Biker Babe in Black Read online

  Biker Babe in Black

  The Chromes and Wheels Gang [1]

  Debra Kayn

  Breathless Press (2011)

  * * *

  Cursed with bad luck, and a stubbornness that gets her nowhere, Margarine Butter wants to shed her biker gypsy lifestyle for a white picket fence and a permanent address. When Remy offers her employment, she gambled with her desire for a new life and her attraction to the millionaire. Could she keep her distance and her identity secret long enough to secure her future?

  Business conglomerate, Remington Montgomery, couldn’t believe the sexy waitress with the long blonde hair turned his money down after he accidentally got her fired from her job. So, when she whacked him with her leather studded purse and rode off on a Harley Davidson, he wanted to learn more about the woman who was not impressed by the size of his wallet. But would the price of loving her be his downfall?

  Biker Babe in Black

  by Debra Kayn

  Breathless Press

  Calgary, Alberta

  www.breathlesspress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or

  persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Biker Babe in Black

  Copyright© 2011 Debra kayn

  ISBN: 978-1-926930-64-0

  Cover Artist: Justyn Perry

  Editor: Spencer Freeman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations

  embodied in reviews.

  Breathless Press

  www.breathlesspress.com

  To Mary Lou (my mom), Doug, and Dan ~ You listened to me threaten to run off and join the Hells Angels my whole life and never once laughed, but wished me good luck with that goal.

  To Wes (my dad, who is looking down from Heaven) ~ For giving me my first solo motorcycle ride at age four, and letting go of the bike. Thank you for letting me do what I wanted and saving me before I ran into the wire fence.

  To my husband ~ Thanks for buying me my first motorcycle.

  To my kids ~ Who have inherited the thrill of speed and the love of riding. Thanks for all the rides, the races, and no matter how old I get, I’ll always win the game of “Ditch-Ya.” And, no matter how old you get, remember to always wear your helmet!

  Chapter One

  “If you need anything else, please let me know.” Margie Butter placed two plates overfilled with shrimp linguini on table eleven.

  The customers paid her no attention and continued their conversations on the cell phones plastered to their ears. She walked away from the table and headed back to the kitchen to pick up the next order. It didn’t matter to her if they ignored her, but she hoped they’d leave a tip after they finished.

  She pushed through the swinging doors and squinted up at the clock. Sweet. Only a half hour more and her shift ended.

  Her calves ached, and her lower back clenched in a spasm strong enough to bring a grown man to tears. She placed both her hands on her lower back and stretched. The artillery pops from her spine brought her a moment’s relief.

  “Order up, Parkay.”

  “Be right there.” Margie waved her hand in the cook’s direction.

  The obnoxious man rang the silver bell with the same excitement as a drummer in a marching band.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.” She hurried over to the pick-up counter.

  The cook pointed his spoon. “Hey, look. I can’t believe it’s butter.”

  Margie picked up one plate, then flipped him the bird with her free hand before gathering up the other plate. The cook laughed so hard he coughed over the food he’d prepared. She curled her lip and groaned. Yeah, like I’ve never heard that joke about my name, you idiot-stick.

  She held the plates above her shoulders, using her butt to push through the doors. Come on, clock. Move faster.

  One step into the dining area and she ran into a massive wall. Plates flew out of her hands. She screamed. A man’s strong arms circled her waist and kept her on her feet. She clutched the shirt of the man in front of her.

  The clatter of dishes on the tile floor and the collective hush in the restaurant gave Margie a premonition of her future. She hunched her shoulders and shrunk herself smaller behind the man she held on to with a death grip. The man stood at least a foot taller than her and was twice her width, so he hid her well. She peeked around him and assessed the damage.

  Oh, shit, not again.

  The manager of Georgia’s Restaurant, whose walk resembled a penguin on ice, hurried across the floor. Margie laid her forehead on the man’s chest and wished the whole accident away.

  “Margarine Butter, you’re fired.”

  Snickers and coughs among the diners grew, and heat traveled up Margie’s neck and settled on her cheeks. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. It’s one thing to lose a job, but the laughter from the diners over her name irritated her.

  The mountain of a man in front of her flinched. Margie patted his chest. No fault of his she’d rushed through the swinging kitchen door without a look through the window.

  “Look, Mr…” The man leaned over to read the nametag on the manager’s coat. “Mr. Warren. This was my fault. I snuck back here to talk with an acquaintance and didn’t realize I had blocked the kitchen door.”

  Once the man spoke, Margie leaned her head back to find out who had come to her rescue. Her mouth fell open. Holy shit. Standing in front of her was the hottest man she’d ever ran into—and she’d run into a lot of men.

  His swept-back, dark wavy hair, chiseled cheekbones, perpetual five o’clock shadow, and killer smile left her breathless. But, it was his chivalrous attempt at placing the blame on himself that qualified him as hero material. She gazed into the depths of his Frank Sinatra blue eyes, and her body instantly melted in an I-want-to-have-your-baby way.

