The Whisky shot

Okay, Renee, The next shot is the whiskey shot. And I’m telling you, I’m feeling the waves of danger rolling off him over here.” Elene said. Looking over her shoulder at him.

“ Your feeling the waves?” I said, smiling at her

“ Okay, I may be married and I may have children, but I’ve got a trouble-meter. It’s so long that I can spot trouble before anyone else even notices. Now, let’s hear that story.”

This one isn’t as dangerous as you may think. I’d say medium.

I met him while I was assisting Lyle on the biker report.

He looked like trouble more then. But just because you’re a biker doesn’t mean you’re automatically guilty, okay?

We were doing a report on one of the club members in the 1305 Biker Club. It was an alleged kidnapping.

“ I remember that one. Lyle almost won a Pulitzer for it.” Turner said, then regretted saying it the moment we all looked at him.

Anyway, if you remember that article, you remember that there were details we couldn’t fully publish. Some things stayed off the record. And no, I’m not gonna get in trouble for saying this now  that was ages ago, and I know exactly who I told. I said looking at all of them.

So, we went to the biker club spot in East Jersey. Of course, Lyle was frustrated because the man accused wasn’t giving him an interview. And it was funny, because Lyle always thought he could get anything out of anyone. The chief sent me along to keep him calm, because Lyle had a tendency to fly off the handle  and we didn’t need a news story about our own reporter becoming the headline.

While he was trying to get his interview, I wandered into the biker’s mechanic shop. Now, I don’t know a thing about bikes, but I can appreciate how they look. They had some beauties in there. One of the mechanics or at least I thought he was asked me if I needed anything done.

I had to laugh. First off, I didn’t have a bike. Didn’t have a car. Nothing to fix. Second, I was wearing three-inch heels, a skirt to my knees, and a top that definitely wasn’t biker-shop-appropriate. So no, I wasn’t there to get anything done, and I wasn’t looking to “get done” either.

I was supposed to go out on a date that night, one I’d been putting off. So I told him no, and he went back to work. That’s when I noticed the bike he was working on had the same emblem as the tattoo on his neck. Curious, I asked if the emblem meant anything.

He looked up and locked eyes with me, and my heart stopped.
 “I saw you walk in with that reporter. I’m guessing you’re a reporter too. What makes you think I’d tell you what this means?”

Now, I don’t know what it is about me, but when people hold back, I want answers even more.
 “You’re right. You don’t have to tell me. But you want to  I can see it in the way you looked at me when I walked in.”

He tilted his head, just like I’d noticed earlier, first checking out my shoes, then my legs, then the whole package. I called him on it, and he broke out laughing. Then he told me: the tattoo and emblem represented his mother and sister, both cancer survivors.

My heart ached. For a man to carry that ink showed how much he cared.
 “You’re a good man,” I said.

He laughed. “Because of a tattoo?”
 “No, because of how you just spoke about them. That showed more than ink ever could.”

Then came another question:
 “Why are you with this biker club?”

He smiled. “If I’m gonna keep answering, you owe me dinner.”

I laughed. “Sorry, I’ve got a date tonight.”
 “Dinner doesn’t have to mean a date. You still owe me.”

Now, my mind was racing. I thought he’d drag me into the biker bar full of men, but instead, he stood up. Six-two, muscular, Hair cut close to the scalp, but had enough growing back to cast a shadow which complemented his skin. It was like with the color of gold when it starts to cool off, piercing blue eyes that seemed to light up the closer he got. And when he said, “Dinner on that body,” whew. My pulse nearly jumped out of my neck.

 “Renee, your telling  me?” Elene asked

 I’m telling you, if he’d been eating at the finest restaurant in the city with the most expensive dish ever made, it still wouldn’t compare to the way he enjoyed me.

I was so tempted to pick up that whisky shot but held back.

We talked for another hour in that garage. He gave me every answer I wanted. Why he joined the club, how old he was, how they looked out for each other like family. He even swore that  there was not kidnapping. Turned out, the girl in question was the guys daughter. The mother had taken her out of state without permission, then filed charges when the daughter ran back to him. Messy situation, but the story checked out.

Eventually, I remembered my date. But I didn’t want to go. I called, canceled, and walked back into the garage. He shut the garage door behind me. “I heard you canceled your date,” he said. “We had a deal.”

Those blue eyes turned to liquid fire. The minute that gate hit the ground, he was on me. That skirt? Gone. That thong? Gone. And baby, I must have cried out to the gods three or four times before I was finished.

Now, don’t judge me. Y’all asked for the story.

The room went quiet. Eight eyes locked on me, breaths held. I leaned in over the shots and whispered, “The man made me squirt. I never did that before.” That’s when all of them cut me off and shoved the whiskey shot forward.

“Pick the whiskey shot!” they shouted.

I laughed, “What about the tequila?”
 “To hell with the tequila  pick the whiskey!”

So yeah, , after being ravished on the work table, the bike, the blanket on the floor. We shared some whiskey, I think he called it Macallan.

And Lyle? Too drunk to notice I was even gone. Thank God he taped the interview he managed to get because I was too busy.

That’s the whiskey shot story. Three shots, three men, three situations. And next comes tequila — the real curveball.

The difference with the whisky shot is that he never asked for a commitment, so I find it strange he is here.

They all looked at him and turned back.

“Maybe just wants a replay of that dinner,” Sebastian said