“Hey,” he called, lips stretching wide to part his full white and grey beard in a smile probably meant to reassure. If that’s what he’s going for, it’s working, she thought. “It’s late, I know it’s late. God, I know it’s late and I hate being the weird guy on your porch in the middle of the night. But, can you help me out?” One corner of his mouth quirked up, lifting the mustache on that side. “I got to my new place, but there’s no phone. I’m a couple days early for electric, even. And to top it off, I ain’t got no service out here.” At this he lifted one hand, a cellphone engulfed in his grip, and waggled it back and forth. “Might as well be holdin’ a brick,” he said, and then scoffed and she watched as his shoulders lifted in a shrug that communicated a ‘whacha gonna do’ statement.
He took a single stride towards the window, head now cocked to one side. She saw his hair was long, caught behind his head in a ponytail the end of which had flipped over his shoulder. White, to match his beard. “Hey, miss? Miss? Can you hear me?”
Miss? The startled thought flitted through her head just before she lifted her chin and lowered it, offering him a single nod.
“Beauty,” he said, those lips splitting the beard in another smile. “Gonna help me out?”
Now that he was closer, she saw he was wearing a black leather vest, something she recognized as biker gear. She had some experience in the garments worn by men who rode motorcycles, seeing as her Blackie was one, the president of the Freed Riders back home in Texas. Then, the daughter of her heart, Sharon, had married one, too. Gunny was a Rebel Wayfarers member, based out of Fort Wayne, Indiana, but their club had chapters in several states.
Studying the front of this man’s vest she saw he had several rally patches sewn in what appeared to be a random order across the bottom edges. They spanned more than a decade, and the oldest looked the part, grime covered with long exposure.
The important patches were affixed high on either side of his chest in positions of honor. Illustrations of worth made from fabric and thread, displayed for everyone to see. A narrow rectangle with the letters ‘SAA,’ standing for sargent at arms was attached on his left side, over his heart, showing he held the club’s trust in a title close. Respectful. Two patches on the right-hand side. Another rectangle with ‘Truck,’ positioned with a smaller ‘Unka Tonk’ underneath it. That one had a small rose next to the words, a detail that made her smile, because it spoke to his tolerance of whoever had gifted him with the patch. A child? Perhaps a lover. Someone loved, that was certain.
Her gaze returned to his face where his features had settled into unhappy lines. He had caught her looking at his vest, and now clearly expected zero assistance. Hell, she thought, he’s probably expecting me to throw up shutters to lock myself in and him out. “Be right there,” she called and was immediately rewarded by the glint of his teeth as he grinned broadly at her.
“Beauty,” he said again, stepping back and turning to face the door.
She detoured past her purse hanging off the back of one of the dining room chairs, pulling her cell from the inside pocket. Her hand hesitated over the canister of mace, but then she remembered his smile and that patch, and shook her head, turning instead to pull open the inside door. He stood well back from the screen, slouching in an effort to not seem so…big. She had seen Gunny take this stance often enough and just the thought of the big ex-Marine made her smile, so when she flipped on the porchlight that grin was still on her face.
Truck
Fuck me, Peter Teravest thought as the woman stepped onto the boards of the porch outside her front door. Through the window she had looked wary, but pretty and sweet. She hadn’t seemed frightened by his unexpected appearance, which made him grateful because maybe, just maybe, she’d help a brother out. Now, standing in the bright light shining down from over the doorway, a warm smile illuminating her face from within, he saw she wasn’t merely pretty, the woman was beautiful.
Thick auburn hair, streaked in only a few places with a lighter color. With her hair drawn back into a tight bun it was hard to decide if the coloring was natural or from time in a chair somewhere. Love to see that hair down, he thought, his imagination setting it swinging on either side of her face. Strong face, high cheekbones and arching eyebrows framed gorgeous green eyes. He’d place her age as somewhere between legal and about ten shy of his fifty years.
Just my fuckin’ luck, he thought, careful to keep his internal grouse from his face, I move to the middle of no-fucking-where on Christmas Eve and find myself landing next door to the county’s beauty queen. He didn’t date, didn’t have any desire for a relationship. Not anymore. Not since…
Aloud, he gave her his club name, saying, “I’m Truck, miss. Thank you for this. If I don’t check in, I’ll get my ass in hot water for sure.” Smile fading from her face, she hadn’t yet offered him the phone clutched in her hand. He stood there for a minute, awkwardly waiting. After another minute, when she still hadn’t spoken or moved, he called a careful question. “Miss?”
With a jerk she lifted her arm, phone dangling from her fingers as she said, “Yes. Sorry. A moment.” She pulled it back, did something to the screen, pressed her finger a time or two then held the device out again.