by A. J. Downey
“You tell me what’s wrong, Francine. That’s what you do.”
Her hands jerked and the liquid sloshed over the rim of the mug, splashing first onto the table and then out of the other side of the cup and onto her shirt, soaking it. “Shit, Fran, I’m sorry. I thought you saw me.” She looked up to see Kris Clarke standing there. He was a regular in the diner, his work schedule nearly as unsettled as hers. He worked as an emergency medical technician, riding in what he called a bus, but she called an ambulance.
Paper napkins appeared in front of her and she reached for them, pulling the folded squares from his hand and dabbing ineffectually at her top. “You got a shirt in the back?” His question didn’t make sense, so she looked up with a frown, hand hovering, still holding the now-wet napkins. “Francine, do you have a shirt in your locker in the back of the diner?”
She shook her head, then her breathing hitched because she suddenly realized she would have to go back to Pete’s house to get her stuff. He leaned in, eyes flicking over her, conducting a critical examination. “Fran, are you okay?” She shook her head again, squeezing her eyes shut tight because her view of him had gotten all blurry and she knew it was because they were swimming with tears. “Oh, Fran, what happened?” Low and sweet, soft in a way she hadn’t heard directed her way in a long time, his voice wrapped around her, making her chest hitch again.
“Fran, you’re scaring me. What’s happened?” This was accompanied by a gentle shove at her hip and she moved across the bench seat automatically, giving way, making room. The cushion shifted as weight settled into place beside her, heat from his body warming her all along one side, then she felt that warmth wrap around her shoulders. At a gentle tug, she let herself sag against Kris, let him hold her, his voice low and sweet. “Tell me what you need.”
“Pe—” Her voice hitched hard, and his arm tightened, holding her securely until she could get it under control. “Pe—te.”
“He okay?” Kris jumped to the logical question, assuming something had happened to him, not because of him. This was because they were friends, both members of the Rebel Wayfarers motorcycle club. They both rode big, black, fast bikes; Pete so recklessly that she seldom rode with him, not that he asked her often. Usually, he would only invite her if there was a party, or the one time he took her to what he called a rally, where she had seen more skin on both men and women than she had seen since her one trip to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. “Did Pete go down?”
Someone went down on him, she thought, remembering the sight of the buxom blonde’s bobbing head, her perfectly shaped body crouched between his legs. Another hitch in her breathing, then she tucked her chin down, trapped her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down savagely, using the pain to push back the feelings of betrayal and hurt.
“No,” she finally got out, and his arm tightened around her shoulders again.
“What happened, Fran?”
“I saw him with someone.”
“Fuck.” His voice was low and angry now, and she tried to pull away, but his hand stayed wrapped around her shoulder, squeezing her gently, supportively. Quietly he asked, “You want me to call someone for you?” She shook her head, knowing his response was tempered because he was friends with Pete, and all the ‘bros before hos’ stuff that went with that. “He’s a shithead, Fran. You could do better. Man’s my brother, but he’s a whore.”
That jolted her free of the feelings she’d been shoving down and she looked up into Kris’ face, seeing compassion there, something she wasn’t expecting. You could do better.
Settling.
She narrowed her eyes, staring at him. “She’s not the first, is she?” It wasn’t really a question and she didn’t expect a response, surprised when he firmly shook his head. “Of course not.” Her breath hitched again. “So stupid.”
“Not stupid, Francine. Just in love.”
Was I? The thought raced through her mind, quickly followed by the realization that she wasn’t. She wanted to be, but really it was just a lot of liking him. Settling, Grandma said again, and Fran nodded. Kris misunderstood, not being privy to her internal conversations, so he told her, the expression on his face pained, his voice again low and soft, “Just in love, Fran. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“I’m not,” she said, turning back to see she still had the mug and soaked napkins in her hands, realizing her chest was chilled. “I just have to figure things out now. I saw him with her and I realized I wasn’t in love with him.” She sat down the mug, snagging another handful of napkins, tossing the wet ones on the tabletop. “I wanted to be, but we never got there.” She pressed the napkins to her wet shirt as Kris’ arm gave her a squeeze. “Now I have to…figure things out.”
