March 2026

Drake
Serial Fiction: Part 2

The prompt: Urban Concrete: Find beauty in something "ugly" (a parking lot, a rusted fence, a puddle). I opted to go with a painting for this prompt.

My characters have names now. Yippee!! MC is short for motorcycle club.

Drake (Doc) - member of the Vengeful Kings MC, a military veterans group that also runs guns

Grant (local businessman) - realtor

Currently in Indio, a small touristy town about 15min outside of Brawley, Colorado, where Drake lives with his MC.

This piece picks up where we left off in January after exchanging presents.

***

“There’s a place a couple doors down,” I suggested, looping the soft scarf around his unprotected neck. It was unseasonably warm today, but a scarf in 45-degree weather was still warranted. I’d left mine in my bike’s bag because appearances mattered.

“The Cozy Cup? Sure.” He peered into the gift bag I handed him and then fingered the beige scarf. “These are really nice. Are you sure?”

I grinned. “Absolutely. Come on.” Itching to touch him, to palm his lower back as he stepped in front of me and escort him, I stuffed my hands into my pockets. When we reached the door, I jumped ahead to grab it for him.

His shy smile was worth the effort, as was his whispered “Thank you.” He led the way past a shop selling deco artwork alongside authentic Native American crafts. There were flyers in the window advertising the next Ute Tribe powwow over the July 4th holiday and something about handgame signups.

Again, I got to the door before him, and his blush turned his clean-shaven cheeks rosy. He stopped a few feet inside and just breathed. I chuckled. “Yeah, nothing beats the smell of a good cup of coffee.”

“And fresh-baked pastries.”

“Of course. Let’s order both. It’s on me.”

“I can pay.” He reached for his wallet.

“Nope. My treat.” I really liked how his blush deepened and had to thrust my hands into my pockets again to keep from touching him. Fuck, he was beautiful. Sandy blond hair cut short on the sides and styled on top. His eyes were a warm brown that reminded me of lightly stained oak, and there was a little scar on his forehead near his scalp.

He faced forward when the line advanced. Thankfully, this line was a lot faster than the return one we’d been stuck in. “I’ll have a vanilla latte, please, and a cinnamon chip scone.”

The barista punched in his order before asking for mine. “Large coffee with a splash of cream and a bear claw.” I tapped my card on the reader, waved off the receipt, and then stuffed a couple of singles into the tip jar.

When I stepped aside for the next person, he pointed to a free table. “There okay?”

“Sure.” I followed him and let him choose which seat he wanted as I slipped off my jacket and hung it on the back of the other chair, leaving me in my Vengeful Kings cut over a black waffle-knit Henley. His eyes widened, and his mouth formed into a tiny oh. “This a problem?”

He shook his head. “Just surprised me.”

“Okay.” I sat and extended my hand. “Name’s Drake.”

“Grant.” His hand was warm when it clasped mine. “Are you a doctor?” He pointed to my name on my cut.

“Ha. No, I’m a nurse’s aide and certified EMT, though. The guys call me Doc.”

“Makes sense.”

Hearing our order called, I gestured for Grant to stay and got up. His coffee smelled good, but I could never justify spending money on frothed milk. Placing his cup down, I noticed his attention wasn’t on me but on a large painting hanging across the room.

“What an odd picture,” he commented. “It’s ugly, but also poetic.”

I’d seen the painting-slash-sculpture before. Ugly was one word for it. Downright-fucking-scary was another. It was a juxtaposition of paint, wood, cement, and nails, and reminded me way too much of my time in the theater. I’d seen my fill of broken and blown-up buildings in those war-torn countries and would happily not be reminded of them while I’m having a get-to-know-you cup of Joe with a pretty man who seems interested in me.

He must have read something in my expression because his gaze softened. “Thank you for your service.”

I nodded my thanks, but fuck, I hated hearing that phrase. I never knew what to say. I went in, did my time, and got the fuck out with only a little PTSD to show for it. The guys in the Kings—my brothers—they’re the ones I look up to. There is one service that ‌the Kings and I take to heart, though. To support our military brethren, we ride with the Patriot Riders.

***

See you next month. Until then, Happy Spring!