Excerpt of A Different Kind of Man by Suzanne Cox

THUNDERING MOTORCYCLE ENGINES caused Jackson's

beer mug to vibrate on the smeared copper bar. He twisted the frosty glass, then took a swig. Someone put money in the jukebox, sending an old Guns n' Roses tune blasting. For a biker bar, Sal's was all right.

From the road, it appeared to be a quaint restaurant, with French doors across the front and back walls. Maybe the place had once done time as a fine dining establishment, but now it was more of a beer, pizza and burger joint.

Outside, someone whooped as the definitive thump, thump of another arriving Harley-Davidson filled the air. Jackson glanced through one of the open doors just in time to see a motorcycle come to a stop in the parking lot. He sat up straighter, staring. Royal-blue paint etched with a red scrollwork design covered the gas tank and fenders. The rest of the bike sparkled with shining chrome. Whoever owned that bike certainly hadn't purchased it straight from the store. At the moment, the owner, or at least the rider, of that racy machine claimed his undivided attention.

"Definitely, a custom job," Jackson said under his breath. "Doc ain't gonna ride nothin' but."

He jerked around to see the large, burly bartender standing across from him. The guy scratched his ragged beard then leaned nearer. "I guess you were talkin"

"bout the motorcycle. But now, Doc's a custom job herself." He winked then clomped to the other end of the bar to wait on someone.

Jackson couldn't help but be captivated by the driver of the flashy motorcycle. She settled the kickstand in place and slung her leg over the bike. There was absolutely nothing but legs, forever. Bare legs. Her cutoff denim shorts were short. Not indecent, he had to admit, but really short. Underneath her thick leather jacket, he saw flashes of a blue-and-red shirt with the same design as the motorcycle. He wasn't surprised at all to see that the bandanna tied around her head also matched the paint job.

Realizing he hadn't breathed for a moment, Jackson gulped in air followed by beer. Checking out women was not why he was in this bar. He'd planned to ride his Harley and investigate his new hometown. Cypress Landing, Louisiana, was a far cry from Chicago, but it was just what he needed. Sitting high on the east bank of the Mississippi River, it was a place where people seemed to be able to know their neighbors. Calm and quiet, that's what he wanted. Chicago held nothing but a life and memories better left behind.

The woman, along with the other riders, crowded inside, shoving tables together as the waitress chatted with them. The biker girl pulled off her jacket, dropping it on the back of her chair, then tossed her thick brown braid across her shoulder. Legs weren't all she had going for her. She definitely had plenty of curves in all the right places. His hand tightened around his glass when a pair of almond-shaped green eyes caught him staring. Jackson realized he had spun sideways on his stool to watch her. Now, he was busted.

He could vaguely remember when he'd found it easy to attract a little female interest. What would it hurt to practice some of those old charms? He met her stare for a few seconds then gave a slow smile inclining his head. The green eyes narrowed, and the biker girl — Doc — frowned before dropping into her chair. Turning his back to their table, Jackson grabbed a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar. Possibly, his charms had rusted like an old lawn mower left neglected in the rain.

Using the mirror on the wall, he studied the small group directly behind him. A few of the other patrons in here appeared to have been straddling a bike since they were old enough to walk, and they sported the tattoos to prove it. With their clean-cut looks and expensive leather, Doc's group obviously didn't fall into that category. Much like himself, they had become representative of the new breed of motorcycle enthusiast, the middle-to-upper-class, college-educated biker. A friend in Chicago had convinced Jackson the bike could make a difference in his life. He guessed in a way it had. He'd decided to move here not long after the purchase.

He spotted the restroom sign over a hallway into which the jukebox had been shoved. He sighed. Attempting to exorcise the past from his mind every day exhausted him. He left his stool and headed to the restroom, squeezing by the big jukebox.

In the worn but decently clean bathroom, Jackson washed his hands without looking in the spotted mirror. A pair of shining green eyes would be all he saw and his eyes were brown. It was that woman. Why had her image locked itself in his mind? He hadn't thought twice about a woman in years, not since Christa.

