One step, then another, and he was close enough to be certain of the man’s identity. Gunny. Fuck me. Scanning the picture, he saw plenty of other faces he knew, too. It looked like half the Fort Wayne chapter was in this picture; every face turned towards her held a welcoming expression. Gunny’s woman, Sharon, had her arms around the woman’s waist, tucking herself tight against Vanna’s side. Interesting. Intending to ask her about her association with the Rebels, he turned to walk to the kitchen only to pull up short. She was standing a few feet behind him, and he knew she’d gotten a look at his back patch from the look of startled recognition on her face.
“You’re a Rebel,” she said quietly, more a statement than a question and he stared at her.
Then, with a chin lift, he acknowledged what appeared to be her status with the club. Friend of the club. A trusted friend, based on what he saw in the picture. One of few non-family folks invited to a wedding held in the backlot behind the Fort’s clubhouse last year. He hadn’t been there, but had seen all the pictures posted to social media of Hoss kissing Hope, her swollen belly between them, her boy beside them. Instant family, something his brother needed for a long time without even knowing it. Vanna was a friend of the club, which meant even if he was so inclined, she wasn’t available for a romp. Not even if they found themselves graced with a mutual attraction.
Glancing around, he stopped for a moment as he stared at the other picture, surprised to recognize this group, too. Blackie standing next to his old lady, Peaches, with Vanna, head thrown back in laughter, while lounging on a blanket to one side of the pool in Blackie’s backyard. The Texas-based Freed Riders were friendly with the Rebels, and she had somehow bridged the gap between the two clubs, finding what looked like firm footing in both camps.
That was a feat, even for someone accustomed to navigating the political waters ever rough between clubs. Dark swirls concealing sinkholes around territory claims and members’ egos; hell, even the color of a club’s patch could be fast-flowing fodder for arguing. Yet here she was in two pictures…in two camps, laughing, friendly and comfortable.
Damn, I want to know more about this woman, he thought, gaze lingering for a moment on the picture, tracing over her charms exposed by the modest swimsuit worn as she lay in the brilliant Texas sunshine.
As he finished turning, his gaze fell on an old-fashioned record player placed on top of the oak cabinet in the corner that held her TV and accompanying electronic equipment. Putting aside all his questions, he looked over at her and asked with a grin, “Vanna, are you a closet vinyl fanatic?” Chuckling at her happy nod, he reached out and then paused, waiting politely to ask, “May I? I’d love to hear the wax poetic tonight.”
At her softly voiced, “Yes, of course,” he lifted the cover, noting the record-filled cardboard sleeves stacked nearby. With pleasure he saw the top selection was a Christmas album, and retrieved it to place on the platter. Lifting the tonearm and holding his breath in anticipation, he set the needle carefully at the outer edge of the grooves pressed into the wax.
Silence for a moment, then soft chiming led into the timeless words of ‘Silver Bells’ sung by Jerry Vale. “Oh, darlin’, I approve.” He looked at her, seeing that gentle smile still in place on her full lips and he couldn’t help himself. Extending his hand, he told her, “Dance with me. You have to, Vanna. It’s practically a law, darlin’. A waltz demands it.”
Her laughter filled the air and he abruptly found it hard to breathe because hearing it struck a chord deep inside him. Seeing the look on her face in the picture as she laughed was beautiful, but hearing it…oh God…hearing it was stunning.
She reached to grasp his hand and settled in, palm to palm. He used the connection to pull her closer, settling his other hand firmly on her back. Looking down, he moved, swaying to the music, the simple box step of the waltz not requiring much of his attention. That stayed firmly on the woman leaning so trustingly into him, her form nestled tight. He gripped her hand in warning, and then used it to push and turn her, twirling her out and then with the same grip drew her back, her hand slipping familiarly into place along his shoulder when she was pressed against his front again.