Two Princes: The Biker and The Billionaire Read online

  “Pffffft. Doubt it.”

  “So you could eat?”

  She grinned. “Have I ever said no?”

  “We still talkin’ food?”

  She played at smacking his bicep. “Are you saying I’m slutty? Right now I say no to everyone, but you.”

  “As it should be.”

  “Do you?”

  Brant glanced at his passenger and saw that she was serious. “Garland, I haven’t even thought about being with anybody else since the day you turned up lost and hitched a ride in a cart. Jesus Christ. Don’t you know that?”

  She smiled with bright satisfaction and nodded slightly. “I wanted to hear you say it.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For lunch. Remember?”

  “Do not speak to me as if I have dementia. I’m a Dartmouth graduate.”

  “So you are. Do they teach question evasion at Dartmouth?”

  “Something hot. Spicy hot.”

  He smiled. “I know just the place.”

  He pulled into a roadside dump with a tin roof and a sign hand painted in irregular letters, Ragin Cajun.

  The place was open air with a stained concrete floor. Big ceiling fans turned lazy revolutions, fast enough to move the air around, but not fast enough to blow napkins off laps. The table tops were made of something that looked like gray plastic linoleum.

  “You sure it’s safe to eat here?” She looked ready to run.

  Brant laughed and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Pussy.”

  “Don’t start with the name calling because you know it will not end well for you.”

  “Feisty.” He smiled and guided her to a table in the back.

  “Must be seat yourself.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded toward the chair in front of her. “So sit those very fine hindquarters down in that chair there and grab a menu.”

  Garland gave her order to a waiter with red sauce on his apron and a missing front tooth. She asked for the tamest thing she could find on the menu. Grilled chicken. Boiled potatoes. Corn on the cob.

  “I thought you wanted spicy.”

  She looked around at the lunch clientele. “This place is plenty spicy. So you were going to tell me what you’re thinking you’ll do next.”

  He grabbed a hot hush puppy out of the basket that had just been set on their table. “You know that GTO I told you about? My next hobby car?” She nodded. “Well I got to thinkin’ about how much money I make whenever I restore a classic car and sell it. Then I was thinkin’ that if I took all the hours I spend workin’ at a shop and spent that time on the business of makin’ hobby cars for rich guys, I’d make more money than I have been.” He took a swig of beer. “And I’d be my own man.”

  “That’s a phenomenal idea. Phenomenal and entrepreneurial.”

  “I can use the shop at the club, which means I won’t have any overhead.”

  “The club?”

  “I never told you about the club?” He looked down at the hush puppies. “Huh. Well, I know I told you my family lives close by.”

  “You did tell me that, yes.”

  “So.” He cleared his throat. “Here’s the thing. My dad is really involved in a motorcycle club. In fact, he’s the president.”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean like Hell’s Angels. He’s in charge of a gang?”

  “It’s not a gang. It’s a club. And no. It’s not like Hell’s Angels. Exactly.”

  “How close is not exactly?”

  “Well, income opportunities may not always be completely above board.”

  “Oh God.”

  “No. Don’t get me wrong. It’s nothing that would hurt people. Sometimes the law meddles in people’s lives when it shouldn’t.”

  She stared. “I’m afraid to ask for details.”

  “Wouldn’t do you any good, because I don’t know details. I’m not a member.”

  “No?’

  “Nope.”

  “Why?”

  Brant looked at her expectant face for a long time before answering.

  “There’s a difference between what’s legal and what’s moral.” She nodded her agreement. “Since I can make enough money to cover my needs, it seemed pointless to take a chance on a jail sentence.”

  “Jail?”

  Brant nodded. “Yeah. My old man did two stints at Huntsville while I was growin’ up. Every time he left, he was somebody else when he came back. Decided pretty early on it wasn’t for me.

  “Dad formed the club with six other guys who’d been to Nam. It’s grown. They’re about seventeen now. Plus a couple more who aren’t full-fledged members yet.”

  Garland still looked as wide-eyed as if she’d just come upon the James Gang, which made Brant chuckle. “You curious?”

  She closed her mouth and thought about it. “Well, yeah. I think I am.”

  “How curious?”

  “Where’s this going?”

  “Well, next Friday night they’re havin’ a Pig Party.”

  Garland narrowed her eyes. “You mean where all the guys bring the ugliest woman they can find and the one with the ugliest gets a prize?”

  It was Brant’s turn to look wide-eyed. “Uh no. I mean where we roast a pig and eat barbeque sandwiches.”

  “Oh. Okay. Go on.”

  “Everybody will be there. My friends and my family. Naturally, I’d love a chance to show you off.”

  “So it’s just sandwiches? No arrests? No pictures for the papers?”

  He laughed softly and crossed his heart. “Scouts’ honor.”

  “You were a Scout?”

  “Absolutely. Do your best. That’s the motto.”

  “Are you making that up?”

  “No!” He laughed. “That’s the motto. My mom was a Cub Scout Den Mother. Do they really have parties where guys bring ugly women for prizes?”