  Her hero laid his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. She forced herself to loosen her grip on him but lingered to smooth out the wrinkles she’d made. The silk of his shirt allowed her to grope his chest and find the hard curves of his muscles. She sucked in her lower lip. With her job crumbling right in front of her eyes, how in the world could she be checking out this man’s body?

  The manager tapped his foot against the floor and pointed to the kitchen door, his orders clear. She’d seen it many times in the past. On the way home, Margie would pick up a newspaper and begin her search for a new job.

  Her champion stepped toward the manager, but she stopped him with a hand against his chest. She shook her head and summed up enough strength to smile up at him. Jobs come and go, no big deal, and she didn’t want to see him thrown out of the restaurant for disorderly conduct.

  The kitchen door stood less than five feet away from Margie, yet it seemed to stretch a mile. She straightened her back, held her chin up, and walked out of the dining room. Her performance beat any Employee of the Year award.

  Only the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the kitchen doors flapping followed her dramatic exit. She headed straight to her cubby and picked up her oversized purse. The faster she left, the better.

  The rush of a cool breeze outside greeted her. She leaned against the brick of the restaurant, and the calmness of the night washed over her. The small stash of tips in her purse gave her approximately forty-eight hours before she went hungry. She let her head fall back against the wall and cast her eyes to the sky. Two days for her to make a decision about her future: move on to a different city or go back to her family and admit defeat.


  A light cover of smog against the black background hid the stars. She squinted and studied the night sky. She needed a wishing star, since hard work and a good attitude wasn’t enough to bring home the money.

  A dim sparkle shone through a break in the evening cover. She exhaled and smiled.

  “May I find the highest paying job and never get fired.” Her gaze never wavered.

  The star blinked. She frowned and followed the direction the star moved.

  “Damn planes. Figures. I can’t even wish on a star right tonight.”

  The unlit parking lot behind the restaurant stood deserted and gloomy. She clutched her purse and hurried toward the one streetlight that worked. She never enjoyed the solitary walk behind the restaurant after work.

  Her hair net—she forgot she’d left on her head—started to slip off. She slowed to a walk, snatched the awful thing from her hair, and let the blonde curls cascade down her back.

  “Excuse me, Ms.?”

  She screamed and fumbled for her purse strap. Strap in hand, she swung her arm in a wide circle and aimed at the voice in the shadows. Oh, God. “Stand back or I’ll smack you with my leather studded bag.”

  “Whoa, lady, it’s me…Remy.”

  A dark outline of a big person stood in the shadows between two parked cars. She continued to swing her purse. She didn’t know anyone named Remy, and in the dark, she aimed to disable anyone who came close enough to hurt her.

  “I’m the man who got you fired.” The man stepped closer. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Palms in the air, he ambled out of the shadows and into the light. Her arm fell to her side. The buckle of her purse slammed into her knee. She groaned. That’s going to leave a bruise.

  “What are you doing? You scared me half to death.” She bent over and rubbed her knee without taking her gaze off him.

  “I wanted to apologize and offer to find you another job.” Remy removed his billfold from inside his suit coat and fingered the bills.

  She stood back up, her pained knee forgotten, and wrinkled her nose. No way! Where the hell did he get that idea? She held her tongue and thought to herself. Do I look like a whore?

  He held out his hand, dangling a fist full of dollar bills between himself and Margie. She snorted and stepped around him, disappointed that the best-looking man she’d ever met joined the ranks of just another jerk on the bumpy road of life.

  Margie marched over to the light post and extracted a set of keys from her purse. She unlocked the saddlebag of her motorcycle, removed her helmet, and threw her purse in the side compartment.

  Bending at the waist, she gathered her hair in a messy bun atop her head and slipped on her helmet. Remy, or whatever he called himself, didn’t have a clue. She’d rather purchase an oversized, gas-guzzling, ozone-killing machine than sell her body to the highest bidder.

  Margie hiked her skirt up to her thighs and straddled the leather seat. Behind the face shield, a smile came to her lips at the touch of the smooth, familiar shape between her legs. Without a second glance back to check if he still stood in the parking lot, she revved the motorcycle to life and left the man and his ego in the dust.

  The handful of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills slipped out of Remy’s hand, falling onto the asphalt of the parking lot. His mouth hung open, and he blinked.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  The waitress rode a Harley Davidson.

  Chapter Two

  The newspapers lay scattered on the kitchen table, and Margie picked up the red pen she’d put down a few minutes ago. She drew a red circle around an advertisement for a coffee server in a downtown coffee house. Sounded easy enough, and she loved caffeine.

  She held the pen in her mouth and punched in the numbers on the keypad of her cordless phone. The ringing in her ear rang on and on, and she bit off the cap of the pen. Doodling on the edge of the newspaper, she waited for someone to answer. Maybe they need to hire me to answer the phone.

  A masculine voice startled her out of coloring in the tires of a 1972 Chevy van for sale in the automotive section. She set the pen aside and sat up straight in the chair.

