by Nicole James
“Can I change some things?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“My house. My rules.”
I hold up my hand with the ring he slipped on it yesterday. “This says otherwise.”
He totally ignores my response, “Club called. I’ve got to go.”
“Already?” I drop my hand.
“Yep. Give me your phone.” He holds his hand out.
“Why?”
He just arches a brow and waggles his fingers. I begrudgingly hand it over, wondering what he wants it for. His thumb moves over the screen, typing in something and he hands it back. “Now you’ve got my number. Call me if you have an emergency.”
“An emergency? That’s the only time I’m allowed to call you?”
“You know what I mean.”
I stare down at the new contact. He’s listed himself as Saint. I half expected him to list himself as My Gorgeous Husband or Mr. Badass. “Saint, is that what I’m supposed to call you?”
“In this town, yeah. Nobody here knows me as Santos. I’d like to keep it that way.” He moves to the closet, pulls something off a hanger and slings it on. It’s a black leather vest.
My eyes sweep over it, and him in it. I know he told me about the whole motorcycle club thing, but seeing him in that vest with the word prospect on the back is a big reality check. I can’t fight the fact it looks good as hell on him. His badass level just rose a whole bunch of notches.
His eyes meet mine, and I know I have to say something so he doesn’t catch me going all goo-goo eyed over him in a stupid vest. “When will you be back?”
“Don’t know.”
I’m suddenly terrified of being alone. “But, there’s no food here or anything.”
He sighs, considering, and finally pulls his truck keys out of his pocket. He holds them up, but when I go to take them, he yanks them out of my reach.
“You can drive, right?”
“Of course.”
“You wreck my truck, I’ll kill you.”
I huff and hold my hand out, palm up. “Gimme.”
“Guess I’ll have to add you to my insurance, seeing as we’re married an all.”
“Guess you will, if you’re so worried about it.”
“Don’t leave town.”
“Why not?”
“I’m serious, Kami. Do not make me hunt you down. You won’t like the consequences.”
“Fine. Do I get a key to the house, too?”
“It’s on that ring. Just don’t lock me out. It’s the only one I’ve got.”
“I’m not leaving the door unlocked when I go to bed.”
“Seriously? We’re in the middle of no where.”
“You have a lot of biker friends, don’t you? What if one stops by to see if you’re home?”
“I seriously doubt that.”
I cock a brow, daring him to deny the possibility.
He grins. “I guess you’ll hear my bike roll in. You do, you better haul your sweet ass out of my bed and let me in.”
“Be nice or maybe I’ll leave you to sleep on that swing on the front porch.”
“I’ll boot the door before that happens, short cake.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
He grins even bigger. “Oh, but honey, I get such a rise out of you every time I say it.”
“Fine, hubby-bear.”
“Do not call me that.”
I just grin back at him, arching a brow.
He grabs the back of my neck and hauls me in for a kiss that I’m totally not expecting. It’s just a peck, and I’m sure designed to get another rise out of me, but it stuns me speechless and has more effect on me than I’m ready to admit. He pulls back, and his face is full of humor. “Good bye, wife. Stay outta trouble.”
I watch his back retreat through the hall, my mouth still open. My eyes drop to his cute ass and his sexy strut.
I lift my fingers to my lips, still feeling his kiss.
He’s a biker. He’s completely wrong for me. He’s older and more experienced by a mile. I know all this, but my traitorous heart doesn’t care.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kami—
I spend the rest of the day unpacking. The first thing I notice is there aren’t enough hangers. I pull out my phone and start a list. New sheets, definitely. Hangers, a must. A new shower liner, a bathmat and a couple decent towels for sure.
I wander to the kitchen and check the cupboards. He’s got the bare minimum of dishes and pots and pans. The old coffee maker on the counter looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in forever, and I make a face. There’s no way I’m drinking anything that comes out of it.
I search the drawers. Bent cafeteria grade silverware, a can opener, a bottle opener—which I’m betting is the most used item in here—are all I find. There’s a single worn dishtowel and no potholders.
My list keeps growing.
I walk outside to the backyard. I find some nice stone pavers under the overgrown weeds. With my hands on my hips I survey the area. Maybe if I can clean the place up a bit, I could actually enjoy sitting out here.
I add garden gloves to the list.
I go back inside and change into a little sundress that doesn’t wrinkle, so it survived the suitcase without looking crushed. I add sandals and a pair of sunglasses. Then I grab a small cross body bag and kneel next to the bed to drag out the suitcase I’d stashed under it. I flip it open. The only things still in it are a couple pairs of shoes and my mother’s jewelry box. I set the box on my lap and dig out the envelope of cash. Pulling out three hundred, I say a silent promise that I won’t touch anymore unless it’s an emergency.
“Sorry, Gram, I know you meant this for a wedding dress, but getting new sheets is an emergency. I’m sure you’d understand.” Surely mom wouldn’t begrudge me using a small portion for essentials.
I fold the bills and shove them in my bag, along with my phone. I return the box to my suitcase, and shove the bag back under the bed. If someone breaks in and steals it, I’ll lose everything. When I get back, I’ll have to come up with a better place to hide it. My mother’s jewels and my grandma’s dress money are all I have; all my mother and I will have to start over when she gets out of prison in one year.
