick, probably the age of her bakery or a little older. It sat in what must’ve been decades ago a busy industrial area, the sugar refinery and the bottling plant both now closed had once employed hundreds. The only industry left in this area was the dock and that stood a shadow of its former self only employing seasonal workers or part-timers. The pulp mill was still in operation, but they were continuously cutting back, who read newspapers anymore?
Times were tough, but Nick must be making a comfortable living. Veronica glanced up. He had a neon sign that looked kind of retro and cool. It blinked
The Chief
in a brilliant white. It suited the aged brick. Old wrought iron steps lead to the front door which was an ornate carved heavy oak that must’ve been original to the place. The door had many gouges and dents and every one had a story, she imagined. She headed toward the entrance, but Nick touched her arm to stop her.
“We’ll go around back.”
Nick took her hand in his oversized one. It was large, warm, comforting and dry. In the distance a siren wailed mournfully, a common occurrence in this part of the city. Veronica could also hear the screech of an alley cat. Unlocking the door, they stepped into an alcove. A set of narrow stairs hugged the wall on the left.
“That goes to my place. I’ll show you later.”
Still holding her hand, he flicked the light switches and the bar became illuminated in a soft incandesce. Veronica gasped. Nick’s bar wasn’t what she expected. The walls were the same brick facade as the exterior giving it a warm feeling like they stood inside a cozy fireplace.
The bar counter looked clean and beautiful with original, gleaming oak containing carved inlayed leaves and nuts which a long ago artisan must have lovingly hand crafted. Veronica ran her hand along the top. It had been varnished many times, but seemed to be in good shape. A few stools sat in front of the bar. There were fourteen small tables and chairs in the place. Over in the corner stood a huge pool table with the same inlayed leaves and nuts design on the legs and trim that were on the bar. The felt was a royal blue color. On the wall hung a rack of pool cues along with numerous framed shots of Indian motorcycles through the decades. The floor squeaked as she walked across the boards. Veronica glanced down, ancient dark-wood plank floor that had seen better days, but clean and kept varnished.
She glanced at Nick standing by the door. He watched her closely for her reaction.
She smiled. “It’s lovely Nick, you can see the care you take. Your personality is in these walls.”
Veronica headed to the illuminated jukebox. At first glance she thought it was one of those old ones that still played records, but she observed it played CD’s. The retro look fit in with the place perfectly. She scanned down the list of music, all old stuff from the Sixties and Seventies. Nick walked up behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders.
“All my own choices. If I have to work in here, I’m going to listen to the music I like the best.”
His voice sounded soft, but had a powerful purr. Nick was obviously pleased with her positive reaction to his place. Veronica tried not to tremble at the feel of those masculine hands on her shoulders. His warm breath caressed her cheek as he spoke. She inhaled and bit back a moan from his closeness.
“Most of this music came out before you were born,” she observed.
“True enough. Take a seat. I’ll bring you over a drink.”
Nick pushed a few buttons on the jukebox, adjusted the volume, and moved behind the bar. Veronica exhaled and took a seat by the window. She listened to the song, it sounded familiar, no doubt from the Sixties.
Nick brought over a Miller Lite and sat it in front of her. He took a seat opposite, twisted the cap off his beer and then inclined his head toward the jukebox.
“The Grass Roots, 1967.
Live for Today
.”
Veronica took a sip. The beer was very cold — perfect.
“Did you choose that song for a reason, Nick?”
“Maybe. It has a good message. One I try to live by. I don’t worry about tomorrow. Take the most from living; and take pleasure while I can,
why not? I was never a long term planner, I never will be. I’ll never be the white picket fence, sedan in the driveway guy.” He took a long swig of his Miller MGD. “It’ll never be me. I can’t change who I am.”
“No one is asking you to change, Nick.”
“Most women will try, invariably.”
“Have many tried with you?” she asked sweetly.
“A few, I don’t give them the chance.”
“Ah.” Veronica responded sadly. This confirmed what she surmised about him. She took another drink. “Love ‘em and leave ‘em Nick.” More loudly she said, “Don’t say a few, Nick. I’ve heard there’ve been many, many women.”
Nick’s eyebrow arched. “Did you? Maybe there has, so what? Does that make you want to run out into the night screaming? I’ll tell you this, of all those many, many women I’ve never brought any of them here to my place, my private sanctuary. You’re the first.”
Her insides turned to warm lava. The first? Somehow, that thrilled her more than she thought it would.
“Then show me your sanctuary, Nick. Show me your private place,” she whispered with emotion.
Nick picked up their bottles. He turned off the jukebox, and then reached out for her hand.
“Then, come.”
Veronica followed behind him as he walked through the bar. Nick stopped and hit the light switches with his elbow like he’d no doubt done many times before. She smiled at his automatic action. Up the narrow stairs, Nick let go of her hand, reached in his back pocket for his keys, and unlocked the steel door. Flicking on the light, he placed their bottles on the table near the door.
The living room was huge, maybe two rooms converted into one. Recessed pot lighting dotted the perimeter of the ceiling. In the center of the cathedral ceiling two fans with pewter accents and frosted glass shades provided a slight breeze. Along one wall stood shelving which held hundreds of record albums, CD’s, DVD’s and other media.
Along the other wall was stereo equipment. She walked along the wall and gazed at the receiver — Marantz, along with an Akai cassette deck. Who played cassettes anymore? A Yamaha turntable and an Akai reel-to-reel-player?
“Nick, my grandfather had one of those. All that’s missing here is an eight-track player. My grandfather had one of those, too.”
Nick opened the smoked glass cabinet door and showed her the eight-track. Veronica clasped her hands together and laughed.
“That’s wonderful! Why Nick, you’re a hard-core audiophile.”
