Page 55 of Tito

Tito

Reggie peered into the oven. “Do you like sweet things?” she shouted. “Not stupid sweet, but kind of sweet?”

She was wearing sweatpants that were grossly oversized and a white ribbed tank top that fit her like a glove. Her hair was twisted into a bun. She looked adorable.

“I’m right here,” I said. “Yes, I do. To both.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Cool. I made some banana bread. No nuts. I would have. I’m out.”

“Sounds good.”

She nodded toward my bare legs. “You look cute in your little shorts.”

I’d retrieved a pair of shorts and a tee from the saddlebag on my motorcycle. The shorts were nothing more than a cut-off pair of sweats, and the tee was from a poker run many years in the past.

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“We can have the banana bread after breakfast,” she said. “I Are you okay with scrambled eggs?”

“Absolutely.”

She opened the fridge. “I’m a breakfast person. Always have been. You’ll have to settle for ham, I’m out of bacon. Not sure what you like for toast, but your options are whole wheat, or whole wheat.”

“I prefer whole wheat.”

She set the ham and eggs on the countertop and glanced over her shoulder. “Perfect.”

I wasn’t sure what protocol was for the post-sex breakfast. In many respects, I felt like Reggie and I were in a relationship, but I fully realized we weren’t. At that moment in time, we were nothing more than two people who had a hell of a lot in common and had shared a night of sex with one another.

Sad, but true.

I stepped beside her and tapped her on the shoulder. When she turned to face me, I kissed her.

“That was nice,” she said with a smile.

“I like your lips,” I said.

Her face went flush. “I like yours, too.”

The remark sounded juvenile. Nevertheless, it was true. When we kissed, I filled with reassurance that Reggie was special for reasons far beyond her intelligence.

She placed the ham in one skillet, and the eggs in another. “Are you always like this, or is this what you do the day after sex to impress the woman?”

“What do you mean?”

“Simple question,” she said. “Is what I’m seeing the real you?”

“There’s only one me,” I said. “This is it.”

“Tell me about the tattoo on your back. Is the person who wears that tattoo the same person that’s standing here?”

I let out an inadvertent sigh. “Four of my friends and I moved here from Montana when we were eighteen, right after high school. I applied and was accepted to MIT but decided to forego an education to be with my friends. We started a motorcycle club that included only the five of us, and later added another man who was likeminded and a military veteran. The six of us wear this tattoo.”

“What kind of a club is it?”

“I can’t divulge much,” I said, hoping she’d change the subject.

“Sworn to secrecy?” she asked, her tone thick with sarcasm. After a moment of silence on my part, she glanced over her shoulder. “I guess so.”