Silver Biker: The Silver Foxes of Blue Ridge Read online

  Bringing my glass to my lips, I take a hardy sip, allowing the sharp taste to sting my already swollen throat. James takes a drink as well and then bends a knee, propping his arm over it and letting his wrist dangle. He balances his glass on his other thigh, stretched forward in front of him. Glancing down at his lap, he takes a deep breath before looking me in the eyes.

  “I’m sorry I let you down.”

  The words catch me off guard.

  “I let you both down.” His voice drops, and the seriousness slaps me in the face. It’s taking great courage on his part to say these words.

  “Please. Stop apologizing.” It isn’t so much that I can’t hear the words as much as the fact James has said them too often. I’m sorry were two words eating him up.

  “I just want you to know—” He’s stopped by two of my fingers covering his lips.

  “Please. No more.” I’m not angry. I just don’t need to keep hearing him try to explain what happened, how it happened, and how he can’t forgive himself. I understand. I’ve racked my brain, and I’d have done nothing different if I was in his position. I’ve even told myself I’d never have been in the position James was in in the first place, but I can’t predict where or when or how an accident would occur.

  We simply cannot keep going backward.

  To my surprise again, James spreads his lips and then sucks the tips of my fingers into the warmth of his mouth. I use my fingers between his lips to tug him to me, planting my mouth against his. The kiss is slow and sweet, as we both sip at the wine flavor of one another. James breaks first, moving his glass to the other side of his body and then taking mine to place it near his. Quickly, his hand comes to my cheek, and he returns his lips to mine, taking his time to savor me. The best way to describe the subtle tug and long drag of our mouths against each other is decadent. We don’t pass the seam of our lips but just meet over and over again, and this alone turns me on.

  Perhaps it’s Giant’s wedding, the recall of loss, or the warmth of this man next to me, but I’m ready to sprint ahead to sex with him. I need this connection, joining my body with his, so I lean into him, wrapping my arms around his neck.

  James pulls back. His eyes meet mine for a second time this evening. Daylight is disappearing quickly, and the sky behind his head mixes in a kaleidoscope of pinks, purples, and oranges.

  “I’m gonna make dinner,” he says, unfolding himself to stand, and I’m left overheated and confused. Reaching for my wine after he walks back to the cabin, I tell myself he isn’t rejecting me. This is his demand. This is his plan.

  When he returns, I ask if I can help in any way.

  “You just sit there and look beautiful, Peach.” He winks at me as he squats, placing the grilling grate over the fire and then tossing steaks on the metal once it’s heated.

  James stands and steps back to me. Bending at the waist to lean over me, he braces his hands on the log at my back.

  “Kiss me again like that,” he whispers, and I tip up my head to meet his lips. We kiss again for too short a time before he pulls away to tend the steaks. I could say I haven’t been on a date in a long time, but that isn’t true. Dalton has extravagant tastes, and we’ve been to some fine dining establishments, but my mouth waters in anticipation of this fire-cooked meal of grilled steak and baked potatoes. James is putting in a lot of effort to make this night special.

  When dinner is finally served on tin camp plates, he asks me about my business, and I accept that it’s a safe place for us to land in conversation. I tell him about the estate sale earlier in the week and a new ring collection I’ve been inspired to make after attending Giant’s wedding. I’d love to make a set of his and hers bands that complement one another while being rugged enough for a man and delicate enough for a woman. As I speak, my thumb swipes down my ring finger out of habit, feeling the nakedness without my missing rings. I took them off a year ago, and ironically, it was at that time Dalton entered my life.

  “May I ask, where are your rings?” Melancholy fills James’s normally rough tone as if the ending really is near, and I worry, for half a second, he’ll jump into another risk-taking, life-threatening experience once we are over. Yet a strange calm blankets me. We will never be over. We will never be finished. Michael will be the forever bond between us, whether he’s present or not. It would be a betrayal of his memory for James and me never to connect again, and thus I know that while our marriage may dissolve, our relationship never will. We will always be related as the parents of our child.

