Biker Babe in Black (5 page)

“Bad luck?” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it. I helped you lose two jobs.”

“Nah, they would have ended anyways. I just hope I can hold it together long enough to earn a sufficient amount of money cleaning your house to buy my own place.” She ate the last forkful of potato.

“You want to buy a house…?”

“Yep. Ever since I was little. I will do it too…Nothing will stop me.” She waved her empty fork in the air.

Remy took a few bites. “How did you lose the other jobs?”

She rolled her eyes and finished swallowing. “Well, the car rental place fired me for stealing a car. I had no idea I couldn’t use an extra vehicle on my lunch break if no one wanted to rent it.” She snorted. “The manager didn’t press charges, but he did fire me.”

Remy sat in wide-eyed amazement. “And bagging groceries?”

She groaned. “That wasn’t my fault. The head cashier liked to talk dirty to the women who worked there, and I mentioned to a couple friends how this guy harassed us. Well, they snuck over late one night and spray painted his car before the store closed. Somehow, they connected the vandalism to me, even though I didn’t do it, and I got fired.”

Remy tried to keep a straight face, but her stories amused him. He’d never met any woman with such an adventurous life, and he found it honest and refreshing. “Yeah, I think it’s about time for your luck to change.”

“Exactly.” She smiled.

The band played a mix of new country and honky-tonk, and Remy and Margarine focused on their plates. Remy let her eat uninterrupted. She ate with gusto, and he wondered how often she ate such a big dinner.

The music reverberated off the walls of the restaurant and filled the lull in conversation. It gave Remy time to contemplate what kind of excitement he’d brought into his life. He didn’t start out with plans to hire her—he’d only wanted a simple dinner date. He’d already employed a housekeeper.

The current housekeeper did a bang-up job, but Margarine needed a job. One call to the housecleaning service and everything would fall into place. A few bills and a referral thrown to the woman who worked for him, and she’d have a new job in no time.

Candy approached the table and handed out a dessert menu. Stuffed, Remy shook his head. Margarine glanced at the menu and licked her lips.

He spied her reaction. “Just a moment. I think I changed my mind.” Remy scanned the page. “I’d like the double brownie ice cream delight. Two spoons, please.”

Margie smiled, and he knew there wasn’t anything in the world she would ever want if she stayed with him. For the price of a smile upon her lips, he’d buy her the world.

For every bite Remy ate, Margarine took two. All the while the smile on his face didn’t leave. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself this much. She delighted him, and something about her…entranced him.

Margarine laid down her spoon, leaned back, and yawned. Remy took the sign and decided to call it a night.

“Are you ready to get out of here?”

She nodded, pulled herself out of the booth, and stretched, trying to lose the contentment that came over her from a full stomach and good company. Remy scooted out of the booth and picked up her motorcycle helmet.

The night had grown dark during the time they’d shared dinner, and Remy walked Margarine to her bike. “Will you be okay riding at night?”

“Oh, sure. Give me a few minutes to wake up. All that food made me tired.” She stood on the sidewalk and bounced up and down on her toes.

“Do you want to follow me, or should I give you directions to my house?” He loved the way her hair moved, free and unencumbered.

“You better jot down your address in case you lose me in traffic.” She got on her bike and set her helmet between her legs on the gas tank.

Remy rifled through his wallet. His eyes strayed to the girl and her bike. He wondered if she might have ever posed on her bike for a picture. Naked.

“How did a girl like you get a Harley like that?” He tossed his head in the direction of her motorcycle.

The motorcycle, loaded with chrome and the palest pink in color, almost appeared white at first glance. On the side of the tank above the Harley Davidson emblem, the name Margarine Butter painted in sparkling black paint proved ownership.

Who are you, Margarine Butter?

“It was a coming of age gift from my family.” She stroked the machine between her legs.

“Nice family.”

“The very best.” Her voice grew husky, and she smiled at Remy.

Remy handed her a business card and walked around her motorcycle. He understood the expression she wore; the gift of a bike was a huge thing. Her family must really love her.

