Page 23 of Money Shot

SIENNA

August 10th,2014

My life was much different than what I had become used to, and now included everything I ever wanted it to; with the exception of sex. It was easier for me to dismiss the sex than I would have thought, and I attributed it not to my being satisfied to Vince’s ability to make me happy, but to my feeble mind’s belief that one day the sex would come. It had been two months since the day we met, and as much as I hoped the relationship would develop into something more than us merely being friends, he had made no indication to lead me to believe it ever would.

It was pretty obvious he loved only one woman in his life, and her infidelity left him feeling alone and cheated, but more than anything, he felt as if someone he trusted had broken a promise. I truly believed of all things, her breaking her vow of marriage was what hurt him the most.

Vince was a man different than anyone else I had ever met, and was no doubt different than anyone I would ever encounter, regardless of how many men I chose to meet in my lifetime. He collected debts not for his club, but for any and everyone who hired him to do so. I had learned he was well known in the city, and everyone from drug dealers, bail bondsmen, and even local attorneys who didn’t want to get their hands dirty hired him to resolve their money matters or find someone who had skipped out on a debt or a commitment.

He explained one reason he felt no shame in doing what he did was that men had a responsibility to honor their word, and no one should ever break a promise. He viewed a debt as a promise, and always made sure they understood when he arrived to collect that he was there because they had broken a promise.

Vince was involved in all of the club’s activities, and viewed the members of the motorcycle club as his family. He had a pretty strong relationship with his mother from what he had said, but his family was the MC. His choice to be alone in life wasn’t some form of self-imposed punishment in my opinion, but a protective measure to make sure he didn’t expose himself to the pain and heartache associated with people not keeping their promises, commitments, or the possibility of them not meeting his expectations.

On one of our lunch dates, he did take the time to explain that if he had no expectations of anyone, he would never be in a position to be disappointed. Getting him to agree to a standing Sunday lunch was difficult, but he eventually agreed, stating if I ever decided not to show up, to call him at his home, and leave a message on his answering machine. His not having a cell phone made things with him extremely difficult, but if it did nothing else, it kept me conscious of my commitments.

After this short period of time, I respected Vince almost as much as I respected my father.

I glanced at the clock on the dash and shook my head. Sunday traffic at noon was ridiculous on the east side of the city, as almost every street had half a dozen churches on it, and church ended at the same time for every one of them.

Dealing with the indecisive minds of the slow driving idiots in front of me was about to get the best of me. Traveling the last two blocks had taken me fifteen minutes, and in five minutes, I was going to be late. And being late wasn’t an option with Vince.

You don’t know whether to shit or wind your watch, do you old man?

In the middle of the city wasn’t a great place to pass a car, nor was it legal. Sometimes, just to keep my sanity, it was necessary. I gripped the steering wheel, peered to the left, and pressed my foot against the gas pedal.

The transmission shifted down two gears and the rear throttle blades of the massive four barrel carburetor kicked in. With no time to think, and very little time to react, I pulled the steering wheel to the left and passed the three idiots in front of me in just enough time to miss the truck in the oncoming lane.

Having in excess of six hundred horsepower in a street car sure wasn’t necessary, but it was a hell of a lot of fun. After a few light applications of the brake pedal, I slowed down to eighty miles per hour, only fifty miles an hour above the posted speed limit. Traveling at that speed, I flew past every car on the road, leaving them where they belonged, behind in my wake. The traffic light ahead would be impossible to stop at, and as I continued to blow past the Sunday drivers, I checked the signal. The light changed from green to yellow, so I hammered the gas pedal again, launching the car through the intersection like a rocket. I grinned as I pulled into the restaurant with two minutes to spare.

A quick search of the parking lot produced no motorcycle, and I sighed in relief as I shut off the engine. As I sat and listened to the end of “Christmas in Hollis,” by Run DMC, someone approaching the car startled me.

“What the fuck are you listening to?” he asked.

“Oh shit, I didn’t think you were here,” I said as I opened the glove box and flipped the switch to turn off the stereo.

I opened the door to the car, admiring his growth of beard as I got out. “Sorry, I was just chillin’.”

“It’s the middle of summer and you’re listening to Christmas music?” he asked.

“I like Christmas,” I said as I locked the car.

He shook his head and laughed. “At Christmas time, maybe.”

“Run DMC’s “Christmas in Hollis” kicks ass all year round, sorry,” I said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Run DMC? Christmas rap?”

“Shit keeps me in a good mood, what can I say. You ready to eat?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m starving. It was a late night,” he said.

We walked toward the entrance side by side. The entire time, I tried not to stare, but he really looked great. His beard was a little thicker than the two or three days growth that he generally wore, and had grown rather full since I had seen him only a week prior. Instead of wearing his normal tee shirt, he had on a wife beater, and his vest was unbuttoned. As he walked his walk of confidence, periodically checking over each shoulder as we made our way to the entrance, I felt safe, secure, and almost blessed.

“Fuck, maybe I should try listening to it all year round,” he said as he pulled open the door to the restaurant. “Maybe I wouldn’t be so hard to get along with.”

“You’re not hard to get along with,” I said as I walked inside.

“As long as you keep showing up for Sunday dinner, we’ll get along fine,” he said.