Page 20 of Size Queen
“Give me an example.”
“Let’s say someone stole your car and then ended up totaling it. How would you respond?”
I want to give him a good, sincere response, but I don’t want to come off the wrong way. I shrug. “I’ve never had something that bad happen to me like that. I really don’t know what I would do.”
“All right, forget your car getting totaled,” he muses. “Let’s say you owned a studio downtown that modeling agencies rented out.”
I chuckle. “Okay.”
“Then, one day, a modeling agency starts using your building without your permission and refuses to pay you, and they were smug and arrogant about it. You can’t go to the police.”
“Why can’t I go to the police?”
He ponders for a few seconds before replying, “They threaten you and everyone you love.”
“Okay,” I accept blindly. “So, what’s the question?”
“What do you do to the squatters?”
I shrug again. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’d ever own a building, either.”
He slides his plate and mug away from him before continuing.
“I don’t like to talk with people outside of the club about club business,” says Damon. “Rolling Heads, I mean.”
“I figured.”
“My gang, my boys… we get into all sorts of trouble. There are real dangers whenever you roll with the Rolling Heads. I’m the president, so I see it all.”
I nod along, trying not to vividly envision what he means by “danger.”
“Most of the time, people see the bike, the jacket, or both, and they don’t bother us,” he says. “I don’t demand respect from people I don’t know. Just let us be us, and we let you be you. Just don’t fuck with us.”
I think he can tell he’s pushing me away; not physically or literally, but the more he speaks of his club, the more apprehensive I become about the prospect of that potential “repeat of last night.”
“I also believe in having at least one full day in the week where you do whatever the hell you want,” Damon says. “I guess it’s kind of like a Sabbath kind of thing, but it doesn’t have to be church.”
“Have you ever been in love?” I ask.
This topic of conversation makes him more uncomfortable than the implication of violent revenge.
“It’s just—you said you believed in soul mates,” I add.
“I’m not uncomfortable talking about love,” he says slowly. “I just don’t like thinking of the past. They’re called exes for a reason, you know?”
“I do know, unfortunately,” I agree. “So, you have had strong feelings, shall we say, about other girls before.”
“I’ve had strong feelings for a couple of realwomenbefore,” he retorts. “I might sleep with a lot of girls, but it’s only a woman that gets the password to my Wi-Fi.”
We laugh and finish up our breakfasts.
“So, what does a girl have to do to get your phone number?” I ask with desire in my voice and my eyes.
“Allyouhave to do is ask nicely.” He stands and takes my plate.
“I’ve got shoots this weekend,” I say without knowing for certain if that’s true or not. “I’m not sure what all you’re doing this week, but if you were serious about… you know, meeting up again…”
He puts the plates and mugs in the sink as quickly as possible so that he can take me in his arms and passionately kiss me, holding me close to him. I never want it to end, but like all good things, eventually our lips part.