I can’t think about that now. For one afternoon, I just want to go exploring and forget about my troubles.
I grab Santos’ keys and head to his big pickup truck. There’s a step up rail, which helps me climb inside. I have to adjust the seat to reach the pedals, and the mirrors to see. I crank it up, and put on some happy music. Then I lower the window and pull out.
Turning left onto the two-lane blacktop, I head the truck back toward town, taking note of my surroundings so I don’t miss the driveway on my return. There’s a giant magnolia across the road, and a white rail fence with some horses in the distance. On a hill beyond, I spot a large white home with classic southern columns across the front. Surely I can use that as a marker to remember.
Ten minutes later I’m driving through the main part of town. I slow when I pass the grocery store. It’s small but I can probably pick some items up there on the way home.
I spot a smoothie place, and turn in. I park and go inside. The place is cute, and it smells like fresh cut fruit. I stare at the menu, trying to decide. A girl behind the counter eyes me.
“You new around here?”
“I guess you could say that. I’m staying with a relative for the summer.” I eye the menu again, hoping she doesn’t ask anymore questions.”
“Cute dress,” she says.
“Thanks. What’s in the Sunshine Daydream?”
“It’s kind of like an Orange Dreamsicle.”
“I’ll have one of those, please.”
While she’s blending it up, I ask, “Do you know any good places around here to buy like sheets and towels and such?”
“Hmm. Not really. For that you’d have to go to Hendersonville.”
“Where’s that?”
“Take the interstate toward Atlanta two more exits. There’s a small mall there and some big box chains.” She slides the drink on the counter. “That’ll be five twenty-nine.”
I pass her a twenty and take a sip. “Oh my God. That’s good.”
She smiles, passing me back my change. “Thanks. Come again.”
“Definitely. Do you have a restroom?”
She points to a hall. “Around that corner.”
“Thanks.”
I find it and lock the door. It’s a single, so I set my drink on the counter with my purse.
Once I’m finished and washing my hands, I hear some deep voices rumble with laughter through the door. I peek outside, but I can’t see anything around the wall. I listen to the conversation.
“You seen Miranda?”
“No, I told you yesterday, she hasn’t come by.” The girl sounds pissed off.
“I hope you’re not lying to me, girl.”
“I’m not. I swear.”
“You aren’t hiding her back there somewhere are you?”
“Nope. Like I’d help one of your strippers. Right.”
“Check the john, will ya, bro?”
I close and lock the door, my heart racing. A moment later, there’s a knock on the door. “Miranda, you in there.”
“It’s occupied,” I say.
I hear the boots tromp away. “Ain’t her,” a voice growls.
“You sure?”
I roll my eyes. Guess I better come out so they can see I’m not whomever it is they want. I grab my purse and smoothie and walk out. When I come around the wall, I see two guys in black leather vests like the one Saint has, but neither one is him.
They turn, their eyes sweeping over me. Immediately casting me aside as not the person they’re looking for. One of them turns back to the girl at the counter, while the other one takes his time letting his gaze sweep over my legs. He winks at me.
“Sorry, darlin’. Just lookin’ for someone. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
I nod and move toward the door. I glance back to the employee, but she looks like she can handle them. At least, she isn’t looking at me in desperation like she needs my help and doesn’t want me to leave her alone with these two.
The guy at the counter leans on his elbows, and she cocks a brow. “You gonna order something or just stare at my boobs all day?”
The guy chuckles. “Can’t I do both, babe?”
I head toward the truck I’d parked over in the shade, passing by two Harleys backed into a spot near the door. I don’t waste anytime getting in the truck and locking the doors, but I can’t help glancing back as I pull out.
Both men were good-looking guys, and I wonder if Saint knows them. Of course he does; he’s in a club with them. I wonder why they’re looking for that stripper and what they’ll do when they find her.
I head toward the interstate, but I can’t help making a detour. I bypass the onramp and cross the overpass to the other side, heading in the direction of Centerfolds. I tell myself I just want to get a look at the place. My curiosity is killing me.
Half a mile down, I find it. It’s fancier than I expected, with a classy exterior and toned down sign, way more subtle than the blaring billboard out on the interstate.
The parking lot is large so the place must draw a good business. Even now at four in the afternoon, there are a dozen cars.
I pull in to turn around, and drive down an aisle. In the rear of the building are more cars that I assume are the employees. I see one bike parked near the door and strain to see if it’s Santos, but it’s just a black motorcycle and I can’t tell.
I drive on. If it is his, I’m not sure I want him to catch me pulling through the parking lot in his truck. I’m certainly identifiable in his vehicle, at least to those who know him. I bite my lip. Now I’m wondering if those two at the smoothie shop saw his truck pull out and me in it. I hope not. That would only invite questions neither of us want to answer.
I pull out quickly, and head back to the interstate.
It doesn’t take me long to find the exit the girl told me about. There’s definitely a lot more civilization here. I see fast food places and a bunch of stores.
I find the small mall and am pleased to see it’s anchored by a decent department store where I know I can find some quality bedding.
