MYSTERIOUS LOVER #1: FALCONE

P R O L O G U E

When a hand lightly touched the small of my back, I felt the sheets glide down my body. It seemed as though the blood flowing through its veins was moving more quickly than the blood of a typical guy since it was so warm and hot.

I wouldn't be shocked if this were true.

It was dark when I opened my eyes. When he came to see me, it was usually dark.

When he showed there, I had a moment like every other moment. An interval of reason. There was a time when my thoughts told me to close my eyes, speak out loud, and order him to go.

I knew he would, though, if I did. He remained silent. He would go with the same level of silence with which he had arrived.

And then he'd never come back.

But that was the proper thing to do. That was a wise decision. The sensible thing to do.

And I was seriously considering it. I considered doing it every time.

Then I felt his weight on the bed, his body extending out next mine, he pulled me into him, I opened my lips to talk, and before I could even do the sensible thing, his mouth was on mine.

I didn't think for the next two hours.

But I felt. I felt a lot.

And all I felt was good.

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When his shadow began to move into the room, it was still dark.

I was in bed, watching him as he moved. He remained silent. It was strange. There was stillness other than the rustle of clothing.

I could see he had manly elegance even as a shadow. men with strength and elegance. That was also strange. If there were such a thing, seeing my mysterious lover dress himself was like witnessing a fierce, masculine dance. Of course, when he came to visit, there wasn't somewhere except in my bedroom. No, as he was about to depart.

I should sell tickets since it was so amazing. But I would have to share if I did. I've probably already told half of Metro Manila, and they're all receiving their own solo show. That was enough to screw with my brain, along with the fact that he came at all; I let him come, then he made me come, and then he came. Then, as is often the case, repeat.

I wasn't interested in revealing any more than I already had.

I watched as he shifted to the bed. He knelt down, his hand on my knee, his fingers wrapping around the back, and he kissed my hip tenderly, his lips skimming across my flesh, making me quiver. The blankets were then pushed up my body to my waist, where he was dumped.

I was primarily on my tummy, with my hand tucked under my face on the pillow. His body went in that way, his fingers slid under my hair, softly tugging it back, and his lips pressed on my ear.

"Later, baby girl," he said quietly.

"Later," I said quietly.

His head moved inexorably, and his lips caressed the area behind my ear, then his tongue touched there.

That caused my skin to tingle as well, causing my entire body to shudder.

He drew the blankets up to my shoulder.

Then he turned and walked away.

There was no sound, not even the door opening and closing. He had just left. As if he hadn't even been there.

That's insane.

I stood there staring at my bedroom door for a long. My body was warm, satiated, and exhausted. My thoughts were not the same.

I flipped around, put the blankets about my nude body, and glanced at the ceiling.

I didn't even know what his name was.

"God," I said, "I'm such a slut."

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C H A P T E R O N E

I was using my computer at my home office the next morning.

I ought to have been at my job. In the upcoming two weeks, I had three deadlines, and I hadn't even started the job yet. I worked as a contract editor. I was paid per hour, and I didn't get paid if I didn't work that hour.

I had my own mouth to feed. I needed to dress a body that enjoyed wearing many types of clothing and sought them; else, bad things may happen. I am addicted to cosmo, and the cosmos was not really cheap. In addition, I am remodeling a house.

I, therefore, had to be compensated.

That wasn't exactly accurate, but... I wasn't doing any housework. My Dad helped with part of the labor. My pal Enrico worked on other projects. I should clarify that I had a house that I had people fix up by using emotional coercion, guilt trips, and begs.

However, it still required repair, and the tile and cabinets that came from Home Depot, Lowe's, and other retailers did not march into my home and announce, "We would really like to live with you, Giabella Gomez, fix us to your walls!"

That only occurred in my numerous, often daydream-like dreams, of which I had many.

I was fantasizing about my Mysterious Lover, the Great ML, and fantasized about altering our first encounter while I sat at my computer with one heel on the seat, my chin resting on my knee, and my eyes fixed on the window. He professed his eternal love for me because I was smarter, funnier, more mysterious, seductive, and fascinating. I also hooked him with my rapier wit, conversational skills, ability to talk politics and current affairs intelligently, and my humble stories of extensive charitable work.

Or at the very least, give me his name.

