BUTCHER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 3) (9 page)

“Oh,” I answered. “I was just gonna take a cab.”

Butcher smiled and swayed his head from side to side. “Don’t be silly,” he responded. “I’m here. I know where you live. And call this a ‘date,’ a ‘discussion,’ or whatever the hell you want, I’d like to know that you got home safely tonight and don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t be the one to take you there.”

I hedged back and forth a bit, in my both footsteps and thoughts. “I don’t know, Butcher,” I admitted. “Maybe it’s not such a—”

“Don’t worry,” Butcher interrupted. “I’m not going to try anything. As I told you, I’m willing to take a step backwards and take this slow. All I want to do is ride you home. That’s it. I promise.”

“Alright,” I said rather promptly, as I stepped forward without further pause. Ha! Butcher
really
had to twist my arm.

I climbed onto Butcher’s Harley and wrapped my arms around him. It was a series of movements that were still somewhat new to me, but I was definitely getting used to it.

The purr—or rather, rattle—of the engine, however, still caught me by surprise. The power that comes from a Harley sure is a lot to have between your legs.

As Butcher pulled onto the street, I leaned into him a bit and tried to let my mind wander away from the conversation we’d just had. Everything looked, and felt, different from the back of his bike, and I wanted to enjoy the experience as much as I could—especially since I wasn’t sure how many times I’d ever get to have it again.

And as it turned out, it actually wasn’t that hard to backburner our conversation… for a while. Once Butcher picked up some speed, I was easily lost in the moment, and I completely lived in it. It wasn’t until he pulled up in front of my apartment building that I was anchored back to reality, and no sooner than I was, I wanted to take off again.

“Well, I guess this is ‘Good night,’ m’lady,” Butcher said in a purposefully pretentious, chivalrous voice. My arms were still wrapped around him, and I squeezed gently before letting go.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said as I dismounted his Harley. “I’ll call you after I’ve had some time to think things through.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Butcher said with a grin.

I turned and walked to my building, and Butcher kept an eye on me until I’d safely unlocked and entered the front door. I waved as I shut the door behind me and felt a strange rush of emotions as I watched Butcher drive off.

I was touched that he’d decided to treat me with respect, give me my time, and take things slow, but I was also a little bummed. I kind of expected him to at least
try
to spend the night with me.

But, eh, good thing that he didn’t try. Because if he would’ve, it probably would’ve worked—and the last thing I needed was to fall even more under his spell.

~ Butcher ~

“I’ll be there in less than an hour,” I said, hanging up my phone and shoving it back into my pocket.

I’d turned the thing on “silent” when I was at Olive so that the yuppie puppies wouldn’t shit their pants if my phone started ringing during their meals. But still, even on “silent,” the thing had enough vibration power to please a pack of cougars on the prowl—and I’m surprised Lexi couldn’t hear it vibrating in my pocket as we scarfed down our burgers and beers.

When my phone buzzed, I excused myself to the restroom to return the call. I didn’t need to tell Lexi about it—or rather, she didn’t need to know—and I didn’t feel so bad about my “excuse” in any event when all was said as done. After I ended the call, I took a nice, long piss, which drained my bladder and gave me credence.

“You ready?” I asked Lexi when I returned to the table. She looked shocked to hear me ask that and, obviously, wasn’t ready to leave. And to be completely honest, neither was I. I hadn’t planned on making this a short evening, by any means, but it ended up turning out that way. First,
she
ran an hour late, and then
I
got that call. It just wasn’t in the cards for us tonight. The fates were conspiring against us, for sure.

Lexi told me that she wasn’t done talking, and I scrambled for something to say. I didn’t want to end the conversation either, but I had to. I had to. So I told her that I’d said all I needed to say and told her to take some time to think about things before making up her mind. I even went so far as to say I’d be willing to take things slow as she did.

I may have put my foot in my mouth with that last part, but what I said worked. Lexi acquiesced. She said, “Alright,” and left Tellie’s with me, without so much as another word… until we got outside.

“We forgot to pay our check,” she said once we were out on the street.

Even though the clock was ticking and I had somewhere to be, I decided to take a few more minutes to talk with Lexi and tell her something she needed to hear. I told her about how I’d helped our waitress, Carrie, a few years back, when she was hooked on dope. I explained how my brothers and I intervened and, ultimately, helped her get clean and saved her mother, and many other people, a hell of a lot of pain and grief.

I didn’t tell her these things to toot my own horn or sell her on the Wolves. I relayed them because they were real. Carrie and Dora were people, not ideas, and their stories, their faces, their lives could answer Lexi’s questions and quash her concerns in a way my words never could.

