Scarred: A New Adult Romance (The Anderson Brothers Series Book 1) (6 page)

The
traffic in town isn’t bad for an early Saturday night. I reach Denise’s house
about fifteen minutes early. Her neighborhood is quiet and quaint, with picket
fences in front of almost every house. I park my bike along the curb, set my
jacket and helmet on the seat, and head up the walkway leading to her small,
white house. I ring the bell and stuff my hands in my pockets. Beyond the
screen door, an inner door opens.

It’s
not Denise.

The
woman steadily chews her gum while she stares at me with cold, calculating,
dark brown eyes. She looks older, maybe early-to-mid forties. She tilts her
dreadlocked head and looks down her nose at me. “Yes? Who’re you?” she asks in
a thick, Caribbean accent.

I
clear my throat, trying not to let her stare faze me. “Hi, I’m Dominick. I’m
supposed to pick up Denise. Is she here?”

Dreads
blows a small, pink bubble. “Denise, eh?” She raises an eyebrow, then cranes
her neck and looks beyond me. “So where’s your ride?”

I
thumb over my shoulder. “There.”

She
blinks. “You shittin’ me, right?”

I
shake my head, but before I can answer aloud, footsteps approach and Denise
appears behind Dreads. She pushes past her and opens the screen door. Denise
wears a blue dress over black leggings. Her hair is cornrowed in the front,
with the back twisted out into a cascading ponytail of thick, curly hair. Her
smooth, caramel face doesn’t look made up, but her full lips glisten with some
kind of sparkly, peach-colored lip gloss. The only jewelry she wears is a pair
of small silver hoop earrings and a silver necklace with a charm in the shape
of a
fleur de lis
. My heart skips
several beats as I take her in. When she smiles at me, I practically melt.

God,
she’s beautiful.

“Hi,
Dominick,” Denise says to me as she steps outside. She’s wearing black flats, perfect
should we go on an after-dinner walk.

Dreads
places a hand on Denise’s shoulder, stopping her. “Hey. You’re not actually
going out with this carless deadbeat, are you?”

I
lift an eyebrow.
Deadbeat?

Denise
looks back at her. “I just met him, Lauren. He fixed my car, and we agreed on
dinner.”

Dreads—Lauren—pops
her gum. “He fixes cars and doesn’t have one of his own? What’s wrong with that
picture, hmm?”

I
frown. I have a driver’s license, but I didn’t want a car when I came to
college.

“What
are you talking about?” Denise asks, looking back and forth between me and
Lauren.

Lauren
points outside. “Look at what he intends to drive you around in … or should I
say
on.
”

Denise
follows Lauren’s direction and gasps. “A
motorcycle?
”
She looks back at me and pales. “You’ve got to be out of your mind, Dominick!”

I
grimace. This was
not
how I wanted
our night to start out. “There’s nothing to worry about, Denise. I’ll make sure
you’re perfectly safe. You can even use my jacket so you don’t get cold.”

“’Ey,
now,” Lauren interjects. “She’s not gettin’ on that thing! It’s a death trap.
What kind of man fixes cars and doesn’t have one of his own, anyway, hmm?”

Is this woman her roommate
or her mother?
I don’t feel like arguing with Lauren. “We can take your car if you want,
Denise,” I say in a calm voice, ignoring the other woman. “I don’t own a car.
I’ve had other passengers before, though, and I’ve kept all of them safe.”

Denise
doesn’t respond.

Damn it. I’m fucking this
up.

“‘Other
passengers,’ hmm?” Lauren says. “Other girlfriends?”

It
takes everything I have to keep my cool. She could very well be Denise’s
mother.

Denise
turns away from me. Her shoulders slump, and she seems disheartened, a little
fearful.
She doesn’t trust me.
I’m
not sure what to say or do.

“Lauren,
let me talk to Dominick in private, please.” Denise says.

Lauren
scoffs. “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me, D.”

Denise
shakes her head. “Please.”

Lauren
gives me the stinkeye. Sucking her teeth, she reluctantly spins on her heel and
disappears inside, shutting the inner door behind her.

I
exhale quietly, relieved to be alone with Denise. Being this close to her makes
my heart beat faster. Her fresh scent, a mix of pears and cocoa butter, tickles
my nose. Everything about her arouses me.