I was obviously not any of those; instead, I was intoxicated.

My complex daydream, which was starting to become nice, was interrupted when my doorbell went off, first with a chime and then a clang.

I then stood up and left my office, making a mental note to phone Enrico and ask him to fix my doorbell in exchange for a six-pack and a handmade pizza. Though I had originally planned to contact my Dad, I changed my mind because this may imply that he would bring his unpleasant, whining, continuously complaining new girlfriend.

When I reached the bottom of my stairs, I entered my spacious living room and proceeded to ignore the state of it. Fix Up Chic had been used to decorate it, so there were dust rags, paint brushes, power tools, not-so-power tools, cans and tubes of practically everything, all of which were disorganized and dusted with dust. I considered it progress when I managed to go across the area without raising my hands to my head, clutching my hair, or yelling.

I arrived at the entrance, which was bounded by two slender walls that were each adorned with exquisite stained glass.

That stained glass was my downfall two years ago.

I took one step inside this dilapidated wreck of a house two years ago, around six months and two weeks before I met my Mysterious Lover, noticed the stained glass, turned to the agent, and said, "I'll take it."

The realtor's expression had changed.

Even before entering the home, my father raised his eyes to the sky. He prayed for a very long time. His speech was lengthy.

I nonetheless purchased the home.

I should have actually listened to my father as usual.

I peeked out the door's thin side window and noticed Arlene, my sister's friend, standing there.

Shit.

Holy shit, Holy shit, Holy shit.

I despised Arlene, and she despised me. What on earth is she here and ringing up my doorbell?

I looked behind her to check whether my sister was hidden or lurking in the shrubs. I wouldn't be surprised if Isabelle and Arlene jumped me, tied me to the stairwell, and looted my house. This was how Isabelle and Arlene spent their days in my darkest fantasies. This, I was certain, was not far from the truth. It's not a joke.

Her eyes came to me at the window, her face screwed up, making what might be attractive, if she used a lighter touch with the black eyeliner and blush, and her lip liner wasn't a completely different shade than her lip gloss, not so pretty.

"I see you!" she said, and I moaned.

Then I walked to the door because Arlene would yell at the house, and I loved my neighbors; they didn't need a ten thirty in the morning, biker bitch from hell standing on my doorstep and yelling at the house.

I opened it only little and walked to stand between it and the jamb, my hand on the handle.

"Hello Arlene," I said, trying to seem nice and happy with myself.

"F*ck 'hello,' is Isabelle here?" said Arlene.

See! She spent her entire day looting.

I had to work hard to keep my eyes from rolling.

"No," I said.

"She's here, you better tell me," she cautioned, then turned to face me and yelled, "Isabelle! Witch, if you're in there, you better get out here right frickin' now!"

"Keep your voice down, Arlene!" I yelled.

She craned her neck and jumped on her toes, shouting,

"Isabelle! Isabelle, you crazy, foolish witch! Get your butt out here!"

"Seriously, Arlene, shut your freaking mouth up! Isabelle isn't here. Isabelle is never here. So shut up and leave," I said as I shoved out the door, pushing her back.

"You shut up," she snapped back. "And you get smarter. You're helping her..." She lifted her hand, pointing her finger at me, thumb extended upwards, then hooked her thumb and produced a gunshot noise that blew up her cheeks and made her lips tremble.

If the serious as shit expression in her eye wasn't frightening the snot out of me, I would have taken a time to think about how wonderful she was with vocal sound effects.

So, instead of praising her on the one genuine gift I knew she possessed, I said, "What?"

She dropped her hand, stood up on her motorcycle boots, and muttered softly, "D-e-a-d, dead. You and your sister, if you don't get wise. You get me?"

Then I asked a stupid question because it was commonly asked and there was always just one answer, yes.

"Is Isabelle in any sort of trouble?"

Arlene looked at me as if I had a loose screw. Then she elevated her hand, made the gun sound effect, and aimed her finger at my head. She then turned around and walked down my front stairs quickly.

I was standing on my front porch, looking at her. She was dressed in motorcycle boots, a snugly tank top, an unzipped, black leather motorcycle jacket, a short, tattered jeans skirt, black fishnet tights, and motorcycle boots, all of which are illegal in some countries due to various reasons, including fashion and decency. It was also about twenty degrees outside. Not even a hoodie was worn by her.