Maybe it was the reporter in her, or who knows—but Lexi sure wasn’t an easy sell. Even after I told her about what we’d done with Carrie, she still asked questions, held steady, and tried to make a point.

Lexi did have some valid concerns, and I tried to address each of them, in turn. But when I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket again, I knew it was time to bring this second chapter of our conversation to an end.

I tried as best I could to wrap up my thoughts on the matter and hopped onto my bike. Lexi and I hadn’t made any travel arrangements, but naturally, I figured I’d be giving her a ride home. It was, after all, the polite, courteous thing to do, especially considering that her apartment wasn’t really out of the way.

Lexi wasn’t expecting me to offer her a ride though, and she was a little reluctant to agree. I had to remind her of my promise to take things slow in order to get her to get on—and as soon as she got on, I had to remind myself of my promise, too. Just having her that close to me already had me turned on.

I could’ve ridden with Lexi all night, or until my Harley ran out of gas—whichever came first. But I knew that tonight wasn’t the night, and sadly, I took the short route to Lexi’s place instead.

Lexi lingered on my bike for a moment, and it made my heart feel like it was going to explode. I knew, in that instant, that, despite whatever either of us had said on the matter, she wanted me. All I had to do was make my move, or say the word.

But, ah, the clock was still ticking, and I still had somewhere to be—and now I had no time to spare, especially not enough time to do what we both wanted to do.

“Well, I guess this is ‘Good night,’ m’lady,” I said. I sounded like a putz, but Lexi didn’t seem to mind. She bid me farewell as well and made her wake to the front door. I hung around just long enough to make sure she got in safely and to take one last gander at her rockin’ female form. It took every ounce of self-control I had to stay on my bike rather than chase after her like a flesh-hungry, rabid dog.

The ride back to my house was a refreshing, yet tortured one. The fresh air felt good on my skin and in my lungs, but my mind was crazy with thought, like an overheated engine that wouldn’t cool down. I couldn’t stop thinking about Lexi, about everything I’d told her, and about everything I’d left out. I thought about all the things I wanted to do to her, and all the things I wanted her to do to me. I thought about her hair, her tits, her voice, and the fact that she could handle a beefy burger better than I’d seen a gal do in years.

My mind shifted from thoughts of where I’d been to thoughts of where I was going, as soon as I arrived in my neighborhood and shifted into a lower, quieter gear. I wasn’t sure of the exact time, but I figured it had to be a little after nine, and I wanted to be considerate of my neighbors’ ears.

I pulled up in front of my house, shut down my bike, and took a moment to breathe and adapt to my surroundings before going in. I glanced at the front door and window and saw a rainbow of colors dancing against the curtains and blinds, which meant that the television was on inside.

I got off of my bike and slowly walked toward my house, keeping my eyes locked on the ballet of colors the whole while. When I got to the door, I held out my hand and twisted the knob. It was unlocked, as I expected, and turned completely at my touch.

The front door crept open, and I forced a smile onto my face as I entered my home. But the smile wasn’t necessary. I walked into an empty living room.

I shook my head and chuckled, then went to the coffee table, picked up the remote control, and turned off the TV. Now that it was quiet, I could hear better, and I clearly heard activity coming from another room. So I walked toward it and announced myself as I did.

“Honey,” I said, “I’m home.”

Three Weeks Later

~ Lexi ~

“Get the fuck out of here!” I shouted, throwing Butcher’s jeans at him from across the room.

“Let me explain, Lexi,” he pleaded, bending over to pick them up.

“Fuck you!” I said. “I’m tired of you and your explanations. You’re a liar, and I can’t believe a word you say.”

Butcher was about halfway dressed at this point. He was wearing a T-shirt, boxers, and socks, and he was starting to slip his legs into the jeans I’d just thrown his way.

“I’m not a liar,” he said, speaking as calmly as he possibly could. “There are just some things I—”

“Stop!” I wailed, cutting Butcher off before he could finish his sentence. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear
anything
else from you. I’ve put up with so much of your bullshit already. I’ve trusted you and put my faith in you, your lifestyle, and your word… And now
this
?
This
is too much, and I’m not going to let you talk your way out of it. No way. I’ve had enough. I’m done. And I want you to leave…
now
.”

Butcher stared at me intently. I could clearly see pools of tears in both of his eyes, and I had to look away so that I wouldn’t drown in them. Out of the corner of my eye, however, I could still see him, and I watched covertly as he fastened his pants and grabbed his jacket and boots.

He carried them with him to the door that separated my bedroom from the rest of the apartment. Still holding them, he turned to me and said, “Fine. I’ll leave. But sooner or later—whenever you see the error of your ways, or whatever—you’ll want me to come back. And if you
expect
me to come back, I expect you to grovel.”

