Checkmate With Bishop: A Hellions MC Novel (32 page)

“You can’t be serious!” I cried, but my voice sounded breathy and lacked any real volume.  “You mean to stand there and tell me that you approve of how she was…?”

“Was what, babe?  Coming on to him?  Oh hell, yeah.” He steered me back to the row of seats we’d previously vacated.  His eyes drifted from mine back over his shoulder.  “She played it perfect, knowing she was gonna have his attention on other doings instead of the needle.”

“But the way he was eyeing her chest…” I started before I felt one of the chair’s seats against the back of my knees.  “And the way she smiled at him…”

“Mama?  She worked it so our boy will be glued to her and those tits as they take his blood.  Will give him more than enough ideas for his spank-bank and honest to Christ, if he hasn’t hit it, hasn’t yet done the deed, he’ll have more than an eye to doing it over the next few months.”

“Stan!”  My voice, even to my ears, seemed a bit loud for the huge space of the waiting room that was thankfully almost empty.  I continued, but I tried to keep it to a whisper.  “How can you talk like that?  He’s only thirteen for god’s sake and…”

“And, what, babe?”  Our sinking into the seats was done almost in unison.  “Lost my cherry when I was twelve.  By my estimation, J.R.’s close but hasn’t gotten in there yet.”

I hated the proud note in Stan’s voice, one that seemed to almost crow about his son’s (hopefully, was what I took from his words) upcoming sexual experiences.  “That’s just wrong on too many levels to address,” I noted on a haughty sniff.

“Still and all, it ain’t none of our bidness, Dory.”  He tilted his head and I got an eyeful of his beauty, of his smile that was reflected in not only his mouth but his amazing eyes.  “Though I’ll have a word with him soon.”

“A word?”  His hand, one that was attached to the arm he still had draped around my shoulders, rubbed between my shoulder blades and pressed hard until my cheek was against the side of his neck.

“One that will give him the 4-1-1 about pussy, both the good and the bad,” he whispered, his ear so close to mine I could feel his breath.   “Don’t worry, babe.  I’ve got this next part of our boy’s journey.”

I certainly hoped so.

Because after that little freaking display, I didn’t think I could even begin to handle it.

*.*.*.*.*

Bishop leaned into a turn and felt his boy shift behind him, enough so he let off the throttle.  The kid was getting it but was still overcompensating when it came time to lean.  But he couldn’t deny the delighted whoops that he heard coming out from underneath the kid’s helmet, the yells as they sped along the twisting, turning highway.

His kid was born to ride and Bishop knew he’d be helping his young one pick out his own bike before too long.  Teaching him much as his granddad had taught him.  Especially since by Montana law, a person could apply for a motorcycle license at 14 ½ years old.

As they hit a straight-away and Bishop punched it so that the machine picked up speed, skinny thighs pressed against the outside of his while a helmet pressed firmly into his shoulder blade.

“Goddamn!” he heard yelped even over the throb of the machine, attesting to his son’s excitement.

The scores that moved through him was done on so many levels Bishop could barely process them.  And it had been that way since he’d watched Dory drive away from them as he’d still been giving J.R. instructions in the medical center parking lot.

Just as he’d done when he’d taken Dory for her first ride, Bishop took his hand and cupped the kid’s knee.  A movement that was meant to settle, to encourage even as he steered the big machine, taking the bike through its paces as they rode towards Flathead Lake.  It was, at least in his opinion, the perfect amount of time, going from Missoula to the southern-most tip of the lake and back, to give his son a glimpse of how good a motorcycle ride could be.

And he got an earful as soon as they stopped to have lunch at a the mini-mart/gas station.  Even with the kid’s maw filled to the brim with corn dogs and cheese puffs, his lips still moved, his eyes still sparking with whatever was going on inside. 

Feelings Bishop more than remembered.

But it wasn’t until the boy’s voice wound down, wasn’t until it had gone out of the squeaky range and into something the older man knew would be his son’s ‘regular’ voice as an adult, that he once again tuned in.  “Honest to god, Dad.  I’ll never forget this.  Fucking never,
ever
forget this.”