“Sorry
about that,” Denise says. “Lauren can be like a mother hen sometimes. She’s a
friend of the family, and going back to school for her PhD, so we ended up as
roommates. She’s always looked out for me since I was a kid.”

I
make a sour face. “But you’re a grown woman. You don’t need that kind of …
supervision.”

She
smiles. “She means well. Really, she does. She’s just had some issues in the
past. I shouldn’t say.” She pauses and bites her bottom lip. “Just go easy on
her, all right?”

I
shrug. It sounded serious, but it’s none of my business, and I’m not gonna pry.
“Fine.”

“So,
about that motorcycle … ”

I
sigh deeply. “I just thought that—”

“We
were going to Jade Fusion. Does it look like I’m dressed to ride a damn
motorcycle?”

I
cringe.
Not really, but you do look
stunning.
“Look, if you really don’t wanna ride, we can take your car.”

She
looks thoughtful. “Were you really expecting me to get on that thing?”

The
fact that she doesn’t acknowledge my previous comment tells me that she might
possibly be reconsidering. God, I sure hope so. “I didn’t know what to expect,
but I had hoped you might have been feeling a little adventurous tonight.”

“It
looks dangerous.”

“Life
is dangerous sometimes.”

“What
if I fall off?”

I
chuckle to myself. Her fear and denial are more than obvious now. “I won’t let
you fall off. Trust me.”

Her
thin eyebrows rise. “I barely even know you.”

“True,
but how else will we get to know each other if we don’t take chances?”

With
pursed lips, she looks hesitantly at my parked bike. “I don’t know. Maybe we
should
just take my car.”

“Up
to you,” I say with a shrug. “But … ” Slowly, I reach for her hand. I can’t help
it—her hand is so close to mine, I can feel her warmth. Gently, I glide my
fingers over hers, and feel her soft, smooth skin. “I promise you everything
will be okay.” I look down at her hand and don’t feel inclined to let go. Not
yet. Not at all. I want to kiss her hand so badly, but she seems surprised
enough by my actions.

Her
eyes drift to mine, then down to our hands. Thankfully, she doesn’t pull away.
“Okay. Just this once. I’m holding you to your promise. I better not fall off.”
She smiles slightly. “Let me grab my purse.”

I
exhale. It’s progress in a big way. She’s trusting me. I let go of her hand and
watch her disappear back inside the house. I hear voices rise from within, and
then Denise comes back outside, looking slightly annoyed.

“All
right, let’s go,” she says.

I
keep my thoughts about their argument to myself and lead Denise down the
walkway to my bike.

She
runs her hand along the red tank and over the seat. There’s hesitation in her
eyes.

Smiling
reassuringly, I unlock the extra helmet from the side of the bike and hand it
to her. “Here. You need to wear this.”

She
gingerly takes the helmet and stares at it. It’s a black-and-white full-face
helmet with gold-colored abstract designs on it. There are signs of obvious
wear on the helmet, but it’s otherwise fully functional. She slips it on over
her head—and over that fantastic hairdo that she’d probably just gotten
done—and I help her. The helmet is a little big but seems to fit her well
enough. After securing the strap under her chin, I look her over. “How’s that?”

She
pulls up the face shield and grumbles, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. This is
totally going to mess up my hair.”

I
laugh. “It’ll be fine. Your hair is beautiful regardless.”

She
rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

I
shrug out of my jacket and hand it to her. “Here. So you won’t get too cold.”

“Thanks,”
she says, taking it. “But what about you?”

“I’ll
be fine.”
I’m already hot just thinking
about you sitting behind me.

She
slings her small square purse across her body and puts on the jacket.

I
slip on my helmet and mount my bike. “Come on.” I motion to the raised back
seat for passengers. “Sit in that spot behind me.”

“How
do I get on?”

I
point to the foot pegs on either side of the lower frame, near the back tire.
“Put one foot there, swing your other leg over, and sit.”

“Geez,
glad I wore pants,” she mutters, and I chuckle.

She
hesitates a moment before managing to heft herself up. That whiff of pears and
cocoa plays with my senses again. “Am I sitting right?” she asks, her voice
muffled from the helmet.

I
look behind me and nod. “Good. Now, keep your feet there, wrap your arms around
my waist and … ” I fall silent as I feel her slender arms around me. Her hands
squeeze my abs, and I feel the softness of the rest of her body pressing
against my back. I swallow a lump in my throat. My groin tightens.