He rolled his shoulders to loosen a bit of tension at the base of his neck, then shoved through the door as though hurrying would clear his head. Just as he reached the end of the hallway and prepared to squeeze by the jukebox, a figure in blue turned the corner. He tried to slow down and even made a grab for the glass in her hand, but he'd been traveling with much more purpose than he'd realized. The woman called Doc bounced off his chest and banged against the wall, her drink soaking the front of her shirt while her handful of coins clattered to the floor. Jackson gripped her shoulders in an effort to steady her. Even before he met her eyes, his body tightened in a gut reaction. Some kind of soft powdery scent, mixed with fresh air from her ride, floated around him. This woman had a presence. That was for sure. Their surroundings seemed to shrink into the background when he finally focused on those eyes.

Beneath his fingers she quivered like a scared puppy for a moment, then she wrenched from his grasp with a force that surprised him. The liquid remaining in her glass landed on the floor.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You could hurt somebody barreling down the hallway like that. Why don't you watch where you're going?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you." He squatted to round up her change. The bartender appeared beside them, and Jackson thought the guy smiled before he handed her a towel.

He frowned at Jackson. "You need to be more careful, big fella."

"Thanks for the towel, Mick," Doc called as the man lumbered away.

"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't see you. I didn't mean to make you spill your drink."

"Or knock me into the wall?"

"No, I didn't mean that, either." He didn't know what else to say. It had been an accident. She scrubbed at her wet shirt while Jackson wondered what to do next.

"I'm really sorry."

"You said that already."

He had, but she hadn't accepted it.

"Why don't you go and cause someone else trouble?"

Did bumping into someone always make her this mad? Of course, her soaked shirt wouldn't help her mood and she might even have a lump on her head, considering how hard she'd banged it against the wall. "You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" He lifted his hand in an attempt to check her for injury.

She jerked away, her arm raised defensively. "Don't touch me."

He took a half-step back. "I'm just concerned. I'm not trying to hurt you."

"Yeah, well, just give me the money."

Her voice carried in a temporary lull in conversations and a few people looked their way. She scuffed the toe of her boot almost self-consciously and stuck out her open hand.

Jackson quit any attempts to respond and emptied the coins in her palm. What kind of person went berserk when someone bumped into her? She began dropping coins in the jukebox. He had to wait until she finished because he couldn't get past her without knocking her into the machine. The idea was tempting after her rudeness, but she remained stiff, tense, as though waiting to spring into action if he should try to get past. That's when he noticed it. Her fingers trembled slightly each time they deposited money into the slot. When the last coin dropped, she left.

He returned to his seat hoping there wouldn't be more trouble from her friends. He didn't know how or why he'd upset her. But he had.

In front of him, the bartender set a fresh beer on the counter. "Looks like you need this."

What was the guy's name? Rick? No, Mick. "Mick, I didn't mean to cause trouble."

"Aw, Doc ain't hurt. She'll get over it. She just gets a little wired up over some stuff."

"I'd like to buy her another glass of whatever she's drinking, since I spilled most of the one she had."

"That ain't gonna help. "Sides, I took her one already."

"Yeah, well, what else can I do?"

Mick shrugged then filled a glass with soda and left the bar. In the mirror, Jackson saw him place the glass on the table with a few words. The woman only shoved the full glass to the center of the table. He couldn't be sure why he felt disappointed. The whole jukebox thing was a misunderstanding and he didn't like being misunderstood.

When the bartender returned, Jackson reached for his wallet.

"Don't worry, her drink's on the house. And don't leave yet."

"Why?"

Mick bent to rinse a glass, using a clean towel to pat it dry. "The races will start in about an hour."

"What races?"

"Every Saturday afternoon folks show up here with their bikes and race on the old highway, just the other side of the store. Sometimes there's even a little friendly betting."

Motorcycle races sounded interesting. What else did he have to do but go stare at half-unpacked boxes?