  “Hello? I’d like to talk with the manager about the server job advertised in this morning’s paper.”

  Another man came to the phone, and after she filled him in on her experience working in the food industry, she succeeded in landing herself an interview for one thirty that afternoon.

  Hanging up the phone, Margie danced around the table. “Yes, I’m back in business. Watch out house, here I come.”

  She arrived for the interview with five minutes to spare. She stood outside the Sunshine Coffee House and tucked the stray strands of hair back into the French twist she created to make herself more presentable. Confident, she pushed open the door and came to a complete stop.

  The aroma of coffee surrounded her like a welcome hug. She inhaled deeply. Her stomach fluttered, and a pang of loneliness hit her. Reefer, her childhood best friend and another member of her family, always drank lots of coffee.

  The counter at the front of the café bustled with customers, and she wound her way over to the side to inquire about the manager. As she waited, she tapped her foot in time with the peppy music playing in the background.

  The manager escorted her to the back room, and after going over the prerequisites for the job, excused himself from the interview to check out Margie’s references. She nibbled on her thumbnail and hoped Reefer picked up his cell phone. She’d called him earlier and updated him on the interview. He’d promised he would do this small favor for her; in fact, he wanted to do this favor for her.

  Her family always helped anyone in a time of need. Margie crossed her legs and formed a mental note to get some of those fancy coffee beans to give to Reefer next time he came to town. He really liked the gifts she gave him from all the places she’d worked the last six months. Without his help, she’d still be pounding the sidewalk, or worse, back home.

  A soft shuffle of footsteps sounded outside the manager’s office. She clasped her hands in her lap and forced a smile, ready to meet her fate.

  “Ms. Butter, your reference from Kathy’s Kafe House came back with glowing praise. Your old boss said they were sad to see you leave. Plus, you had a flawless attendance record.”

  She placed her hand on her chest and batted her eyes. “He was a dear to work for. Treated his employees well and made working with him a real joy.” I love you, Reefer.

  The manager lowered his glasses and did a quick skim of the paperwork he held in front of him. “We’d love to hire you, and if you want to go ahead and fill out your papers…” He handed a stack of paperwork across the desk. “You can start tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Grendle. I look forward to working for you.”

  ***

  Early the next day, Margie, dressed in a mouse brown polyester outfit, filled the last coffee maker on the counter with ground beans. She reached down with one hand and rubbed the itchy material against her thigh. I should have paid more attention yesterday at what kind of uniform I’d be required to wear.

  Her reflection in the stainless steel espresso machine stared back at her, and she pursed her lips. She fit right in…if the year was 1950 and boring was the latest fashion trend. Of course, the brown cap pinned to the top of her head didn’t help matters. Maybe she’d be better off if she stayed away from shiny objects for the rest of the day.

  The morning hours flew by, and Margie kept busy filling coffee orders, one after another. She’d memorized the sheet of recipes earlier and now it remained tucked in her pocket. A rather routine job, but at least it would cover rent.

  The manager walked up to the counter and handed the afternoon phone orders to Margie. She listened as he rattled off how to fill the lunch order and store the cups in a roll-around cart to stay warm. She looked forward to getting out of the café and delivering outside orders. In addition to the rush of people inside the café, the smell of coffee had begun to give her a headache.
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br />   The office building beside Sunshine Coffee House stood fifteen stories tall and presented an impressive sight to someone who didn’t rub elbows with the conglomerates of the business world. Margie let her head fall back and shielded her eyes with her hand. The afternoon sun reflected off the many windows and blocked her view of the top from the ground. She’d try again later today after the sun set and her shift ended.

  Margie pushed the UP button for the elevator. With the order sheet held out in front of her, she formulated a plan. Only floors two, six, nine, and fifteen had ordered coffee. She’d begin at the bottom and work her way up.

  The secretary in suite 202 sat in the main room and paid for the order Margie delivered. She hurried out of the room to continue with the rest of the deliveries. Soft music filled the hallways, and she found herself humming from one floor to the next. This was easier than she’d expected.

  The elevator arrived on the ninth floor, and the doors opened to a stage of men dressed in suits. She moved off to the side and waved all the men to go up without her—no way her cart would squeeze in there with all of them, despite it being a rather large elevator. She wondered if men dressed for success ever needed to scratch their bodies. Her skirt drove her nuts; the polyester chaffed her skin, and she wanted to rub the sensitive skin that her thong didn’t cover.

  The whir of the elevator announced its return, followed by a ding. Margie backed into the elevator facing forward, pulling her cart over the gap in the floor in a hurry. Once inside, she pressed the unlit number fifteen button on the panel, and with one thing on her mind, hitched up her skirt and scratched furiously at her thighs.

  A soft moan of pleasure escaped.

  Remy stepped back, leaned into the corner of the elevator, and stared at the coffee delivery woman backing in with her cart. He tilted his head to take in the waist to hip ratio. Perfect.