Nick smiled that devastating, sexy smile she’d not seen since their date at the beach.
“Guilty as charged.”
She walked down the length of music and movies. Veronica pulled out a few albums.
“Is it all classic rock?”
Nick stood next to her. “Mostly, but I also like blues and classical. I own some newer rock, but not much. I have a few Miles Davis, though I’m not real big on jazz. I have Sinatra.”
Veronica turned and glanced up at him. “I love Frank Sinatra!”
“Good to know.”
She put the albums back and moved further down the wall, he had a fifty-inch television on a stand. A dark burgundy leather sofa sat against the window, and a large burgundy leather recliner was angled toward the TV, no doubt his chair.
Veronica inhaled. The room smelled as he did, quality leather mixed with his sexy, unique scent. Next to the television, there was a small bar caddy that looked like it could be from the Sixties. A few crystal decanters and matching glasses sat on the top. Below were a few bottles of liquor. She recognized a bottle of Black Bush only because her father used to like it. Somehow, that comforted her. Classic movie posters in frames hung on the walls
.
The Big Sleep. Bridge on the River Kwai. Stalag 17.
“Oh, Nick. I love old movies. You’ve quite a few here I adore.” She smiled.
The movies were in alphabetical order as was the music. Meticulous and organized, his media treated with a lot of loving care.
“This isn’t what I imagined.”
Nick’s face darkened. “Oh? Did you think I lived like a pig? Motorcycle engine parts all over the place, empty pizza boxes on the floor, Doritos crumbs on the rug and pictures of naked women on the wall? Is that what you thought?”
Veronica turned toward him. What in hell brought that on? She cupped his face and made him look at her.
“Stop it, Nick. I didn’t think any such thing at all. Don’t be so defensive.”
• • •
Nick glanced down into her determined face. She was right. He was being defensive. He had never brought anyone here before so he supposed he felt nervous and wanted her approval for some reason, a validation of his worth. Why he felt so damned vulnerable around her never ceased to amaze him. He cared what she thought of him and his life.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
She leaned up to lay a soft kiss on his lips.
“Your place is wonderful, Nick. I love it. It says so much about you. Will you show me the rest?”
The kiss and her soft words calmed his insides.
“Sure.”
Taking her hand, he showed her the small kitchen and the even smaller bathroom. He only had a shower, no tub. The bedroom was next. Along one wall were bookcases jammed with books on all matter of subjects that interested him, fiction and non-fiction alike. Books on science, history, and geography, paranormal, you name it. Along the other wall sat a desk with a computer and a widescreen monitor. He noticed her gaze flitted over to the king-size bed.
“I like lots of room. And if you are wondering, I’ve never brought a woman back here to my bed. I always went to their place, easier to leave that way.”
Ronnie turned to face him. “Nick, I’m sorry I was so — cold — the other night after we had sex. Maybe that old song is right. Live for today, take pleasure while we can.”
Nick’s heart thumped like mad against his rib cage. He didn’t bring her back here for sex, didn’t know why, really. Was it to show he wasn’t an animal despite outward appearances? Why did he care what she thought? He never cared before what a woman thought of him and his behavior or how he lived. So why now, why her? He never showed any woman this side of him.
He cradled her face. “I’m sorry, too. The sex was intense and I didn’t know how to handle it.”
“It was intense for me too, Nick. I’m not that experienced. I’ve only been with a few men in my life, it was nothing like that. Nothing.”
“I’ll take you home. You’ll have to get up in a few hours.” He stepped back.
Ronnie continued to hold his gaze. “So where does this leave us, Nick? Are we seeing each other? Casual? Nothing heavy, a little companionship, maybe watch an old movie once in a blue moon?”
Nick didn’t know what to say. His insides were raging as a late summer storm. He wanted a little something more or he never would have brought her here to begin with. Calling her had been an impulsive move on his part, might as well see this through. Speak the truth and try and make sense of his jumbled feelings.
“Let’s take it as it comes. Casual is fine with me.”
“But not exclusive,” she whispered.
“No, Ronnie. Not exclusive. Can you live with that?”
Ronnie turned away, he couldn’t see her face, but he had the feeling he hurt her and that wasn’t his intention. He was striving to be honest. He’d never been exclusive with any woman before, he didn’t want to make a promise he couldn’t keep.
“Yes,” she replied quietly. “I can live with that. It goes both ways.”
That he did not expect. Part of him felt relief at her response, but another had regret at its core. Suddenly, the thought of Ronnie being with another man made his gut clench and left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had the feeling there was more going on between them than either wished to admit to each other — or themselves.
Friday arrived, and for a July afternoon it wasn’t that warm. A cool breeze swirled off the Chesapeake. At least it kept the oppressive, gag-inducing haze from the pulp mill that hung over Rockland to a minimum.
Veronica drove her Mustang to Tyler’s apartment on Carmarthen Street. She’d left Julie in charge of the shop. She had proved to be more than capable of being left alone for a few hours. They hadn’t known each other that well in high school. Julie was often made fun of and teased mercilessly because of her weight. Veronica finally stepped in between a particularly nasty scene between a bully and a sobbing Julie. Shame had covered her for not doing it sooner. They spoke often the rest of the school year, but when Veronica went off to the University of California, she’d lost contact with Julie and a lot of other people from school. Most of the kids Veronica hung out with no longer lived in Rockland, like her, they’d moved on. The pleasure at being home at last warmed her insides. She wouldn’t have her bakery and wouldn’t have connected with Nick.
Nickelback wailed away on Q-93 FM on her car radio, she smiled. Nick’s voice reminded her of Chad Kroeger, the lead singer of the group, with his rough, gravelly, and sexy timber. She bet Nick could sing if he put his mind to it.