There was a tall chain link fence outside, closing the customers in to the patio area.
He was straight on from the hallway, turned sideways, standing at that fence. He had a bottle of beer in his hand and a buddy who was shorter than him (in fact, smaller than him in every way, which it would seem at first glance anyone would be).
And he had his head thrown back because he was laughing.
Seeing that, suddenly, he was the only man there.
The only man at the bar.
The only man in the universe.
The only man breathing.
The only man for me.
He was huge. Not tall. Not big. Not broad.
All of that.
Huge.
Long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape. Cut, strong jaw liberally stubbled with red-brown whiskers. Heavy brow over (from what I could tell in profile) deep-set eyes. The muscles in his thick neck standing out, the cords of his throat so defined, they could be traced on paper.
He had on faded jeans, motorcycle boots and a white T-shirt. None of it was tight, except for in good ways at good parts in regards to his jeans. But it had to be an impossibility for that big of a guy to find a T-shirt that didn’t pull at his wide chest or cling to his broad shoulders or mold around his amazing biceps.
I knew with an instinct I didn’t understand that what had me in his thrall wasn’t about his body, even as good of a body as he obviously had and as much of it as there was. This giving the immediate feel that this guy could be a teddy bear if he was into cuddling, making you feel small and safe and warm and protected just by wrapping his arms around you. At the same time he could also be a lion, annihilating anything that might threaten to harm you.
It also wasn’t the obvious fact that he didn’t give a shit about what he wore, how he looked, he wasn’t out to impress, and more than just the way normal bikers rocked this look. He was him, with long hair clubbed back without much care, not bothering to shave, throwing on utilitarian clothes as a chore, maybe simply because it was illegal to walk around naked, mostly because he didn’t give a shit.
It also wasn’t the manner in which he held his body, his fingers casually wrapped around his beer like he forgot he was holding it. Comfortable with his large frame, one with himself, unconsciously stating he did not give that first damn if anyone looked or what they thought with what they saw.
I didn’t know how I knew it but I knew that he was not there to get laid. If that happened, it happened, but that wasn’t why he was there. He was also not there to see and be seen, a part of this bar, a regular, a player. He wasn’t about the music. Definitely not the dancing.
He was just there because he was a biker, these were his people and there was beer and a good laugh to be had. Hanging with his bud. Throwing one back. Trading jokes or manly barbs or whatever dudes did when they were out shooting the shit because it was better than being alone in your living room with one hand tucked in your waistband, a beer in the other, feet up, staring at mind-numbing TV.
No, it wasn’t any of that.
It was the way his face looked when he laughed.
I couldn’t put my finger on it even as his laughter died down and he was just smiling at his friend, which was not as good, but it definitely didn’t suck.
He wasn’t even gorgeous, not in a handsome way. He was too rough, but it wasn’t that either. His features were not classic or rugged or striking.
Yet he was not the guy next door.
He also was far from average.
It was just that you’d look twice, absolutely.
Maybe because of his size.
Mostly because, with one look, I knew he was that nut a girl itched to crack. Just watching him laugh, he made you be the girl who wanted to make him laugh like that. Who wanted to pull out the teddy bear cuddler within from the rough exterior that was without. Who wanted to live her life knowing no one would harm her because he’d sweat and bleed to make that so. Who wanted to strip that, “take me as I am, I don’t give a shit, my life is mine and I’m gonna live it,” clean away—not in everything, only in the sense you wanted him as he was, but he did give a shit about what you thought, and more importantly, his life was yours.
In my life I’d seen many a player, rocker, club rat, cowboy, jock, biker, businessman.
And with all I’d seen, all I’d met, all I’d had…
It was him.
A man in faded jeans and a white tee at a chain link fence in a biker bar in the middle of nowhere in Wyoming, sucking back a beer, laughing with his bud.
And I didn’t know his name.
What I knew was that I wanted him to take me wherever it was he lived his life, plant me in it so deep I could never pull at the roots, flourish in the life we built together, and wither to dust by his side.
I also knew this would never happen. No way in hell.