“Glad, then,” Bishop mumbled.  His heart, oh Christ, his heart was so humbled by his son’s words that he found himself wondering if the old man, his hard-assed Hellion biker grandfather had experienced the same when he’d taken his grandson out for his first ride.  “But after the doings of this morning, we’ve gotta talk.”

J.R.’s mouth, one that had been plowing through three corn dogs and a second bag of chips, opened in an ‘o’ that more than favored his mother.  To the point Bishop could see flecks the remaining detritus, of all his son had shoved in his mouth.

In order not to appear a dick and ordering his kid to both brush his teeth and clear his tongue, Bishop turned his eyes to the gently lapping waves of the lake.  They were behind the convenience/gas station area, seated across from one another at one of the picnic tables as they’d done the lunch bit. 

“This morning’s doings…” he started.

“Shit!  Wasn’t she hot?  That Inez chick?  Jay-sus, the way she looked at me almost made my blood boil,” J.R. admitted, his voice just this side of preening.  But Bishop couldn’t fault him.  Christ, at that age, he would’ve been coming in his pants with just the thought of that kind of attention.

“We gotta set some ground rules, little man,” Bishop intoned and he felt his boy still at the umbrage in his voice.  Yeah, it was time to start drawing some lines into the young man’s years, lines he’d promised Dory he’d put into the sands of their son’s life.  “Inez?  Was that her name?”

“Oh god, yeah.  Isn’t that cool?  Swear to god, if there had been a dark corner in that place, I would’ve been all over that,” his son informed him.

And somehow, the note in his kid’s voice, in his very bravado, caused a deep chasm to open up in Bishop’s heart.  Because the kid was so very far from how it was, how it was meant to be and wasn’t yet up to speed about how it worked between a man and his girl.  

A female who was worthy of him and all the man he could be.

So Bishop gave it to him, laid it out flat about the doings between a man and his woman.  On how to work her in order to guide her into her own pleasure and then, and only then, to see to his own bliss.   About how women could and would use sex in order to try and find love while men used love in their feeble efforts to get sex.  Not to mention just how a bitch would try and trap a man with pregnancy in order to demand a ring on her finger when a dude had only wanted what was between her legs.

J.R. listened, nodding in all the right spots.

So Bishop continued, laying out the different diseases that could happen, that could be spread and talked of condoms:  how to put one on, how to move to make it work for a dude and what to look for when pussy might be infected.

By the time his voice wound down, by the time it was almost gruff with all the words he’d given to his son, J.R. finally spoke.  His eyes, so much like Bishop’s own, were dead-steady as they stared into his.  “Sounds like there’s a lot more to it than just…” He turned his head away and Bishop could almost see the gears twirling in the kid’s head.  “It’s crazy, you know?  Just last year, I was just living my life, playing around, having a good time, but now?  Shit.  It’s all I think about.”

Bishop looked from his son back to the lake.  “Yeah, I remember those days.  When I was so fucking horny, the crack of dawn wasn’t safe.  When even a strong breeze could give me a stiffie.”  He brought his eyes back to his boy.  “It’ll get better to control as you get older.”

“You mean until it’s time for the Viagra and shit?”

Bishop smiled at the kid’s joke.  “Yep.  Your dick has a mind of its own, dude.  Better get used to it.”

Father and son were quiet, enjoying the sound of the birds that flitted from tree to tree overhead, each sunk deep their own thoughts.

Chapter Twenty Five

It was a week before Thanksgiving and I was standing at the sink doing the last bits of the pots and pans from dinner, my mind reviewing all the changes in my life over the last three months.  Firstly, I was completely settled into my new life in Missoula with all my furniture and kickass knick-knacks surrounding me, helping to create a cozy home for me and J.R.

With the help of Hellion Construction, I was able to open Luscious Two five weeks after the refurbishment began.  And since the very first day we’d opened our doors, we’d been booked solid with clients, setting up future appointments sometimes as much as three months out.  If everything continued as it was, I knew Joy and I would be making a profit within six months.