“What things?”
She liked that he didn’t question her declaration of non-love, that he didn’t do anything to remind her that she hadn’t been with anyone else because she thought she and Pete were exclusive, that he didn’t throw the man-whore bit in her face again. He just moved to problem solving, something she had noted Kris was good at. Let him help you, Grandma said, and Fran nodded.
“Housing, mostly. I don’t have much in savings, so deposits will be painful. Then I need to rent a truck to get my stuff from Pete’s house. That’s if he lets me in to pack and stuff.” She flicked through an imaginary list of things, finding she was set-up better than she first thought. “I have a good job here, and a good car. A little in savings.”
“Joint account?”
“No, he didn’t want…” Her voice trailed off because she remembered something from last week. “He asked me to sign a few checks recently, said he’d let me know what the bills were when he wrote them out.”
“Blank checks?” Stupid, she thought as she nodded. “You pay the bills for Worm?” The heated tone in his voice caught her off guard, and she looked up at him as she nodded again. Worm was Pete’s club name. She never understood why he was called Worm, but he was as proud of that name as he was his bike, which was saying something. Kris’ club name was Goose, and she’d always thought that was way cooler than Worm.
Kris moved, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He placed his thumb on the screen, holding it a moment before the phone unlocked. One-handed, he navigated to the call feature as she watched, then he held the phone to his ear. “Worm,” he said, his voice not low or soft, but hard and angry. “I got Francine. She says she’s done with you, but you’re holding blank checks of hers. Telling you now, brother, don’t think to cash those. Your bank is closed. I’ll bring her by in two days to pick up her stuff. You get your whore to box up her shit, and you get all her shit, don’t make me make a second trip.”
He paused, and she heard Pete’s voice buzzing loudly, but couldn’t make out the words. “I don’t give a fuck. Sat back and watched this shit for too long. Good women need caring for, brother, and you, my friend, didn’t take a care.”
He paused again, and she saw the muscles of his jaw tense and tighten, bulging and working underneath his skin. His lips flattened and thinned, pressed together. He spoke, his jaw hardly moving as he ground out the words. “You do not want to do that, brother.” An odd emphasis on that word, the one she had heard the Rebel members use a lot, but only aimed at each other.
Another pause. “Fuck, yeah, she’s claimed. By me. I told you, you didn’t take a care with what you had, I wouldn’t let it ride. You did your fucking stoop and squat, whoring around, forgetting my words. Now, she’s mine.” With that, he pulled the phone from his ear, tapping to disconnect the call at the same time he slid from the bench, his arm around her shoulders pulling her with him.
Before she knew what was happening, he had them walking towards the side exit, her hand trapped in his. “Wait,” she called, but he didn’t slow, hitting the door with a hand at the end of a stiff arm, the door swinging wildly back, nearly smashing into the side of the brick building. “My purse,” she said, and now he did pause, but just that fast Twyla was behind them, holding out her bag. “Kri
s,” she called, grabbing her purse and thanking Twyla while still pulling and twisting her hand, trying to get free from what was proving to be a tenacious grip.
“You drive here?”
“Yes,” she got out.
He stopped, scanned the parking lot, then got them walking again, aimed towards her car when he put his other hand out, palm up, demanding. “Keys.”
“Kris.” She called his name again, her voice sounding breathless even to her and she knew the fear that had lodged itself in her chest was apparent when he stopped, curling one arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. “What are you doing?”
“You’re coming to my apartment. It’s a safe place to crash for a while, and you look like you need safe, Fran. Pete was an asshole on the phone just now. I don’t want him around you if he’s going to act out, and I get the feeling he’s going to act out. I don’t have a car here, had Webber drop me off.”
Webber was his partner, she knew, having served the two of them many an interrupted meal, boxing things up quickly for them when they got a call and had to leave fast. “We’re taking your car, but you’re upset and I don’t want you driving. So, if you’ll hand me your keys, I’ll drive, and we’ll get on our way.”
