Her departure was bittersweet for me.
On the one hand, I knew she was getting the help she so desperately needed if she was going to feel well again, be herself again. On the other, though, it was a long, long time to be completely away from her, having no access except for phone calls since the best facility we had found was clear across the country in Costa Mesa, California, so visits - when they would be allowed - were not likely.
I couldn't ask for more money from Thayer. And I still wasn't back at work. Money was tight.
We had gone a few rounds over the whole returning to work thing after he had taken my stitches out five days before, finding a round, raised, pink scar that I would likely always have. Luckily, I wasn't overly vain. There was really no reason that I shouldn't have been back at work. Really, I should have been at work even with the stitches in once the wound had sealed mostly over. I spent most of my day sitting in a chair. It wasn't exactly taxing on my body.
Thayer had insisted - and got his brothers and Roux to back him up - that it simply wasn't safe for me to go back to work. With Joey out of town, I was a prime target for a vindictive Doug who wanted payback for losing everything he had worked for. Never mind the fact that I worked in a shop that had at least two other full-time tattooers there all the time as well as a part-time piercer. Or that I had even suggested that they could drop me off and pick me up if they were so paranoid. Hell, at one point, I had even thrown out the option to have one of them come in with me all day.
They didn't go for it, of course.
Because, apparently - and they weren't wrong about this - the guys I worked with wouldn't know how to defend me even if they felt so inclined to. And they were too busy to sit with me all day there. To which I reminded them that at least one of them was always around the clubhouse with me. They brushed that comment off.
In the end, it came down to sheer endurance.
Thayer had me beat there.
I gave in.
Sometime around the sixteenth day there, I also started to suspect that I had also somehow moved in.
Things had trickled in. The guys had brought me changes of clothes, then most of my art supplies, some extra blankets. Then, over the next couple of weeks, other things started showing up that I hadn't asked for. More clothes, makeup, the slippers that had been under my bed, a robe, freaking face masks I had in the back of a drawer in the bathroom because I almost never had the time for anything even resembling pampering myself.
There was so much of my stuff around the clubhouse that I was starting to wonder if there was much of anything left at my apartment. Save for maybe most of Joey's things.
It should have bothered me, pissed me off that they had gone into my apartment other times without permission, that they went through my belongings. Yet all I could seem to feel was a deep sort of contentment. My sketchpads were on the coffee table in the common room, on the little dinner table in the kitchen, on the foot of the bed I probably should have given back to Thayer since it was his, but I couldn't seem to find the words to insist that he should be in his own room. My shoes were by the door. Food I liked was in the fridge. I knew the password to the security system.
It felt oddly natural.
It almost seemed like I belonged.
Which made no sense, of course. I didn't belong in an outlaw biker clubhouse like I was one of them. I wasn't. Or like I belonged to them. I didn't. Or possibly even like I was the average clubwhore who fucked the guys. I had fucked Thayer. But just the once. There had been nothing since.
I didn't belong.
But if you looked around, it sure seemed like I did.
Even guys I had somewhat seriously dated in the past refused to let me put my things around. Having a drawer was out of the question. Finding a box of tampons under their sink brought about a freaking conniption.
There wasn't a single word about my tampons under the sink. Or my toothbrush in its pink-capped glory in the cup on the sink counter. Or the scented oil diffuser full of - and this was the girliest scent of all time - sweet vanilla cookie because even though they smoked outside, when they smoked, sometimes the air blew back into the clubhouse when they came back inside.
Logic told me that this was all because they were used to having women around. The old ladies to the older members when their father had been alive, then, of course, the clubwhores. Then there was their little sister who had lived there her whole life along with them.
A little voice - one I tried my damndest to silence - said that maybe they said nothing because they liked having me around.
It wasn't likely. I knew that. While I didn't exactly suffer from any sort of low self-esteem, I had learned that I was typically a small-doses kind of person. Not many people - save for my sainted sister - wanted to have me around all the time. I was opinionated and sarcastic, I was too loud, too stubborn.
They had me there because of obligation only. Nothing more.
I ignored the little twinge inside when I reminded myself of that fact.
See, I liked them.
All of them.
Calloway with his somewhat standoffish personality, his tendency toward quiet, dark moods, but with his beautiful guitar playing that I suspected he did as a sort of self-soothing method.
Hatcher with his wardrobe that made me cringe a bit at my own lack of effort when it came to my clothes. He was also the brother who liked art and poetry and could often be found with a book in his hands.
Bea was a reader too, but her tastes seemed to steer toward the nonfiction, business types of books. Which made sense since she had put her foot down and demanded to be allowed to run her own business since it was hers. She and I hadn't had a lot of interactions; she was always at Peaches. But we had the unfortunate fate of sharing our cycle the week before, both of us camping out on the couch in the living room with heating pads on our stomachs, Midol at the ready, wearing our comfiest sweats, and being dropped casual gifts of chocolate and pizza without being asked.
Even Roux was becoming someone I really liked and respected. It said a lot about a man to step up, stand up for what was right, dedicate years of his life to safeguarding Bea.