  “Unfortunately yes. Sometimes money creates a veneer of gentility that scratches off easier than a lottery ticket.”

  “You’ve bought lottery tickets,” he said drily.

  “We used to get them as prizes for stupid stuff at sorority parties.”

  “What kind of stupid stuff?”

  “Okay, well, going with the pig theme… you might get a prize for being the one who could sing “I Want Your Sex” with a pig mask on.”

  Brant stared at Garland for a full minute before saying, “Babe. You and I come from two different worlds.”

  “Right now that doesn’t matter to me. When it’s just the two of us together, the rest is just…”

  He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Just what?”

  “Not important.”

  Brant reached over and ran his finger down her cheek. “So you’re in for a Pig Party?”

  She grinned. “Do I ever say no?”

  He threw some money down on the table and said, “I’m hopin’ not today. Let’s get out of here.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Brant had enough money saved to live on for a while without needing to earn. Knowing the end of summer was closing in like an executioner made him want to spend every second he could with the heiress either in his bed or on the back of his bike. He and Garland spent the heat of the days in the cool dark cocoon of his bedroom. Mornings and evenings, he showed her all the reasons why he loved Austin and explained why he couldn’t see himself ever living anywhere else.

  When they foraged for food, Garland insisted that Brant try curry. He insisted that she try crawfish. They learned the only thing that they could agree on wholeheartedly was Mexican food. And Brant’s Hamburger Helper.

  Garland loved going out on the bike at night. She reveled in the way the warm air seemed to turn soft when they sped through the darkness. Sometimes she wished she could freeze moments and simply remain in stasis, preserving the feeling forever.

  On Thursday, the day before the club party, Brant received an unexpected phone call.

  “This is David St. Germaine. I’m Garland’s
father.”

  “I know who you are. What do you want?” Brant was unapologetically hostile.

  “This is more about what you want. It’s occurred to me that you might want something more from my daughter than a tawdry summer fling. So I think it’s time we talked face to face.”

  “I can’t think of one reason why that would interest me.”

  “Because you care about Garland.”

  Brant paused. “Where and when?”

  “Tonight at the Headliners Club. It’s…”

  “I know where it is.”

  “Well, aren’t you full of surprises? Eight o’clock. I’ll send a car.”

  “Send a car if you want, but I’ll be drivin’ my own.”

  “If you prefer.”

  He saw a flash of disappointment on Garland’s face when he told her he had something to do that night, but she covered it up quickly.

  “Sure. I need some time to figure out what I’m wearing to the, um, party at your club.”

  “Not my club, babe.”

  “Okay. At your dad’s club then. So. Any hints? What do women wear to these things?”

  When he got an image of what women wore to club parties, he could have kicked his own ass for having ever suggested taking Garland. He was busy thinking of new ways to call himself an idiot, when he realized Garland was talking.

  “Hello? What should I wear?”

  “We’ll be on the bike. So wear those jeans that I like so much.”

  “The tight ones.”

  “Yeah. Those.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Is it a topless party or do you want me to wear something in addition to jeans?”

  He stared at her dumbly, thinking she didn’t know how close she was when she suggested that it might be a topless party. Jesus, he was a dumb son-of-a-bitch.

  “How about that pink thing?”

  She looked confused. “The rose-colored halter top?”

  “Yeah. That’s the one. But wear a jacket over it for ridin’.”

  “I know the drill. You look jumpy, Brant. What’s wrong?”

  “What? Nothin’. Come on. Let’s get you home.”

  Brant arrived at Headliners at five past eight. He hoped he’d be making David St. Germaine wait for him.

  “Lookin’ for David St. Germaine.”

  The maitre d’ looked him up and down. “Mr. Fornight?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll need a jacket. I believe we have something you can borrow.”

  The man disappeared behind a door that was disguised as raised-grain paneling, but returned in under a minute with a black coat that fit Brant like it had been made for him. It was the first time in his life that Brant had experienced having another man hold a coat for him, and he couldn’t say he particularly appreciated the experience. Nonetheless, he tried to be gracious and said, “Good eye,” in acknowledgment of fitting him perfectly with nothing more than a look.

  Magically one of the staff, who was wearing a white coat rather than black appeared at reception. “Mr. Fornight is Mr. St. Germaine’s guest. He’s already seated at 17.”

  “Right this way,” said white coat.

  Brant followed the waiter into the club. It had a regal ambience of money, success, and power. The walls of the outer rooms displayed framed historical events. Remington statues appeared here and there with such casual disregard that their presence assured members they had “arrived”.

  St. Germaine sat in a corner by a window that overlooked the Capitol, which was entirely lit at night. The view was stunning. He gestured toward the chair opposite him.

  The waiter said, “Would you care for menus now or may I get you something from the bar?”

  “Please bring my guest a drink. What will you have?”

  Brant looked at the waiter and, for some reason, remembered the waiter from the Ragin’ Cajun who was missing a tooth that, no doubt, had been tobacco-stained like the others.

  “Whiskey. Neat.”

  The waiter nodded once and left.

  “Not a cocktail man, hmmm?”

