“Keys,” a deep voice commanded.
Lexie and I both jumped. We had been so wrapped up in our conversation, we hadn’t noticed another presence. How I couldn’t notice this man earlier was beyond me. But here he was, clad in jeans, motorcycle boots, a tight black tee and a leather vest. He was scowling at me and holding out his hand. A hand attached to a very muscled arm; the veins were pulsing in it and everything.
“Keys,” he repeated, his voice rough and impatient.
“What?” I half whispered, still staring at the arm. It not only had beautiful muscles, but up close his tattoos were amazing. Works of art. Full of color.
“For the car. I need keys.” He spoke with irritation.
“Why do you want the keys to my car?” I asked, moving my thoughts away from his arm.
“To change the tire. You’ve been standing out here for ten minutes staring at it. I’m guessing you don’t know how to.” He spoke a full sentence and the irritation was even more prevalent. So was the hotness of his low and raspy voice.
Lexie and I both shook our heads slowly.
His scowl deepened. “Then give me the keys.” He was speaking to us like we were slightly slow.
“We haven’t had coffee,” I blurted randomly to explain our mental slowness.
The hard look he gave me told me I didn’t do much to help our case for mental competency.
Lexie wordlessly handed him the keys. He didn’t seem to be expecting her to have them, because his face softened a smidgeon at my kid. I mean slightly. So he went from looking like he might shiv us and steal our car, or he might just hogtie us and take it for a joyride. Not that I would mind being hogtied by him.
I shook that thought out of my head.
He didn’t say another word before turning and going to the trunk of the car.
“Mom, the hot but immensely scary biker from next door is changing the tire on our car,” Lexie whispered, not taking her eyes off him.
“I know,” I whispered back, keeping my eyes glued on his muscled body and the patch on the back of it.
There was silence as he got some kind of contraption and started to get to work on our tire.
“Talk to him,” Lexie demanded on a whisper.
“You talk to him,” I snapped back.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Ask him how many miles to the gallon his Harley gets,” I whispered. “Or where the best place to get a tattoo is.”
“So,” Lexie said, narrowing her eyebrows at me. “What’s your name?”
He didn’t look up. “Bull,” he grunted.
Lexie and I looked at each other.
“Bull?” she repeated after a beat.
“Yep,” he bit out, fiddling with the tire. I followed the cords in his arms with my eyes, entranced with the strength in them. That strength would translate well to the bedroom. I struggled to keep my mind out of the gutter. My daughter was right beside me, for crissakes!
“Bull’s a unique name. Is it short for something? I cannot picture a little baby called Bull,” Lexie continued, oblivious to my sexual fantasies, thank God.
There was a pause. “Road name,” he said weirdly.
Another sidelong glance passed between me and Lexie. Did this guy have a problem stringing a complete sentence together?
“What’s a road name?” Lexie asked. You could tell she was getting a bit more confident now that the shock of ‘Bull’s appearance had worn off. She had stepped forward to get a closer look at what Bull was doing and was leaning against the passenger door.
He glanced up at her. “Like a nickname,” he clipped. A look passed over his face at Lexie’s casual stance and friendly demeanor. It quickly left and he turned his attention back to the tire.
Lexie seemed to be chewing something over in her mind. I wanted to know why he was called Bull. Obviously he was freaking huge and intimidating. But I wondered if it had anything to do with his downstairs area. I knew bikers had nicknames due to their sexual escapades; maybe this was due to the fact he was hung like a bull.
Luckily, Lexie wasn’t thinking about his nether regions.
“What’s your real name? Please tell me it’s something like Tim or Alan. That would be hilarious if someone who looked like you with the name Bull was actually a Tim.”
“Or a Eugene,” I added, deciding to contribute to some form of communication. It was either that or start drooling over his arms.
Lexie nodded. “Gaylord,” she shot back.
I restrained a snort on that one. “Kevin.” We were so on a roll.
Lexie furrowed her brows. “I like the name Kevin.”
I gaped at her. “When have you ever seen a hot guy named Kevin?”
Lexie pondered for a moment. “Kevin Costner!” she declared, sounding victorious.