My sister and Arlene's sound effect sounded in my remainder of my mind as well.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

C H A P T E R T W O

I tried to convince myself that this was a good plan as I drove my vehicle, but I knew that my first plan-the one in which, once Arlene departed and I returned to my house, I walked immediately to the phone and contacted my father-was the best one and that this one was stupid.

However, Isabelle had long since been abandoned by my father and his wife Mama Melinda. About ten seconds after they returned from their Boracay vacation and lost their island vacation spirit, they saw their daughter on her knees in the living room with her head in between legs of a bare-chested man, whose jeans were open and whose head lolled on the back of the couch because he was passed out. Isabelle was so high on whatever she was taking that she was unaware her activities were futile.

In addition, both the living room and the rest of the house were a complete mess.

This anecdote should have shown you how reluctant I was to involve my father in another Isabelle-related crisis. In particular, this wasn't my worst story; it was only the last one I had to tell Dad and Mama Melinda. I didn't want to upset their present easygoing, Isabelle-free lifestyle since I didn't want to disturb them.

I chose not to dial Dad as a result.

I instead considered Big Ben, Isabelle's boyfriend. The roughest of the rough, Big Ben belonged to a biker gang. However, I knew Big Ben and liked him. Big Ben liked my sister and thought she was humorous.

When she was with him, she changed. She wasn't much, but at least she was pleasant.

Okay, so Big Ben was probably a felon, but despite how ironic it was, he had a positive impact on Isabelle, and that didn't happen very frequently, if ever. Not in twenty years, unfortunately. Arlene, Isabelle's lone friend, gave me the heads-up that Isabelle's problems were a little worse than usual, so I had to take action right away and, because this was Isabelle, call for reinforcements or, even better, lay the blame at their door.

Enter, Big Ben.

I took my car to the an auto supply store and parked on the street. Even before I met Big Ben, I was aware of this establishment and realized it was definitely a front for a motorcycle gang's shady activities. I had gone there since I could always find a reason to go shopping. It was named Grind. Yet Grind was fantastic. It contained several nice things. There, I purchased my windshield wiper fluid. They were the greatest vehicle mats I've ever had when I purchased new ones there last year. And when I was in my early twenties and passing through one of my many stages, I also went there and purchased a fluffy, pink cover for my steering wheel and a sparkly, pink Playboy Bunny thingie to hang from my rear view mirror in an effort to spruce up my vehicle.

Everybody is also aware that Grind had a triple-bay garage in the rear, but that it wasn't for standard automobiles and motorbikes. It was renowned across the world for its custom-built automobiles and motorbikes. They were quite cool and constructed motorcycles and automobiles. I had read an article on the location in a magazine. From the photographs, I could see why movie stars and other famous people bought cars and bikes there. I wanted one but didn't have hundreds of thousands of pesos, so it was a little lower on my list of things I desire, right below a Jimmy Choo pair of shoes and right before a Tiffany's diamond bracelet.

I hoped my clothing were appropriate when I stepped out of my car and headed to Grind down the sidewalk. In addition to my motorcycle jacket, I was sporting low-rider jeans, flat boots, and a feminine ponytail at the top of my head. It wasn't like Arlene's, was it? It was made of faded tan leather, featured a six-inch tuft of fluffy fur at the sleeves, a short, cozy fur lining, a little quilting around the high waist, and was lined with fur. The bargain I received on it was even hotter than I imagined it was. However, I had reservations about the soft fur. I didn't believe bikers cared about animal rights; I felt it would be an insult to their brotherhood and they'd beat me up.

Welp! Nothing was risked, nothing was gained.

Even though the area may become crowded, I straightened my shoulders, strolled into the vast store, and turned directly to the large counter at the front that had one cash register. My objective was to inquire if anyone there knew how I might contact Big Ben because I didn't have his mobile number. Huge Ben, a tall, broad, heavily tattooed, long-haired man with blond hair, one other big, tough motorcycle guy, three others on the outside, and all of them turning to face me the moment I went in, were not what I had expected to see.

I yelled out with a smile, "Hey Big Ben," and started to approach him when his eyes snapped to mine.

Uh-oh.