At first, I’d been concerned about getting experienced hairdressers that would conform to my strict rules, but Joy had suggested working with the local beauty college and snagging the graduates as soon as they got their licenses.  Which I had to admit was a stroke of genius.  By getting beauticians straight out of school, I was able to guide and coach them in how to not only style hair but also in the ways of customer service, in gaining a referral and building up a client list.  As Joy so succinctly put it, ‘Better to do the training, than to have to re-teach.’  And I couldn’t’ve agreed more.

I was at the beauty college so often, Delia Martin, the Director asked if I’d be interested in teaching a master class one night a week.  Since I was licensed as a Master Colorist, it was an easy role for me to step into, giving me and Luscious Two even more cache in Missoula.  Not to mention, Delia had become my first female friend since my relocation.

But I had to admit most of the success of the shop was due to the Hellion Honeys who had no problem raving about their hair to any and all that would listen.  More than a few of them had also dragged their men in for styling, providing me with ample opportunity to teach my new hires about man-scaping, especially with regards to facial hair.  Even the Honeys from the Billings chapter made a point of coming into the shop whenever they were in town, which had Joy and I talking over the idea of a Luscious Three somewhere in the future.

Our custody hearing had been scheduled for February, that Mr. Cranston, my attorney said was a miracle brought on only because Stan and I had settled our differences, set up a visitation schedule that we both agreed with and were not looking for any sort of monetary compensation.  And I was good with our agreement to the point of even filing papers to have Stan listed on J.R.’s birth certificate.

J.R. had easily settled into the local middle school and had made a ton of friends in just a few weeks.  I was afraid he was going to be labeled as the ‘new kid’ and would be subjected to a lot of bullying but when he let it be known that his dad was a Hellion, his social status within the ranks of the other early teens was secured.

And he spent a lot of time with Stan, whether in our house or Stan’s since neither one of us minded where our boy spent his time as long as both of us knew where he was.  To tell the truth, I kind of liked it in that I could do my thing and Stan his, but that J.R. always had a parent available if he needed one of us.

When I reviewed it all, I felt I really couldn’t complain since on the whole, things were going really well.

Looking at my reflection in the window over the sink, I admitted that wasn’t entirely true.

I did have a complaint.

A complaint that had to do with my bedroom and the lack of companionship within it.

Or rather, the lack of
steady
companionship. 

Because for some weird reason, Stan and I had taken to getting together every so often.  Only often enough to take the edge off, but not often enough to be considered a regular thing.  If I were to guesstimate, I’d say we’d done it five, no, six times since J.R. and I had arrived.

Like I said.  It was only every so often.

The first time we’d done it when J.R. and I were still living in the hotel, it had been a fluke.  One fueled by me consuming too much alcohol.  So I discounted that episode, even as I treasured it’s memory.

But the first time we did it in my new place, it was actually all J.R.’s fault.  All because my kid, knowing his dad was having his bathroom redone, had offered up our place rather than have him staying in one of the rooms at the compound (…and every time I heard the word ‘compound’ my mind immediately went to ‘fuck bunnies’.  A phrase Stan had used when we’d first worked out our visitation/joint custody issues!). 

Since my house had two full bathrooms as well as a cute half-bath tucked just behind the living room, comprised of only a sink and a toilet, I couldn’t disagree with Stan using one of ours until his place was finished.

I just didn’t know that he would want to use the
master
bath, or what I thought of as
my
bathroom.

And, from what I understand now, he had been using it for several mornings before I finally clued in.

Sundays were my days to sleep in, the only day I got to revel in having nowhere to be at any specific time.  Mornings that were the highlight of my week because I could wakeup, glance at the clock and snuggle back down into the covers to catch another couple of hours of snooze-time before starting my day.

It was on one such Sunday morning that I heard my bedroom door open, then close before I heard the shower in my bathroom turn on.  And it was the sound of the water that had my eyes popping open, my body fully stilling beneath the thick comforter.

J.R. is at a sleepover
, I reminded myself and a bolt of fear shot through me. 
So just who the hell is in my shower?

I slithered out from underneath the covers and as quietly as possible reached for my robe before reaching for J.R.’s old wooden bat that I kept tucked underneath the bed.  Kept as a weapon, as insurance for just such an occasion as having an unwanted someone in my house.