Page 21 of The B!tch is Bad

“Join the club,” Sean and I both echoed.

Lytton glanced at the wine bottle on the table, but didn’t make a grab for it. He was half-Navajo, a Pretendian as they said, the Prez Ford Illuminati’s half-brother, and didn’t drink. He jabbed a finger in Sean’s direction. “He just sold me a shipment of bogus vape pens! August at my dispensary told me some clients couldn’t breathe. Elektra ran one through her DNAnon lab. Turned out they were tainted with hydrogen cyanide.”

“Whoa!” cried Sean. “What’s he trying to do, kill someone?”

“Hijo de puta. All I know is, I’d like to end someone right now. I went to his little shack. No one. A couple Mexicans told me he went to buy a scoot? Seriously, dude? He rips me off on vape pens, then gets a new ride.”

Lytton marched to the kitchen where he rattled the empty coffee pot around. “Speaking of. Wildstar, I need a new order of your candles for the dispensary.”

Sean and I looked at each other blankly.

I broke the moment with a giggle, my hand covering my mouth. “Candles?” I mumbled.

Sean waved Lytton off. “Yeah, yeah, sure. I’ll have my distributor get back to you.”

Lytton scoffed. “But you’re the one who makes them in your house, right?”

The macho poseur Sean Wildstar? Making candles?

Another uncomfortable silence was broken by the rumble of pipes coming up the road. I was very familiar with the roar of tailpipes from living at Smoky Mountain High. In fact, a Harley Fat Boy.

We all raced through the front door as the metallic grumbling neared. A driveway bisected the space between my house and Creed’s and we stood in a line, already out of breath, like waiting for a parade with glee.

Next to the Harley, a BMW R 18 rolled up on a low-slung chassis. I clapped my hands in recognition of the twin-cylinder engine that put it in the same heavy cruiser category as the Harleys. The six-speed transmission gave power to the rear wheel through an exposed drive shaft. I knew all these things.

I knew because Ivan had one.

And I’d often gone two up behind him on our rare and brief outings, my cheek plastered to his warm, sturdy back.

While my other guests stalked to accost Oliver Klozov, the driver of the Harley, I shyly sidled up to Creed. He removed his lid. He had no hair to shake dramatically, so ran his hand across his shiny skull perfumed with the vineyard’s grass, the vines. Clad in his usual button-down shirt, he looked like—and probably was—an executive out for a weekend spin. He’d probably just done something he’d wanted to for years.

“Hi Patience.”

I folded my hands and approached, practically toeing the asphalt in my meekness. “Hi, Creed. Nice wheels.”

He shrugged, but made no move to dismount. Instead, he removed his round steampunk shades and gazed at me, unblinking. “Patience. I’m so sorry about the other day at the harvest party. I totally acted on impulse, and it was the wrong way to treat you. You’re delicate and need a delicate touch.”

A rush of warmth flooded my innards at his apology. I didn’t think I’d ever heard Creed apologize to anyone. For anything.

Maybe viewing the exact duplicate of Ivan’s bike stirred my fluids. But replacing my old love was Creed Trucks, his manner candid, his laugh ready. An authority, teacher, scholar gifted by Nature, he wrapped me in kindness and safety.

I wanted him. I needed to take the plunge.

So I shrugged casually. “I’m not that delicate. I know I’m weak in certain ways, but I’ve been kissed plenty, believe me, when my mother wasn’t looking. I blew them all off, except one.”

Creed tilted his head. “Maybe someday you’ll tell me more about the mother you’re hiding from, and your modeling career.”

I knew the jig was up. Creed could’ve easily done a reverse image search on the painting and found out my real name was Constant Azarin. Hell, he was a cloud guy. It would be weird if he hadn’t done that yet.

I placed my hand lightly on the throttle control grip. “I will. I trust you. I was just talking to Sean about learning to shoot. I need protection.”

Creed frowned. “We’ll do it together. Get Santiago Slayer to teach us at some indoor range.” He patted the pillion seat behind him. “Jump on.”

Without the tiniest thought, I did as he bade. I wore a light autumn dress that billowed, so I tucked it under my ass. He even handed me his only lid, which I graciously accepted. I slapped it on after winding my hair into a knot.

We were off.

No one wants to hear that moronic adage, “just smile!” when they’re depressed. But I grinned as we rolled down Creed’s driveway past my miserable old Prius, past Lytton’s Dyna Super Glide, past whatever anger Lytton and Sean were directing at quirky old Oliver. I didn’t care anymore if I got bugs in my teeth when we made a gentle right onto Dancing Apache Road. I lay my cheek against his warm back and inhaled his leafy aroma, the sun glancing off his shiny head.

The grapevine rows and horse corrals of Sean’s Screaming Eagle turned into warm blurs. In the distance, flowing layers of amber and bronze sandstone cliffs swooped us into a vortex. Occasional quartz veins glinted at us, and I narrowed my eyes and hid behind Creed.

The sheer pleasure of having my thighs wrapped around his! I never wanted it to end.