“Fuck you!” I hissed from a few feet away. I’d never really been one for swearing, but as far as this argument was concerned, those two words were part and parcel of my vocabulary. “I won’t want you to come back,” I added, “And I won’t grovel.”

Butcher smirked, shrugged his shoulders, and walked out of the room.

“You know,” I called out after him, “I should have never given you a shot in the first place. I knew it could never work out with a guy like you, and I feel like an idiot for even trying.”

I heard my front door open and slam shut with a “bang.” Then came silence. No more screaming. No more yelling. Silence. The only thing I heard was the sound of my own head pounding. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I couldn’t believe…

Wait. I’m getting a little ahead of myself here. I’m putting the cart before the horse, as they say, or jumping the gun. Before I can tell you any more about the break-up fight Butcher and I had, I really should step back for a moment and explain the route our relationship had taken up to that point.

Three weeks ago, after our “meeting” at Tellie’s, I was tasked to make a major decision about my future, so I did what people like me usually do in situations like that…

That’s right. You guessed it. I made a “Pro and Con” list.

As soon as I calmed down and got settled in that night, I found a notebook and pen, sat down on my sofa, and got straight to it. On one side of the paper, I started scribbling down Butcher’s attributes and the potential “good” things about dating him—or in other words, his “pros.”

I wrote things like:
good-looking
;
great guitar player
;
great lover
;
strong sense of loyalty
;
helpful/protective
;
reliable transportation
; and,
steady “regular” job as a butcher
.

Those were all the obvious ones, and as soon as I started picking my brain to come up with more, I decided to move on to the “cons.” Making a list like this is organic, after all—it’s usual to go back and forth, adding and removing things from both sides.

As far as jotting down the “cons,” well, suffice it to say, that took me some time.

I listed some of the things I didn’t like about Butcher, though most of them weren’t as much about him as they were about his lifestyle. My entries included:
gang member
;
associates with other gang members; regularly engages in criminal activity; regularly exposed to highly-addictive, deadly drugs; interacts with drug dealers; interacts with hookers
; and,
interacts with other types of criminals
.

I also wrote down some concerns I had—such as:
I’d live in constant fear that he’d be hurt or killed
; and,
I’d live in constant fear that someone would come after *me* to settle a score with him
—as well as some “cons” that didn’t pertain to his affiliation with the Wolves. Those included things like:
tried to fuck me the first night he met me
;
probably sleeps around and has a history of being promiscuous
;
always gets hit on when he performs in public
;
can be arrogant sometimes
; and, of course,
criticized me for my articles on him and Broken Brother
.

The “cons” list, unfortunately, went on and on, and, by the time I had to start picking my brain, my wrist was a little sore from all the writing. I flipped back over to the “pros” side and tapped my pen against the paper. If I was going to pick my brain, it might as well be for a good thing.

I came up with a few more “pros,” followed by a few more “cons,” none of which are really worth repeating. The point is, all told, when I decided to call it quits with the lists, the “cons” side very obviously outweighed the “pros” side, both in terms of the quantity and quality of the entries. I had far more, far more important reasons
not
to date Butcher than I had to date him, and for anyone who would have looked at the list, the right choice was clear.

So the next day, I called Butcher and told him I’d made up my mind.

“I’ve thought it through,” I said. “And I’ve come up with dozens of reasons why I shouldn’t date you… But for the time being, I’m going to ignore them all. I want to give us a shot. I’d like to get to know you better and see if we can overcome the odds.”

Butcher was pleased with my decision, though he didn’t act too surprised. It was as if he expected me to respond the way I did, which, I guess, was proof positive of the arrogance I’d listed on the “cons” side.

In any event, we talked things out for a bit and decided to date on a trial basis. We’d take things slow, test the waters, and see if we had what it took to make it work. It was the first time I’d ever dated anyone in such an expressly wishy-washy way, but it made sense for Butcher and me, and we both were on-board.

Our next official date happened later that week. We went to dinner, then caught a comedy act at a bar on the same strip. That weekend, we went out again, during the day. We rode out to the beach with the intention of kicking back and catching some rays, maybe playing some volleyball or taking a swim—but we ended up spending the entire afternoon at a pop-up roadside carnival we saw along the way.

After that, we went on five more dates over the next two weeks. We mostly went out for dinner and sometimes went out for drinks, and there was usually something interesting, fun, or different that happened when we were out.

One night we ended up in an epic dart battle with another couple. Another night, Butcher ran into one of his fans, and we ended up joining him at a Black Sabbath tribute show. And once, we accidentally stumbled into a gay bar, where we ended up meeting good people, having a good time, and spending a lot on drinks.