Wow. “That’s a lot to digest,” she muttered, sidestepping as she slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder so she could dig inside for her keys. Elbow bent awkwardly, she rummaged from corner to corner, but didn’t hear the clatter of metal that usually signified she was getting close to her target. “Um.” She looked up to see a broad smile in place on his face. “I can’t find my keys.”
“Know where your sunglasses are?”
“What an odd question,” she thought, then he laughed and she realized she’d said that aloud.
He leaned in closer, using their joined hands to pull her back towards him. She felt his hand at her hip, then his fingers were slipping into the front pocket of her jeans, delving deep, hot fingertips brushing so close to her sex that she had to take in a quick breath, nearly a pant before she lost his hand. It reappeared in front of her, keys dangling from one finger.
“Pocket,” he said, then reached up and she felt the keys touch the side of her head before something was tugging gently at her hair. His hand reappeared, now holding her sunglasses. “Head,” he said, and laughed again. She liked that his eyes crinkled when he laughed, even more than when he smiled, and she had always liked his smile.
In the days before Pete, those few days she had worked at the diner before he made his interest clear, she had noticed Kris. A lot. His smile, the way his eyes would follow her as she waited on her customers. The way he didn’t mind her noticing him watching her. The way he teased her, gentle and sweet, never mean. But then Pete had come in and told her he liked her the first time he saw her, that he wanted to take her out. He took her out, and then told her he wanted her with him. So, she dated him, then she moved in, and then she stayed. Kris had still smiled, but the expression had changed; it was different and not in a way she liked. While she would occasionally see him watching her, he took care to not be obvious about it any longer. Pete, she thought, he gave way to Pete.
“Come on, Fran. Let’s go.” She reached out to take her sunglasses from him and dropped them into her purse. He lifted one hand and used a single finger to tuck her hair behind her ear, eyes on hers, waiting patiently until he got her nod.
***
Six weeks later
“Kris,” she called, swinging her purse from her shoulder and plunking it on the kitchen cabinet, making a mental note to gather it along with her shoes and take them to her room later. “You home?”
“Yeah.” She heard his muffled response and figured he was in the master bedroom. His room.
She flipped through the mail lying on the counter, sorting and putting hers beside her purse. Grabbing a glass from the dish strainer next to the sink, she held it against the ice lever embedded in the refrigerator door, then swapped levers, watching water stream over the cubes. She took a deep drink, flicking on the oven light and seeing a cooking bag. Holding out one hand she felt the heat radiating from the appliance. She noted the timer was on, with about an hour remaining. Enough time for a shower and glass of wine, she thought.
“What’s for dinner?” She yelled her question, heard an unintelligible response and grinned. It didn’t matter what it was, it would be good. First, because it wasn’t her night to cook, so she didn’t have to make it. Kris had been adamant that things be evenly sorted out between them regarding chores, and she liked that he didn’t take anything for granted, like expecting her to cook because she was living there and female. If anything, it felt like he spoiled her. Secondly, it would just be good because Kris was an amazing cook. In her opinion, his meals were far better than anything she could concoct. He had a gift in the kitchen, one he said had been absorbed via osmosis from another Rebel member, Kevin Hartley.
She shivered. Kevin, also called Road Runner, was a chef, so it was likely Kris was right about learning from him, but Kevin gave off the same kind of dangerous vibe Kris did. Not dangerous scary, but dangerous shivery, which is what she did again, just thinking about seeing the two men standing next to each other last week at the club party Kris insisted she attend.
Unlike when she had gone the few times with Pete, going with Kris was an immersion into the atmosphere and culture of the club. He scarcely left her side, keeping a hand on her all the time, making it clear to everyone there that she was with him. Not that you’re with him like that, she thought, blowing her bangs up with a puff of air, feeling the sudden sweat that had broken out on her brow. In the six weeks she had lived with Kris he had been a perfect gentleman. Always. Treats me like I’m glass, she thought with annoyance, flipping the oven light off and turning to place her empty glass back in the strainer.