  “I keep them in a jewelry box at home.” My home in Savannah. I don’t wish to explain that the box is a small container, meant only to hold those two precious rings, and the third one he gave me one Mother’s Day. A mother’s ring, he called it, as a gift for giving him a child. My throat clogs with another memory, and I swallow back the lump with the help of more wine.

  “What about you?” I ask as if it’s the most casual thing in the world to discuss the removal of wedding bands and where we keep them.

  “Yeah, I keep mine someplace special as well.” James looks off at the fire, and we spend a few seconds in silence.

  After another sip of wine, I ask, “How is the department?” As a local fireman, James does more than rescue cats from trees although he’s been called to do that too. He remained in search and rescue for years after we were first married and then on volunteer status once he took a position with the county fire department. He tells me about old colleagues. Divorces. Marriages. Babies born. Kids going off to college. Once upon a time, I thought those men and women would be his lifelong buddies, but it seems he’s found a new niche with the motorcycle club.

  “Tell me more about the club,” I prompt, hoping to learn more about his affiliation with them. James pours me more wine, and I notice a second bottle has made it near the first, which is now empty.

  “They aren’t bad men,” James defends. “Just a group of guys looking for . . . I don’t know, friendship, I guess. Kinship, perhaps, is a better word. Justice runs a tight ship on keeping people clean of shit. He doesn’t want any trouble. That’s all in their past.” James’s silence after that lets me know the subject is closed.

  “I have dessert,” he states, rocking up to stand and collecting our plates. “I’ll be right back.”

  I don’t think I can handle another bite of food, but James returns with a brownie wedge nearly the size of a cake plate.

  “Is that from Apple Jane’s?” Jane Conrad is Corabelle’s daughter, and she makes the most amazing desserts, specializing in apple anything. But she can work chocolate like no other, and her brownie is sinfully delicious.

  “Your favorite,” James says, folding back to the rug and holding out the plate for me.

  “It was also Michael’s.” I pause a second, considering the thought. “Why here?” I suddenly question our location. It’s obvious we’re going to sleep together, but why so close to the ridge for this night?

  “Were you trying to get me to go to the ridge earlier?” My voice turns edgy, and James’s brows rise.

  “Actually, no. I thought this would be”—Romantic?—“a nice spot to hang out, and if it’s okay with you, I don’t want to talk about Michael right now.” This surprises me.

  “We should talk about the community center and the dedication details.” I’d learn more throughout the week with a quick search of local news and then a visit to Charlie’s office, where I met briefly with the new Parks and Recreation supervisor, who happens to be Charlie’s wife.

  “We aren’t talking about that either,” James says, turning a bit edgy. “Tonight is about us.”

  “And what about us?”

  “We’re just gonna enjoy good wine, a fine fire, and a beautiful night.” And have sex. It’s unsaid, but it’s there between us. Our churning chemistry is a slow swirl like stirring a cooking soup. The flame is growing hotter, and the liquid is about to boil over, but James still hasn’t made a move.

  He tips his head back, taking in the
stars, and I follow his gaze. Dots of light pinprick the dark sky, and I’m waiting on James to point out the constellations. He often did that with Michael, fueling our son’s love of mythology and symbolism. I haven’t seen a sky like this in a while, and I had forgotten how beautiful it could be here.

  James sits in a way his hand rests near my hip on the rug. The night has been full of soft touches, brief kisses, and subtle innuendos.

  We continue chatting, sticking to safe topics, which aren’t many. We avoid his family, our child, and Dalton. When we run out of things to ask, we turn quiet until James brings up memories of us.

  “Remember when . . .”

  “And that one time . . .”

  “You could never . . .”

  It was one funny antidote after another like a trip down memory lane, and it hurt my heart. How did we get so far apart? And why hadn’t we found our way back to one another?