An hour later, I’ve loaded my purchases in the cab of the truck, and I head back toward Uprising. Again I see the billboard for Centerfolds with the bombshell blonde. I’ve always wondered what the inside of a strip club is like, and now my interest is piqued even more.
I’m sure I’m not even old enough to get in the door. I wonder if Saint could get me inside. I giggle. He’ll never take me inside—not in a million years.
I turn towards Uprising, and a few minutes later I arrive at the grocery store.
I grab a cart and wander around trying to familiarize myself with the layout.
Soon my cart is half full and I head to the checkout. As I’m unloading my groceries onto the belt, I overhear two cashiers chatting one lane over.
“I’m sick to death of the noise. I swear, Paula, they drive by my house at all hours, those bikes of theirs thundering and waking the baby. I asked Stewart to do something but he’s too afraid of them.”
“This whole town is, especially after all that trouble we had.”
“That one young guy shops in here, but he’s always been super polite. He’s never caused any trouble.”
“He’s just a prospect. Wait till he gets his club colors—that’s what Bill said they’re called—then his tune will change.”
“Great.”
“My mom said they used to be worse in her day. Said those guys were real jerks. She said these guys today aren’t half bad compared to back then.”
“I don’t care. I’m sick of the loud bikes coming and going at our end of town.”
“Maybe you should move to my end. It’s quieter there.”
“Maybe we should just move the hell out of this town.”
The older cashier at my aisle smiles, doing her best to ignore her two co-workers. “Don’t mind them, dear. They like to complain a lot.”
She says the last part loud enough for them to see she has a customer and to stop talking and get back to cleaning their conveyer belts.
“No problem.” I smile and continue unloading. As an impulse buy, I grab two magazines from the rack and toss them on as well.
One hundred and thirty two dollars later, my groceries are loaded up.
By the time I get back to Saint’s place, the sun is sinking below the tree line.
I haul all my purchases inside and put them away.
I spend the rest of the night changing the sheets, hanging the new shower curtain, and hooking up the new coffee maker I bought, the fancy kind you just drop in a pod and push a button. I’m so pleased with myself that I make a cup, and add the delicious macchiato creamer I bought. Yum.
I manage to get the oven working, and I heat up a frozen pizza. When it’s done, I sit at the tiny kitchen table, munching and flipping through the magazines.
I run my hand over the worn cushions on the alcove seating, wondering if I could find some slipcovers for them.
Pulling out my phone, I call my mom. She grills me on everything, wanting to know if I’m okay. I don’t want her to worry, so I tell her everything is great. We talk for an hour, before we both tear up as we say our goodbyes.
It’s so hard, I just want to have a good cry, but I know I have to be strong. I stare at my phone wishing I had a friend I could call. The ones I had it turns out were superficial. I think about Mary Elizabeth. I know I hurt her terribly when I dumped her. God, I was such an idiot. I can’t blame her for what she said at rehearsal. Did I really think she’d just take me back after the way I treated her. But I miss her. We really did have the best talks. I don’t know why I ever thought that being with the in-crowd, the cool kids, was ever worth losing Mary Elizabeth over.
; I wonder if Saint will take me to my graduation next weekend. I know mom tried to make him promise he would. I also know he wouldn’t make that promise; he just said he’d try.
The more I think about it, the less I actually care about it. Do I really want to see any of those people again? But mom so wants a picture of me in my cap and gown, and after everything she’s been through, can I really begrudge her that?
At 10 p.m. I check the time, and decide to call it a night. I flip the locks, feeling really weird here all alone. Its scary being in a strange place. Every sound creeps me out. The branches scrape against the siding and it sounds like someone running a blade along the wood. I’m suddenly remembering every slasher movie I ever watched, and I’m terrified someone is outside determined to break in and kill me.
My phone lights up and vibrates, and I about jump out of my skin.
Saint: You okay?
Me: Yes.
Saint: Headed back home.
Me: Okay, be careful.
I could kick myself for adding that last part. It just slipped out naturally. God, I’m starting to sound like a wife. Ugh.
Saint: You worried about me, babe?
Damn it.
Me: Nope. Not at all.
Saint: Right. See ya soon, shortcake.
Twenty minutes later, I’m between the new sheets when I hear the low rhythmic sound of a motorcycle rolling slowly up the gravel drive. It sounds strangely like the word po-ta-to, po-ta-to po-ta-to. The sound cuts off, and I throw the covers back and walk to the back door in my bare feet. I flip the lock and open the door just as Saint is trudging up the stairs looking tired. He comes through the door, and his gaze sweeps over the black yoga pants and the pink racer back tank I’m wearing. It’s loose fitting, and I have no bra underneath.
His eyes stall on my breasts.
I cross my arms over them, and his gaze lifts to my eyes. He closes the door and locks it.
I stand there awkwardly, not sure if I’m allowed to ask about where he’s been or what he’s been doing. Finally, I have to say something. “So, how was your night?”
“Long. Tiring. I’m beat.” He moves to the fridge, and grabs a bottle of beer, twisting off the cap and tossing it toward the trash. He lifts it to his lips and guzzles a portion down. I can’t help watching his throat work as he drinks.