Gathering her mail, purse, and shoes, she padded up the hallway towards her room, her mind still turning over the first time she had seen Pete after driving away from his nude form outside his garage. He had not been at the house when Kris took her to get her things, already boxed and ready to be loaded into one of the Rebel member’s pickup trucks.
Jase, the man who owned the pickup, had helped them load up, cracking jokes and making what could have been a difficult moment much easier. She and Kris had dinner that night at his house, welcomed to a table filled to overflowing with kids that she quickly learned were a mix of adopted, fostered, friend’s children, and grandchildren. He and his wife, DeeDee, had taken in a motley crew of kids, proving to her for once and forever that love only multiplied if given the opportunity.
The first time she saw Pete was about a week ago, at one of the Rebel parties. He had shown up with a blonde wrapped around him, not the one she had seen in his bed, either, but a new one. He didn’t approach, didn’t glare or make angry noises about her being there, just watched her, his eyes sad. Kris had ducked his head down so his mouth was near her ear when he asked her if she wanted to leave. Low and sweet, his voice was soft, the one he gave her most often. With that to bolster her, she shook her head, turning so her side was to Pete.
Kris curled his arm around her shoulder, then dropped his hand to her waist, tugging her into him so they were pressed together. “You need to leave, you tell me, Fran.” She had nodded, knowing he wouldn’t begrudge her if she wanted to go, would leave his friends for her. That also propped her up, so when she heard Pete talking to someone nearby, she could listen without pain, eavesdropping.
“Best thing to ever happen to me, and I let it get away.” Kris squeezed her, arm tight around her and she knew he heard Pete, too. He squeezed her again, edging his fingers into the front pocket of her jeans, holding her hip, anchoring her. Pete said, “Shoulda had a care, like Goose told me. Fucked up.”
Goose. His club name, something she only called him in her mind, because she instinctively understood he had to want her to use it, she couldn’t just claim it, even if he had claimed her.
Head down, watching he
r stocking feet move across the carpet she was startled out of her memories by a noise from the door to the master bedroom, and, seeing that door was ajar, she looked up and in. What she saw then caused her feet to stutter to a stop, eyes locked, drinking in the sight in front of her.
Goose.
Beautiful Goose.
Goose naked, sitting on the edge of the mattress in his room, one elbow to the mattress behind him, half reclined. His other hand was wrapped around his cock, fingers tightly clenched at the root causing his erection to stand up and away from his body. Head thrown back, his eyes were closed, neck muscles tense and strained. She watched his cock jerk and he shifted his legs, widening his stance. The muscles in his stomach tightened and he groaned softly, deep in his chest, so quiet she knew he was trying to keep this from her, attempting to protect her from this…want.
Heat sprang to life in her stomach, moving through her in a rush and she shivered as she clenched down on nothing, that emptiness mocking the arousal flooding her. She must have made a noise because his head came up, lifting off his shoulders and he looked at her, straight at her, eyes locking instantly with hers. She saw the bulge of muscles in his arm a moment before he moved, and when he did it was to slowly slide that hand holding his cock up to the crown. Slowly, so slowly, and she could only imagine what it would be like to have him slide into her that slowly. The thought drove her to clench down on that empty again, feeling a loss that confused her, because she had never had Goose.
Wanted, yes.
Had, no.
He had drawn that line the second week she lived with him. It was the only time she had attempted to tie one on and she had thrown out an offer only half-joking. He shut her down, told her he wanted a woman who would be all his, one who would want him as much as he wanted her. He wasn’t willing to go half-measures on something as important as love.
In her tipsy haze she had stared at him, waiting for the laughter to tell her he was joking, but instead he had turned and walked out of the room, leaving her sitting on the couch alone. She called herself all kinds of stupid, having thought his ‘claiming’ of her had meant something it hadn’t. So, from that night forward she had tucked away any feelings that could have been growing, making certain she didn’t put herself out there like that again.