  “I never meant it,” he finally says, and I’m coming down from a chuckle about the time he filled the dishwasher with regular dish soap.

  “Meant what?”

  “That I couldn’t look you in the eyes because of him.”

  “James. I thought you said no Michael.”

  “I did. But this has to do with you, and I’d forgotten that your eyes are distinctly different than his.”

  I shake my head, turning toward the flame which has burned down to a glowing ember. James hasn’t added any logs or stoked the remaining wood, and I’m assuming he’s intentionally letting it burn out, like the closing of night, the end of a book. There are no more chapters to be read.

  “How are mine different?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what Giant said. You have this look you’d given me, and it just turned my insides. There’s that old saying about hanging the stars and lassoing the moon, and I’d do anything you asked when you looked at me like that. Giant was right. You had me whipped.” James chuckles softly to himself, wiping his hand over his lips. “Still do.”

  My neck cranes, and I stare at his mouth as if I didn’t hear him correctly.

  “That look in your eyes. It’s gone, Evelyn. I stomped it out. I’d pulled the sky down but only the dark part. The light has disappeared.”

  There would never be getting over our son. It wasn’t a possibility, but I’d like to think the light returned, at least a little bit. The days slowly moved from dark to dawn to daylight. It took years, but I got where I could make it through a day, and then a week, and another month until the years passed. I had to do it all on my own, and that’s where my anger with James rests. I can’t go back. I don’t want to go back. I only want to continue facing forward.

  “When you said you couldn’t look at me, you gutted me with those words,” I admit. I’d told him then, but I don’t know if anything I said back then stuck with him. We argued so much, but it was more like him yelling at me to get away from him.

  “I know.” James shifts, bending his knees to pull them up to his chest as best as he can and circling his arms around them. “I had to do it.’

  “Why?” It comes out quickly and without thought. I’d analyzed James enough over the years to understand in some sick way why he did what he did, and Justice confirmed my thoughts—self-preservation. James was going down—a rock crushed in an avalanche—and he didn’t want to take me with him. Instead, he might as well have thrown me over the mountain because I was free-falling without a wingsuit when he pushed me away.

  “I’m a selfish man, Peach. You know this. I wanted you for myself, and I kept you. Then in order to keep you safe from me, I pushed you away.”

  My shoulders fall, knowing the truth but after all this time, still struggling to accept it.

  “And who was supposed to keep you safe from yourself?” I ask. James snorts, shaking his head with a weak smile.

  “I guess nobody, which wasn’t fair either. You were always too good for me, Peach. And then, you weren’t angry.”

  “Angry?” I huff. “I was very angry. I wanted to hate you, but I fought the blame. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “That’s just it. I think I needed you to get mad. I needed you to tell me you hated me. Maybe I needed you to push me to rock bottom so I didn’t throw myself down there.” James pauses a second, and my mouth falls open. “But then again, I don’t fault you. It wasn’t your responsibility to pick me up. I promised to be the rock, and I’d failed.”

  “Jesus, James. Is this what you’ve been thinking all these years? That you failed me? How? You’re my husband. I love you. You didn’t need to be the only one who supported us. We needed to lean on each other, and if you needed me to get mad, you should have told me. I would have definitely taken a few things out on you.”

  James chuckles bitterly again, turning his head to face me. “Yeah, I bet you would have.” James and I could fight. It was rare, but when it happened, it could be a knock-down, drag-out. To him, when it was over, it was over, and we did more than kiss and apologize. Angry sex worked wonders as did make-up sex. It realigned us, and suddenly I understood why he wants me to sleep with him. If we have sex, it might adjust the malalignment between us.

  I reach for his face, as he’s still looking at me, and I cup his jaw covered in speckles of silver.

  “Take me to bed,” I whisper. Leaning forward, I kiss him tender and sweet like we’ve been doing all night. Our lips move together, dancing with each other but not breaching the seam once again. There’s no tongue and no passion, just tortured pleasure.