I maybe wondered if she saw the way he sometimes looked at her.
But it wasn't my place to ask about it.
Then there was Thayer.
When I thought of them as a group, I always made myself think of him last. In some harebrained effort to convince myself that he was no more important to me than any of the others.
Why I did this, I had no idea.
Since I knew better.
He was more important.
Since fishing a bullet out of my stomach, Thayer had been on a one-man-mission to take care of me. Sure, his bedside manner was a bit unconventional. His doctor's orders were littered with curse words, offhanded compliments, and the occasional sexual innuendo. But he always made sure I stayed still as much as possible so I didn't pull my stitches. He brought me food several times a day. He randomly dropped down refills of coffee without me even asking for them. He checked the wound, cleaned it with a saline rinse that came in these little pink plastic tubes he said he bought online because the medical supply stores aren't allowed to sell saline. Like salt water needs to be fucking regulated, he'd told me with an eye roll.
I liked it. Being taken care of. Not having to force a stiff upper lip no matter how shitty I was feeling, get to work, come home, deal with bills and household chores. It was unexpectedly nice to be told to relax, recover. It was sweet to have someone fawn over you. I had always been the one playing nursemaid, fretting, providing, taking care of Joey. Sure, she tried to insist I stay home when I was sick, or not do the dishes when I dislocated my shoulder. But Joey wasn't stubborn like me. She gave in easily when I insisted I was fine.
Thayer was every bit as stubborn as I was. More, maybe. He didn't want to hear that I was feeling fine, that I was getting bored. He threatened to tie me to the bed if I didn't stop getting out of it when he told me not
to.
It was maybe the first time in my entire little life that I understood what it meant to lie back, to relax, to focus fully on myself, on feeling better. It wasn't exactly a vacation in the physical location sense, but it was a better kind of vacation, a vacation of the mind. I wasn't sure I even realized how stressed out I was until Thayer removed all that weight from my shoulders, easily taking it on his own without so much as a falter in his step.
It wasn't just that, though.
It wasn't like all that happened was he tossed food at me, barked at me to stop moving around. After a long day of working on the clubhouse - putting in a non-climbable fence around the yard, repainting the outside and inside, and a list of dozens of other things, he would grab a drink - whiskey for himself, vodka for me - and drop down on the couch next to me. He'd prop his legs up on the coffee table, his giant shoulders barging into my side of the couch, making our arms brush, something I noticed a bit too intensely, yet refused to move away from. He'd snatch the remote from my hand, flick around looking for something to put on, then went ahead and casually talked through most of it.
He'd told me about growing up in the club, about his mom's death, about his dad, about the tight relationship he'd had with his brothers since they were all born in quick succession. He talked about suddenly having a baby sister as an older kid, a teenager, about being trained up to be a leader, to look out for his men. He'd told me about the first time he got drunk, when he'd accidentally shot one of his father's men in the foot when he was learning to use a gun.
I knew more of his back story than any guy I had ever known, better than anyone save for my sister - and that was because we lived through it together.
What's more, I found myself craving those conversations. I liked the way his golden eyes went a little wistful when talking about his childhood, the way they danced when he recalled some adolescent - or, let's face it, adult - mishaps. I found the sound of his chuckle - and his full-throated laugh - a lot sexier than any laugh had the right to be.
Each time he turned to face me when talking, looking for my reaction, my breath caught, wondering if this was the time he was going to make another move, kiss me, more.
It never happened, though.
The most telling thing of all, though, was the fact that when he wasn't around for a long period of time - going to meet his 'plug,' getting supplies, meeting Bea over at Peaches - I found myself missing him.
Actually missing him.
Like some lovesick high school girl with a giant crush.
Which was absolutely ridiculous. I hadn't even had crushes when I was a teenager. Let alone a full-grown adult who knew better than to catch too strong of feelings for a guy.
There was no denying it, though.
I had gone and caught feelings.
Like a freaking idiot.
These weren't even 'I want to get hot and sweaty with him again' feelings either. Though, let's face it, those were there too. Sometimes, just the brush of his arm against mine set off chaos between my legs. I wanted him almost as much as I wanted to take my next deep breath. But this was more than that, deeper than that.
I liked him.
I maybe even really liked him.
It was entirely new to me.
The problem was, of course, things seemed a lot more one-sided than they used to. Sure, he dropped his little sexual comments here and there, but they seemed offhand to me, like something that was just a part of his nature, not personal. He didn't make a move. He didn't reach out to touch me unless he had a reason to.
To be perfectly honest, it was driving me freaking insane.
It wasn't exactly new to womankind to be into a guy who wasn't into you. It seemed a lot harder to swallow, though, that you wanted to fuck one who didn't want to fuck you. It was one of the very few ways that inequality worked in a woman's favor. They could almost always at least get sex with someone when they wanted it. Hell, all it took if you had a decent pair of boobs was a low cut top and a slow, deep breath.