His eyes narrowed and his expression didn't hide the fact that one look at me made him tremendously irritated.

"Do not shit me," he yelled, and I used the nanosecond before peeing my pants to attempt to recall the movements I'd learned in the one-and-a-half-hour self-defense class I'd taken.

When I didn't respond or move, Big Ben said again, "Do not come in here and fuckin' shit me."

"I'm not shitting you," I assured him, since I wasn't.

His brow furrowed. "Did she send you? That whore fucking sent you?"

Oh no, not again. Big Ben used the n-word. I suspected that the c-word wasn't as offensive in Biker Club as it was in the rest of the English-speaking world, but it still spoke a lot.

Big Ben spoke before I could. "Jesus, Gia, she sent you.

You've been warned: pull your head out of your ass, spin that gorgeous tail of yours, and get... outta... here."

Wow. Big Ben believed I had a fantastic tail. He was frightening me, but he wasn't completely repulsive, which I thought was great.

I concentrated on the task at hand, took a deep breath, and proceeded.

All of the bikers suddenly went on alert-or, to be more precise, frightening biker man alert-and I halted my movement.

"Isabelle didn't send me," I eventually informed Big Ben.

Big Ben answered, "I'm okay with you, baby, go."

"Arlene stopped by this morning and scared me out. She did this." I pulled my hand up and did the gun thing with the sound effect thing, and my gun blast was nothing near as excellent as hers, but I forged forward. "No, honestly, she didn't. She came across quite serious, so I thought I'd check in with you to see how Isabelle is doing."

Big Ben immediately replied, "Isabelle is not okay. Isabelle is not doing well at all."

I shut my eyes. I finally sighed. My sister made me sigh a lot, so I had experience and was good at it when I did it loudly. I then started to see.

"I assumed that you two were no longer dating."

Big Ben said, "No, darling, we're not.

Damn.

I questioned, "What did she do now?"

Big Ben said, "You don't want to know."

"Are the cops looking for her?"

"Probably."

I observed him. "But that's not the reason she's in danger?" I questioned.

"Isabelle is in a lot of trouble, but if the police are pursuing her, that's the least of her concerns."

"Oh boy," I said quietly.

"That's about right," Big Ben said, his gaze shifting over my shoulder.

I turned to see what he was staring at when a deep, gravelly voice said, "Who's this?"

Then I noticed him. I'm not a fan of bikers, but this man has me thinking about getting a Harley. He was of average height. He was wide and ripped, and none of those things were "ish." He had several tattoos on his arms and neck, which made me want to list and perhaps write books about them. I also wanted to inspect them closely. His hair was long and waved, but not too so. It was mostly black pepper, with a salt and pepper effect. The pepper on his salt and pepper goatee, which hung a little too long at his chin in a gigantic cool biker style, is similar. He also looked excellent with his cheeks looking like they had been neglected for a few days. Around his tan complexion and blue eyes, he had pale spikes radiating from his skin. All that was him could be summed up in just two words: Biker Yummy.

I said, "Hey," and as he turned from staring at Big Ben over my shoulder to me, my entire body shook.

It shuddered once again when his blue eyes scanned it.

They focused on me, and he hissed, "Hey," in a gravelly voice.

One more shudder

Yowza!

My body jerked in response to Big Ben's words, "Finn, she's okay. She's with me," and as I turned to face him, he was moving toward me from behind the counter.

I questioned, "I am?" but Big Ben's stare fixed me and commanded, "Shut the fuck up!" without saying a word.

I stopped talking and went back to Biker Hottie.

Biker Hottie questioned, "Does Sandra know about her?"

Big Ben, who was standing next to me, asked, "Sandra?"

Biker Hottie continued, "How many more bitches you need?

Big Ben responded, "She's not my girlfriend, brother; she's a friend of mine and she is absolutely cool,"

Biker Hottie, a.k.a. Finn, urged, "All right. So who is she?"

Big Ben said, "Her name is Giabella," and when Finn glanced at me, I froze.

Then I observed his lips gently say my name.

"Giabella."

One more shudder

I'd always been rather fond of my name. It has always been appealing to me.

I totally loved it after hearing Finn say it.

So, Giabella, who are you?" he boldly questioned.