Margarine did lose sight of Remy’s car in the traffic out of the downtown area. She didn’t worry—she recognized his address on the back of his business card. It figured he would live up on Knob Hill, or as she called it, Snob Hill.

The cool air hit her body, and with the clear sky, the night presented for a perfect ride. Margie cut back on the speed and let her body enjoy the freedom a solitary ride brought her. Lately, she’d cut back on the amount of joy rides she took, because she needed every bit of cash to pay the bills.

Margie passed the street to Remy’s house again. She pulled her bike over to the curb and cut the engine. She’d avoided the initial arrival, because she wasn’t sure she could face making another mistake. This job would answer all her problems, but she was tired of getting her hopes up, only to have someone stomp on her dream.

She often did things at the spur of the moment without a thought to the consequences. Combined with bad luck, this plan of hers overflowed with warning signs. The kind of money Remy offered was too good to pass up, and so she set her helmet back on her head.
Might as well go find out what kind of trouble I got into this time.

Margie pushed the automatic start button on the handlebar, and the engine rumbled to life. She shot away from the curb and kept her hand clenched down on the throttle. She threw caution to the wind. Her parents didn’t raise a fool, and an opportunity like this just might have her in a new home prior to her deadline.

***

The house Remy had called home for the past year sat on a hill overlooking the city lights of Portland. He flicked on the lights and took a good look around. He tried to view his house through Margarine’s eyes and came up with disappointment. The house was spotless.
No way is she going to believe I need a maid.

To pull this charade off, he needed a house so unorganized and dirty she’d stay and work for him. He piled dishes in the sink and spilled some sugar on the counter in the kitchen.

The living room appeared even worse than the kitchen; not a speck of dust in sight. He moved the coffee table with his foot. It no longer ran parallel to the couch. He ran his palm over his forehead and appraised the room again.
Damn.

Remy jogged to the laundry room and found a handful of clothes in the dirty clothes hamper. He scooped the clothes up in his arms and ran back to the living room. Remy tossed the dirty gym shorts, underwear, and stinky socks around the room like he tossed business cards on the table during market meetings. The living room now resembled a pigsty. Perfect.

The thunder of Margarine’s Harley arrived ahead of the glare from her headlight against his living room wall. He opened the door to the garage and pushed the automatic door opener to let her pull inside.

The garage housed three cars. A BMW, a Porsche, and an SUV he used only for his trips up the mountain to ski. With plenty of room for the nice addition, Margie rode into the garage.

“Do you ever have a hard time making up your mind about what you want to drive in the morning?” Margie smirked.

“It’s all about choices.” Remy leaned against the doorframe.

Margie sneered. Typical guy answer. Someday his future kids might have to walk around in a bubble protected from UV rays and breathe bottled oxygen, and he worried about which car coordinated with certain suits he wore to the office.

“You can hang your helmet over there.” Remy nodded to a row of hooks on the garage wall.

Margie caught sight of another helmet hung on the wall and looked around. Her eyebrows shot up at the vision of a bike cover in the corner. Did he ride? What did he ride? She could tell a lot about a person by the bike they rode.

“Can I see?” She pointed to his bike.

He nodded but didn’t leave his position in the doorway. With great care, she peeled back the cover.

“Get out of here!” Margie strolled around Remy’s bike. She whistled and bobbed her head. “I can’t believe you’re a rider.”

Solid black on chrome with a huge double exhaust, Remy’s hog ranked right up there with her daddy’s bike. She beamed. Maybe this job would work out for the best after all. At least they had something in common.

Margie picked up the cover and draped it back over the bike, with respect for the man and his machine.

“Come on in and I’ll show you the house.” Remy stepped back to let her into his home.

The house opened up into a mansion. Margie followed behind Remy and walked from room to room. She reminded herself to shut her mouth and not leave her chin hanging to her chest. Never in all her years had she stepped into a place so impressive, so magnificent, she lost the ability to speak. For someone who grew up in Motel Sixes and camped on the side of the road in the summertime, Remy’s house awed and delighted her.