It didn't feel great for my ego to admit it, but I had tried the deep breath, low-cut top thing. I'd even upped the ante by not putting on a bra in a clubhouse that was always kept at a chilly sixty-eight degrees. His eyes drifted, of course. He had a dick, after all. But nothing came of it.
I wasn't shy.
I liked to instigate things with men.
It gave me this giant confidence boost to watch the shock turn to desperate need.
I had no idea what was holding me back from making the first move with Thayer. At first, it had been the wound in my stomach. Then, the stitches making it hard to move around naturally without them stabbing in or pulling a bit.
But with the stitches out, there was nothing stopping me.
Except the completely uncharacteristic insecurity I felt swirling around my head and stomach.
It made me antsy.
And maybe a little bit snippier than usual.
Which was why Calloway, Hatcher, and Roux were avoiding me like an incubator of viral plague.
"What'd you do to the guys?" Thayer asked, casually breezing into the kitchen where I was putting coffee into the machine. "They're all huddled outside with their tails between their legs."
I owed them an apology.
I wasn't great to them, but I would figure it out. They'd been nothing but good to me, and being surly was unacceptable.
"Ugh, I'm such a bitch," I grumbled, sighing.
"Yeah," he agreed, making my head whip in his direction, finding him watching me with his lips curved up. "But bitches are sexy as fuck."
"Says only you," I told him, turning the coffee maker on. "I'm just... bored. I haven't left the clubhouse in weeks. You won't let me do anything around here."
"What are you talking about? I totally let you call the Chinese place last night to make our order."
"You're ridiculous," I told him, but knew my smile was of the huge variety.
"So, you're bored. What do you want to do?"
"Are you going anywhere today?"
"I am going over to Peaches tonight. To work," he added as though I didn't already know what he would be doing there. "You can come hang out if you want. I don't know what you think about tits everywhere, but at least it is a change of scenery."
"Tits are great. I have a set of my own, in fact," I told him, liking the way his eyes dipped.
"That you do," he agreed, watching them for a long second before his gaze found mine again. "So, you're in?"
"I'm in," I agreed.
"We're gonna have to have a few rules."
"Ugh, rules."
"Nothing crazy. I just don't want you disappearing on me. Hang within arm's reach of one of us tonight."
"Who else is going?"
"Roux. Much to Bea's ever-present objections."
"Did you ever figure out what happened there?"
"You try to get any kind of answer out of the two of them. Bea tells me it's none of my fucking business. Roux says he did what he had to do to keep her safe. That's all they give me."
I had to admit, I was oddly fascinated with the open animosity on Bea's part, and the quiet acceptance of it on Roux's. They had become my own personal soap opera. I never missed an episode. I couldn't help but wonder how many seasons it was going to take to get to the thick of their plot. And the seemingly inevitable tumble into bed. Would it be a hatefuck? Would it be the long-awaited, unrequited romantic coupling?
I had no idea.
But I was at the edge of my seat about it.
My only concern was whether or not I would even be around to see more of it once Doug was found and handled.
I would have to get back to my own life eventually.
Eventually, but not quite yet.
"So, believe this or not, I've never been to a strip club. Let me rephrase that, I've never been to a straight strip club," I clarified, "with female dancers," I added. "I have no idea what I am supposed to wear."
"If it was up to me, babe, something ti
ght. And short. Possibly see-through," he added with a lopsided grin that made my stomach do a little flip-flop that I was getting very familiar with when he was around.
It was right that moment that I decided to stop being a chickenshit.
I was going to make a move at some point tonight.
I would put on something tight, sexy, put some care into my makeup and hair, really do it up. Then after some fun at Peaches, we would come back to the clubhouse, and I was going to start something.
If all went to plan, we were going to finish it together.
"What's that look for?" Thayer asked, brows drawing together.
Like always, I was a hard read for most people, but Thayer had no trouble at all.
"You'll see," I told him, making my coffee, then moving out of the kitchen, going ahead and putting a little extra oomph in my step.
--
It had been a long time since I thought about things like makeup and hairstyles and what in my wardrobe was most alluring. For so long, my entire life had revolved around worrying about Joey. Nothing else mattered. Before that, well, it was all about work, trying to balance the checkbook to keep the lights and heat on, pay Joey's tuition. There were the occasional dates over the years, of course; I was a red-blooded woman who definitely enjoyed the company of men. But I never really put that much effort into it. I figured if they met me, they knew what I looked like, so what was the point of going all-out when we both knew it was going to end in bed regardless of if I showed up in a ball gown or ratty old pajamas.
Sure, Thayer knew exactly what I looked like.
Right out of the shower. In my pajamas.
Hell, he had walked in to find me with my face smeared with bright green clay, and his only response had been That's a new look.
Maybe that was the point, though. He'd seen me at everything but my absolute best. So that was what I was going to give him. My best.
I dug through the bags of clothes the guys had brought over, tossing everything that wasn't casual onto the bed.
I ended up with three dresses.
Three.
Revenge - Reckless Renegades 1 Page 15