  “Not here for small talk. For the second time today, you’re forcin’ me to ask what you want.”

  “So you don’t like wasting time.”

  “I like wastin’ time. I just don’t like you.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll get to the point. I’ve asked you to meet me so that I can explain Garland.

  “She lives life at a level you can’t begin to imagine. You see this club? It’s the best your town has to offer. No doubt it’s the site of routine political deals that affect millions of lives. Maybe yours. Money changes hands here. Power changes hands here. And yet, to Garland, there’s nothing remarkable about having a drink in an exclusive place like this. If she were here, she’d probably be thinking this club is commonplace, nothing special.”

  Brant looked down at the thick white linen tablecloth and the china with emerald band and gold border.

  “That doesn’t sound like the Garland I know. She loves new experiences, even those that really are commonplace.”

  St. Germaine laughed out loud. “That’s just it. Don’t you get it? This is her norm. What you’re showing her is your norm. It’s all new to her, but that newness will wear off fast and she’ll be longing for the luxury and security of her real life.

  “She lives in a three story penthouse worth forty-two million dollars. She wears four-thousand-dollar dresses once and gives them to charity.” He sat back to assess the effect his words were having.

  Brant kept his features perfectly non-committal, although the picture Garland’s father painted caused his stomach to burn like it was full of acid. When Brant said nothing, he continued.

  “The private jet that brought her here, the one she’ll be leaving on in three weeks, belongs to me. I paid twenty-five million for it and don’t get me started on how much it costs to maintain it or fly it around, not to mention the crews’ salaries.

  “What I’m trying to tell you is that this is Garland’s center point. When she skis, it’s on snow in the Alps. Not behind a cheap boat on Lake Travis. How long do you think it would take for her to get tired of long necks and tacos?”

  St. Germaine seemed to be studying Brant’s reactions. That was why Brant was intent on not giving him any.

  “I’m sure the idea of someone like you is exciting to her. You’re a novelty, but fascination with novelties wears off very fast. Don’t you agree, Mr. Fornight?”

  Brant didn’t falter or look away. “It’s not important whether I agree or not, David. The only thing that matters is whether or not Garland agrees. Her future isn’t up to me. And it sure as fuck shouldn’t be up to you.”

  St. Germaine sat back with narrowed eyes. “I’m hoping we can arrive at an understanding like gentlemen. I’d hate to have to pull out any more stops.”

  “You’ve already taken my job and Garland’s transportation. What’s next?”

  “Remember when I said that all kinds of deals are made in places like this? Well, it might amaze you at how easy it would be for your father to be pulled over for a simple traffic violation, like say, a broken tail light. If he, a convicted felon, happened to be found in possession of a firearm, I understand that the sentence in Texas could be, what? Two to ten?”

  Brant’s blood was boiling like the juices in his stomach, but his eyes were ice cold and steady. “I haven’t asked Garland to stay here with me. But I will. And I hope like hell she understands that it’d be a shame for a girl as special as she is to have to live in the gutter with you and your kind.”

  He stood, took off the jacket, dropped it on the chair, and walked out.

  The next night, Brant picked Garland up at eight o’clock. She’d been listening for the distinctive rumble of the Harley and came running out the door like he was back from a war. Her exuberance was just one of the things he loved about her.

  At that time of year the sun wouldn’t set for another hour. So Brant
got the full visual experience of Garland in her rose-colored halter top with a hem that floated around her hips like magic. The thing left her shoulders bare and shiny from the healthy tan she kept by swimming every day. He loved running kisses over the smooth skin of those shoulders, but was regretting telling her to wear that, as he imagined fighting guys off of her. His eyes touched on the slight hint of cleavage and ran over her hair, which was pulled into a braid that highlighted the white-blonde highlights she’d gotten from the combination of sun and pool. But what made him instantly hard was the extra flush in her cheeks that said she was sincerely glad to see him.

  “I look okay?”

  Brant snorted. “Fishin’ for compliments?”

  “How else am I going to get any?”

  He turned over his shoulder. “No. You don’t look okay. You look like a dream.”

  “A good one.”

  He laughed about the fact that she was pushing for clarification. “Listen. About tonight. Sometimes the parties get a little wild.”

  “No arrests. No photos.”

  “I think we can manage that. But stay with me. Don’t go wandering off.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, ah, sometimes local girls come to the parties because they want to find out what it’s like to be with, you know, somebody rough around the edges. If you’re not with me, you could be mistaken for one of them. I’m not sayin’ you’d be in danger, but assumptions might be made.”

  “I get the picture. Glued to your side. Will you hold my hand if I need to go to the little girls’ room?”

  “No. But I will stand outside the door.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  When they pulled past the gates and parked the bike, Garland took off her jean jacket.

  “You can leave that here. It’ll be safe,” Brant said.

  She nodded then pulled the elastic that was holding her braid away and finger combed her hair out. It had been wet when she braided it and the air had dried it on the way over. The result was a fall resplendent with shiny waves that made her look like a goddess.

  “You’re staring,” she said.