Indeed, I had a great time on each and every one of my dates with Butcher, and naturally, the more I got to know him, the more I found things that I could’ve put on my “pros” list. I learned about his interests, passions, and fears. He told me stories about silly things he’d done, crazy coincidences, and sad experiences he’d been through. He shared a lot. And I shared a lot, too.

But one thing we didn’t share was a romantic encounter. Butcher drove me home from all of our dates—and drove me
to
most of them as well—but our dates always started and stopped at my front door and never went any further than a few stolen kisses here and there. We were
definitely
taking things slow… and we both were getting pretty tired of it. The sexual tension was mounting.

And it just so happened that as the sexual tension was mounting, so, too, was tension of another kind. For the most part, Butcher’s gang affiliation didn’t interfere with our dates or relationship in any significant way. He didn’t conduct business in front me, didn’t take me along to any of gang-related meetings, and didn’t share top-secret information with me, or try to drag me into the Wolves’ games. He didn’t give me any reason to fear for his or my life, and he never asked me to do anything that made me feel uncomfortable or unsafe.

But as I said, Butcher’s gang affiliation didn’t interfere with our dates or relationship in any significant way…
for the most part
. And that phrase—“for the most part”—is key.

Truth be told, Butcher’s gang affiliation
did
interfere with our dates and relationship, and on occasion, it interfered in pretty significant ways. But given the particular circumstances, I was willing to mostly overlook it and give Butcher some leeway.

Namely, Butcher frequently got business calls while we were out on our dates. He always took them—whether they lasted a minute or an hour—and sometimes, he took off after them.

For example, when we went to the carnival, he stepped off to take a call while I waited in line to play a shooting game. He was only gone about three minutes, but nonetheless, he missed me kicking two teenagers’ butts on the fake range.

The time we went to the Sabbath tribute show with his fan, we had to leave early when Butcher got a call. I heard the band playing one of my favorite tunes as we made our way out of the place, and I resented the fact that we couldn’t stick around and hear it. Duty called!

And duty called that night we mistakenly wound up in the gay bar. Butcher left me at our table with our new friends for nearly an hour while he went outside and took a call. A very lovely gal hit on me that evening, and Butcher made it back just in time, right before she brought me over to the other team.

I could go on and on, but I’ve already illustrated my point. Butcher frequently got business calls on our dates. He always took them. And they always interfered with our dates and relationship.

But
I was willing to overlook this stuff and give Butcher some leeway because these phone calls related to business. Even though he worked by day as a butcher, Butcher’s true calling was as a Wolf. So when he got these calls, he was getting calls about his business, his work—and even though I didn’t like his work, I could understand and relate to its demands.

Remember that time I was supposed to meet Butcher at Olive, when I showed up an hour late because of a last-minute assignment? A similar thing happened about a week-and-a-half later, and I didn’t make it to the designated pub until forty-five minutes after the end of happy hour.

I, too, got a phone call during a date once. My editor called to clarify something he considered ambiguous in my writing. I took about fifteen minutes out of my date with Butcher to talk to him and email him a revised sentence.

I couldn’t hold it against Butcher for doing something that I did as well, even though he did it far more often and to greater extremes. But nonetheless, I still found it pretty annoying. And considering the sexual tension also mounting between us, I was starting to get a little frustrated.

I relegated to the fact that there was very little I could do about Butcher’s business-related phone habits. I could either accept them and move on, or try to do something about it. I took the easier route, of course, and opted for the former. But when it came to addressing my sexual concerns, rest assured, I chose the latter.

When Butcher called me a few days ago to discuss our dinner plans for that evening, I suggested that, instead of going out, we stay in and have something delivered.

“We can hang out, have some pizza and beers, maybe watch a movie,” I said. “And if it gets too late, you can just spend the night.”

I hadn’t come right out and said it, but Butcher knew what I was getting at, and he eagerly agreed to the change in plans.

Butcher showed up at my apartment that night with a twelve-pack of Miller Lite bottles and what appeared to be a semi-hard-on. We sat down on my couch and examined a few different take-out menus I had on hand and eventually decided to order a large New-York-style pizza with extra cheese and pepperoni. We also added on a dozen hot wings, an order of curly fries, and another twelve-pack of Miller Lite. (We’d each downed two as we perused the menus, and the night had only just begun.)

I’d barely finished placing our order and just hung up the phone, when Butcher put his arm around me. With that move, a dance of sorts was set into motion, and before I knew it, Butcher and I were pressed up against each other, kissing, purring, and pawing away at each other like animals.