I introduced myself to him "I.... ummm.... I am a friend of Big Ben,"

He told me, "We established that, darlin'. How do you know my guy here?"

Big Ben swiftly exclaimed, "She's Isabelle's sister," and Finn's entire, solidly built body suddenly went electric. It was so terrifying that I forgot how to breathe.

Finn murmured, "Tell me she's coming to drop the money, brother," in a voice that was as least as frightful as the way he was gripping his body.

Big Ben said, "She and Isabelle aren't close. Like I mentioned, she's cool and a kind person.

Finn said, "She's enemy's blood, Big Ben."

Uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh.

I didn't want to be anyone's foe, but certainly not this guy's enemy. He was extremely intimidating in addition to being attractive.

It's time to resolve issues as soon as possible.

I said, "Isabelle. A pain in my fucking ass. A pain in my ass ever since the day she chopped off all the hair on my Barbies. She was three. I knew was too old for Barbies, but they were mine. She couldn't just leave them alone? What's with cutting their hair?" as I yanked my bag off my shoulder and yanked it open. "I guess that's what psychopaths do. We should have known then. She's three, clutching scissors and wreaking mayhem and grief," I remarked as I fished in my handbag, located my checkbook, and scrounged for a pen, proclaiming, "She was always, always a bad seed."

I grabbed out my checkbook, turned it out, neatly clicked my pen, pointed to the cheque, and glanced at Finn.

"OK, how much does she owe you?" I said angrily, not wanting to bail Isabelle out again, especially when money and furious motorcyclists were involved.

At this point, I noticed that Finn was looking down at me and had stopped being menacing. He gave off the impression of wanting to laugh. It was attractive.

I didn't want to see his attractive features, his emotions, or anything else on his face (and hair and tats and body). I yearned to make a batch of cookie dough at home and devour it. All.

"Well?" I exclaimed.

My mouth dropped as Finn said, "Three million, two hundred and seventy five thousand, one hundred and seven dollars, and twelve cents." His white smile, framed by his dark goatee, impacted some part of my brain distractedly.

"Holly Molly", I mumbled.

When he lowered his head to my checkbook, Finn was still grinning. " Peaches, do you think you can fit it on one line?"

"Oh my God," I said out loud.

Finn leaned in and asked, "You need mouth to mouth? " I took a step back, snapped my mouth shut, and shook my head. He sighed and leaned back, saying, "Shame."

I said, "My sister owes you over three million dollars."

"Yep," Finn answered.

I said, "Over three million dollars," just to be sure.

"Yes," Finn responded and confirmed.

"I hoped that you hadn't made an accounting mistake." Finn smiled brighter and broader. He then shook his head and crossed his broad, inked arms over his wide, ripped chest.

I remarked, "Maybe this is Philippine Peso since you are in the Philippines."

"Nope," said Finn.

I informed him of something I assumed he was well aware of "I don't have that type of money."

He said, "Sweet jacket, peaches, but I was guessin' that you don't."

The good news was that he wasn't put off by the furry tufts. The unfortunate fact was that my sister owed him over three million dollars.

I said, "I imagine it'll take me a while to raise that type of money, maybe eternally."

"Don't have eternity to wait, darlin'," he said, still grinning so big that I wouldn't be surprised if he burst out laughing.

"I figured," I mumbled, clicking my pen, snapping close my checkbook, stuffing both into my handbag, and going insane.

I mean, I had a cause to lose my head, and it had a name.

Isabelle Rose Gomez!

"Why me? Why?" I shouted, looking up at Big Ben. "I was born innocently, and seven years later, zap! God punishes me with the sister from hell; is it too much to ask for a sister that laughs with you and shares cosmetic secrets? Is it too much to ask for a sister who finds a wonderful discount, quickly contacts you, but peruses the racks to stow amazing products she knows would look hot on you so you can get a chance at them before anybody else? Is it too much to ask for a sister who can watch current Boracay Boys with you so you can both perv on Bernard Palanca and wish you had a Camaro? Is it? Is it? " I finished with a yell.

"Gia, babe, think you should calm down," Big Ben mumbled, and I believe I saw on his face that he was considering knocking me out for my own good.