  James pulls back, dragging my lower lip with his before releasing me. “Let me get this fire out. You head in.”

  He quickly stands and turns for me, holding out both hands to pull me upward. I pick up the blanket and wrap it over my shoulders. As I make my way to the small cabin, I don’t look back to watch him snuffing out the fire or picking up the final traces of our evening.

  Looking back is no longer an option. We can only look forward.

  When James enters the small space, I’ve made myself comfortable by removing my jean jacket and boots. The setting is luxurious in the dregs of this old structure. Blankets lay over another rug with an assortment of pillows and a heavy sleeping bag for a cover. There’s a new heat source in this place—a small wood burning stove that I don’t remember being here before. It’s always had minimal electricity and rudimentary water for the half-bath and miniature kitchenette along one wall.

  I’m still in my dress as I sit in the middle of the rug with a blanket pulled over my lap. James already lost his tie and loosened a few buttons on his shirt a while back. He kicks off his boots and settles next to me.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, capturing my mouth with his before I can respond, and we quickly fall back into the line of sweet kisses and light caresses. All his tender loving is driving me wild, and I need us to get rough. I want him to manhandle me and really touch me. I want him to shove his hand down my dress for a breast and lower his head under my skirt for the heart of me. I want him over me and under me, and deep inside like he once could get.

  Instead, James keeps it tame, and we make out like teenagers uncertain where to move our hands next. Eventually, we lie back. Our kisses turn more eager. Our tongues get involved. The roll of full steam ahead begins, but when I hitch my leg over James’s hip, he clamps my thigh and pulls back.

  “Roll over, Peach,” he mutters, and I do as he asks, giving him my back. Maybe this is how he wants it, so he still doesn’t have to look at me. His hand coasts up my thigh, shifting my dress a bit but not exposing much skin. His palm moves to my covered hip, skating over the swell to my waist. I move my arm, and he brushes the side of my breast, but then reaches forward and skims his hand down my arm. Our fingers entwine a second, and he pulls my hand back to my chest. Tender lips come to my shoulder, and he nudges my hair off my neck, exposing the nape to him.

  We made love plenty of times in our marriage, but this feels different. It’s as if he’s memorizing my body, a hint at goodbye. I shift to t
wist toward him, but he stills me with a hand on my shoulder.

  “Stay just like this, baby.” He massages my shoulder, then moves to my neck and delivers heavenly pressure along my upper back.

  “You’re tense, Peach,” he mutters to me, and I take a deep breath. It’s not like we haven’t had sex or that I can’t. I’m actually turned on and anxious for us to begin.

  But as time goes on and the pressure of his hand works at my neck and over my shoulder blades, I continue to relax into the good wine, a heavy meal, and the warmth of my husband at my back.

  19

  Rude Awakenings

  [James]

  “What the hell is this?”

  Evie stumbles out of the ranger station, tripping over the steps as she stomps up to me in the yard. I was crouching to stoke the fire and make some much-needed morning coffee, but I stand as she approaches me, waving the papers in her hand.

  “Just what the hell is this?” she repeats, slapping the folded papers against my chest.

  I stumble with a chuckle. “I told you I’d sign them if you slept with me.”

  “Slept,” she yells, and I’m wondering why she’s so worked up.

  Last night, I did what I could to make it a romantic evening. I felt bad wrestling the outpost out from under Letty and Giant and their first night together, but Letty agreed my plan was important. I hadn’t known they intended to use the place for their first night as husband and wife. They’d been living together for months, and I wanted to crash this old outpost, thinking no one would give it a thought. However, I recalled meeting Letty under Giant in this spot a year ago, and it turns out, they wanted the place for the night to relive the memory. Letty easily gave it up when I found her dressed and waiting in the cabin for the ceremony to start. I knew Giant would be pissed, but I wasn’t worried about his feelings. I’d come to the damn wedding, after all.

  “James,” Evie groans, rustling the papers against my chest and stepping closer to me in her anger.