“Am
I holding too tight?” she asks.

I
swallow again. “N … No, not at all. Hold as tight as you need to, and keep your
arms around me.”

“Don’t
worry, I don’t intend to let go.”

I
beam so wide my cheeks hurt. I am not about to complain about her holding too
tight. Her touch is electrifying.

I
start up the engine and slowly ease away from the curb. Denise clutches my abs
and stomach tighter, nearly making me gasp for breath. But the feeling does
more than startle me; it gets me harder. Riding on a motorcycle with a hard-on
is absolute torture. Why does she have to be so amazing? I don’t think I’ll be
able to concentrate on dinner at this rate.

I
take all the side streets and make it to Jade Fusion a little after seven.
There’s an unreserved parking space right outside the restaurant that’s just
big enough for a bike to fit. I maneuver my way into the space, throw down the
kickstand, and shut off the engine. While I take off my helmet, I wait for her
to get off the bike.

“And
this is why I love to ride,” I say, gesturing to the parking space I managed to
squeeze into.

She
stumbles a little as she dismounts, but I reach out for her hand to help steady
her. She fiddles with the snaps and loops of her helmet, and pulls it off. The
helmet has done little to mess up her hair. All of her braids are still intact,
and her naturally curly ponytail is still full of life, just like her. She
peers at herself in one of the bike’s mirrors and brushes the front
edges of her hair with her fingers.

I
chuckle. “Your hair’s fine. You look great.” I get off the bike, hang my helmet
over the other mirror, and set hers on the seat. Taking her hand, I lead her to
the restaurant’s entrance. A waiter standing outside the doors and dressed in a
chic black suit casts Denise and me a questioning look as we approach.

“Good
evening. Do you have reservations?” he asks.

I
nod and give him my name. He walks behind a podium and checks a clipboard
sitting atop it. Then he nods and scribbles a line across the page with a
yellow highlighter. “Ah, Mister Anderson.” He smiles. “Thank you. Please enjoy
your experience at Jade Fusion.”

The
smell of marinated beef and steamed vegetables engulfs us as we enter, making
my stomach growl. The restaurant is dimly lit, with jade-green lights creating
an upscale, modern Asian-fusion atmosphere. I’ve only been here a handful of
times, since it’s not exactly a place mechanics go to on their lunch break.

A
waitress escorts us to a table, next to one of the restaurant’s many windows
overlooking the busy city streets. The table is set with two wine glasses and
silverware rolled in black cloth napkins. Two black leather-bound menus are set
where the plates would be.

I
pull out a chair for Denise.

“And
here I thought chivalry was dead,” she says, smiling at me.

Returning
the smile, I seat myself. “I’m glad I was able to change your mind. So what did
you think of the motorcycle ride?”

“All
right, I’ll admit it. It wasn’t so bad. At least I didn’t fall off.”

I
wonder if she’ll want to ride again. “See? I told you. It’s fun. And relaxing.”

“It
is.”

“Think
of all the other fun and adventurous things you might be missing out on.”

She
raises her eyebrows. “Oh? Like what?”

“Like … ”
I rub my chin. “… maybe going to a movie with me after dinner.”

She
chuckles. “How about we just get through dinner first?”

“Fair
enough.” I smile sheepishly.

I
scan the single-page menu. Though the restaurant is somewhat upscale, the
prices are fairly reasonable. “You like this place?” I ask Denise, and she
looks up from her menu.

“Yeah,
it brings back memories,” she says, glancing around the place dreamily.

“Old
dates?” I wonder how many guys before me have taken her here. I mean, what guy
wouldn’t want to take a beautiful girl like her out to dinner?

She
gives me a dumbfounded look, then covers her mouth and chuckles. “You think I
came here on dates?”

It’s
my turn to look dumbfounded. “Well, why else would you come to a place like
this?”

“This
wasn’t always a restaurant, you know. It used to be Anastasia Beaumonte’s Dance
Studio. I used to come here to do ballet.”

My
jaw drops. “You do ballet?”

“
Did,
” Denise says. “Only in elementary
and middle school before Miss Beaumonte died and the place shut down.”

“Sorry
to hear that. I bet you were really good at it.”