I screamed, "Calm!" I cried again, "Calm! Tell me How could I? She pawned the heirloom jewelry my grandmother gave me on her deathbed to buy booze. She got really drunk and stuck her hand down my boyfriend's pants at Christmas dinner. He might have been straight-laced, went to church, and boring But he was my boyfriend! And after Isabelle's shenanigans - and the hand down the pants was not only it, he caught her smoking crack in the bathroom too - he thought my family was insane, possibly crips." Now I was shrieking.

My body swung to Finn when he yelled "Peaches" to find that he had entered my personal space.

I shouted, "What," as I cocked my head back.

"Baby, calm down," he said as his hand rose up and wrapped its fingers around my neck. He then buried his face in mine.

I immediately became calmer as I fixed my gaze on his intensely blue eyes.

I echoed, "Okey dokey," in response.

His eyes smiled.

My entire body shook.

When his fingers curled further into my skin and something flashed in his eyes that made me shudder somewhere he couldn't see but I could feel, I knew he could feel it when his hand was at my neck. I also knew it more when his fingers curled into my flesh. A lot.

It's time to leave.

I respectfully inquired, wanting to escape from the power of his grasp but afraid to. "I could probably sell plasma and a kidney but I don't even believe that would work so, hmm, can I just leave my sister to deal with this?"

"Nobody atFinns you with a blade because of Isabelle," he said.

"Oh... Okay..." I said.

"Or at all," he continued.

I muttered, "Um. Okay," I responded, because I didn't want anyone to stab me for Isabelle or at all, and I didn't want that in a significant manner.

He lifted me up a little so that I was practically on my toes and his face was closer. His fingers curled more deeply into my neck. Much nearer.

Too near. Shudder closely.

He said gently, "I don't think you understand what I'm saying to you." When things get heated around Isabelle, do you mention my name to get on radar, yeah?

Oh no. This sounded awful. This seems worse than owing a motorcycle gang three million dollars. And I had a sneaking suspicion that, if there were worse things, Isabelle would discover them.

"Um...if you're asking 'yes?' as in, 'Yes, I get you,' then no, I don't," I informed him honestly since I thought with Finn honesty was the best strategy.

"All right, peaches, what I'm saying is that if you get into a predicament and use my name, it implies protection. Do you get me?"

"Um... kind of," I replied, "but why would I get myself into a situation?"

"Your sister had sh*t where she lived, sh*t where she didn't reside, sh*t everywhere, and you strolled in here with no idea. Don't stumble into another circumstance because others," he hesitated, "may not think you're as cute as I do."

"OK," I said quietly, pleased that he thought I was adorable yet regretting my decision not to contact my father or, say, board an aircraft and travel to France. "What does it imply if I... have to use your name?"

"That indicates you owe me money."

Oh boy.

"What do I owe you?"

He smiled but did not respond.

Oh boy!

"What do I owe you?" I asked again.

"I have to get on my bike and get you out of here; we'll speak about it later."

"I'm sure I'll be alright," I told him, and uttered a little prayer to make that happen.

His grin widened.

He then released me but took my bag off my arm, opening it before I could say a word. I decided to let him have his way with it.

I made the choice to let him go at it.

He had previously touched me, and I wasn't sure I wanted it to happen again since I wasn't sure how I would react. However, jumping his bones was definitely on the list of potential responses. I also reasoned that he could defeat me in a struggle for my pocketbook, so I decided to give him what he wanted. My favorite lip gloss was in that purse, but at that moment, I was happy to give it to him so he could give it to one of his chums.

He came out with my phone, flipped it open, pressed keys with his thumb, flipped it closed, slipped it into my handbag, and placed it back across my arm.

"You got my number, darlin'. If you need it, use it. If you don't need it, but still want to use it, don't hesitate."

I nodded and slung my purse higher on my shoulder. That is correct. He thought I was adorable.

Another shudder escaped me.

"Nice to meet you, Giabella," he quietly murmured.

"Yeah," I murmured quietly, "later," then turned to see Big Ben smirking at me and said, "Later."

"Later, darling," Big Ben answered, making it sound as though he'd genuinely see me later, which caused me to shudder again.

I turned to face the silent biker boys behind me, saw them all smiling, thought this was scarier than them being scary, raised a hand, and said, "Later."

I got many chin lifts and one "Later, darlin'."

Then I hurried out of there as quickly as I could.