“I hope I don’t get lost in here.”

“I’ll draw you a map in case you do.” He chuckled.

“You never know, one day I might fall into a hidden passageway, and when you come home you’ll wonder what happened to the person you hired to clean your house.” She spread out her arms and turned in a circle.

“No hidden passageways, and if you’re worried, I could always have you wear one of those little dog collars with the bell on them.” He stroked his chin.

Margie raised her eyebrows and let her arms fall to her sides.

“Kidding.” He grinned. The dimple showed itself for the second time.

“You know… That might not be a bad idea.” She patted him on the chest.

“You’re kidding me?”

“Well, yeah. I’m not really the dog collar type of girl, but an intercom system might come in handy.” She laughed. The expression on Remy’s face was priceless.

“Aw, no sweat. There’s an intercom in every room.” He motioned for her to follow him.

The house boasted six bedrooms, a kitchen, dining room, and both a living room and family room. Each room was decorated with colors of black, gray, and white. A man’s house to the core.

“You’ll have to make a list of all the chores you want me to do and a list of foods you like to eat.” Margie ran her hands through her hair and yawned.

“I’ll work on the lists tomorrow, and we can discuss it over dinner tomorrow night. How does Chinese food sound?”

“It sounds like something I have no idea how to cook.” She chuckled.

“I’ll pick it up on my way home. I usually eat out a few times each week. I don’t expect you to cook every night.”

“Okay, just for tomorrow night, though.” Margie yawned again. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

“No problem. If you need anything, remember the intercom.” He waited for her to slip into her room.

She turned back to Remy at the bedroom door, her hand on the handle. “Thanks for hiring me, Remy.”

“You’re welcome. Sweet dreams.”

The room Remy gave her stood mere feet across the hall from his bedroom. Exactly four paces, and she could step into his room.
Oh, Lord, give me strength.

Margie closed the door behind her and took in the huge bed, the walk-in closet, and her own bathroom. She clamped her mouth shut, screamed a silent yell, and threw her arm in the air.
Yes!
The victory celebration didn’t end there. She jumped up on the bed and did her best imitation of a head banger at a Metallica concert.
Wait until Reefer hears about my good news. He’s going to shit bricks.

It was late and Margie knew she should be asleep by now, but she found herself wound up tighter than the coil on a manual starter.
A grand a week, a posh bedroom in the main part of the house, and a new outlook on life…
Four thousand dollars a month would give her nerves of steel against the man of the house as well as a new home. Heck, for the amount of cash Remy paid, she might turn into Superwoman too.

Margie carried her toiletries into the bathroom fit for a queen. She bounced in front of the shower. Multiple showerheads lined the walls, and everything was contained in a transparent glass cage the size of her old apartment. No way would she skip her ritual of bathing tonight.

She returned to the bedroom, removed a pair of pajamas from her suitcase, and decided to arrange her clothes in the dresser provided for her use. Even with every article of clothing separated, she only filled two drawers. She always kept clothes to a bare minimum because of the space required on the motorcycle.

She carried her nightwear into the bathroom, stood outside the enclosure, and scrunched up her face.
How in the world do I turn on the water?
She needed an instruction manual or a certified permit to operate this contraption.

Margie ran her fingers over all the control buttons outside the stall. Which one should she push? She shrugged, pushed random buttons, and squealed. The water shot out of all ten spouts at the same time.

Her clothes hit the floor in one swift move, and she entered the shower. She whimpered. She moaned. She laughed. She hooted and shrieked. This was the best experience of her life.

Every single spout in the shower sprayed water in different directions. This part of the bathroom might just compare to the local car wash. The one where people drove their car through and arms with brushes scrubbed the car clean. She giggled. The idea that she might also receive a wash and wax delighted and amused her.

With her hair saturated with water, she groped for the shampoo bottle. She pried one eye open long enough to read the front of the bottle and squirted a big blob of soap into her hand to cover her hair.