by Kati Wilde
Grinning, I shake off the dirt and lay them in the basket. “Do you have herbs?”
“Sure we do. Dried or fresh?”
I think I love this man.
I don’t know how to feel about his son.
By the time I return to the kitchen with a loaded basket under my arm, the glass has been cleared from the floor and Bull’s nowhere in sight. Pop heads out, telling me he’s got wood to stack, and when I hear the rumble of a motorcycle engine a little later, I assume it’s Bull leaving.
But it’s not. That motorcycle must have belonged to another Hellfire Rider, because about a minute later Bull comes into the kitchen with an electric screwdriver.
I almost joke that he doesn’t need to use that on me—I’ve already agreed to what they want. But every word sticks in my aching throat and I blindly focus on the cutting board in front of me.
The silence between us is thick and painful as he gets to work removing the cabinet doors.
He’s sorry for what happened to me. I know he is. And I don’t blame him for what the junkie did. Bull obviously had no idea I’d be a target. He didn’t know I was in that trunk when he swung a blade through the lid.
I also knew that he had a dangerous side. And part of what’s so confusing and difficult is trying to reconcile this piece of myself—because I didn’t even blink when he offered to kill Raphael. Instead I was glad he offered, because it confirmed what I already believed about him. I thought I could trust my instincts again.
But I can’t. Because I knew Bull had a bad side, but I also believed the core of him was decent. I thought his offer came from a place in him that needed to protect someone he cared about. From a place in him that would see justice done when someone had been hurt.
I thought he was offering to do something terrible for the right reasons. And I’ve been there myself. Not thinking about killing someone but contemplating something illegal to protect myself, because it didn’t seem like anyone else could do it.
The wrong thing, the right reasons.
There’s no right reasons for buying twenty thousand dollars worth of meth, though. Because what else are they going to do with that amount of drugs but sell them? There’s no right reasons there. It’s not about protecting anyone or making them pay for a wrong. It’s just dealing death and addiction and preying on people’s weaknesses for money.
What I thought was a bad side is just rotten all the way through.
Like Raphael was.
Except what I feel now isn’t anything like what I felt then. Not even at the beginning, before all I felt was terror and grief. Raphael started pursuing me as soon as he met me, claiming that I was an exotic and fresh treat for his senses—and I was flattered by his attention. He was rich and handsome and I thought the mild attraction I felt would transform into the wild need he spoke of as soon as I had more familiarity and experience with sex.
I don’t think he ever realized that I wasn’t as overwhelmed by him as he apparently was by me—especially after he found out I was a virgin, and what had been pursuit turned into obsession. He thought I needed to have some great awakening and he was the man to do it.
And me, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to find out. The first time was okay but I never felt what he did. I never looked at Raphael like he looked at me, as if I was some incredible creature. As if he saw something magically sensual within me that I couldn’t see, even though I was always looking for that magic in me, too, and was disappointed that I couldn’t find it. It took me a while to realize that I wasn’t missing anything, and that Raphael was only seeing what he wanted to see—a sexual fantasy he could mold and shape. He imagined this great love, this sublime ecstasy.
I was just happy to get off now and then.
I didn’t always, even though I couldn’t fault his attentions. But I was too self-conscious, too aware of myself when I was with him. Too aware of how I looked and my body’s responses, because he was always telling me how my appearance and responses made him feel. I was always too aware of how I was making him feel—and nothing I felt in return ever measured up. He could work me up physically but I never looked at him and felt everything inside me tense up and melt at the same time. I could become aroused but I never yearned for him.
I don’t even have to look at Bull and I am. Yearning. Melting. Burning.
And thinking that maybe he’ll come up behind me and kiss my neck. That maybe his big hands will unbutton my shirt and he’ll growl against my ear when he finds my nipples already stiff and aching for his rough fingers. That maybe he’ll discover the wetness between my thighs, and in a rush of need he’ll bury his thick cock deep inside the slick, eager pussy that doesn’t care what he’s done, that just wants to be filled with him, and he’ll fuck me hard with my hands braced against the counter and his fingers digging into my hips.
I think maybe Bull’s feeling the same, because when I do happen to glance that way, there’s no mistaking the heavy bulge behind his zipper. And he looks pained. Not just sorry, but in physical pain.
So he’s aching, too.
But I don’t know what there is to do except try to ignore the arousal and the hurt and get through the next few days.
At least with two men to feed, there’ll be a lot of cooking to do.
The electric whine of the screwdriver falls silent—but it doesn’t start up again. He’d kept a steady rhythm, unfastening the hinges and stacking the cabinet doors neatly on the counter before starting on the next. But now he’s finished, I realize.
And although he’s quiet, he’s not looking at me. Instead he’s gazing at the shelves—then abruptly he glances my way, meeting my eyes.
His voice is a deep rumble when he asks, “Am I just lazy and hoping to get out of more work, or do those cabinets really look better without the glass doors on them?”
Heart thundering, I shake my head—not a yes or a no but trying to pull my brain into a space where I can even begin to think about kitchen aesthetics.
Frowning, he turns to regard the cabinets again. “Sure, I’d have to clean it up some.” He steps forward, rubbing his thumb over one of the holes left by the screws. “Fill these in with putty, sand it smooth, paint it white to match. But what do you think—doors or no doors?”
Finally I find my voice. “I don’t really remember what they looked like before you broke them.”
“Well, what do you think now?”
I study the cabinets. They contain the stoneware, glasses, and mugs—all mismatched but neatly arranged. As I’m looking, Bull grabs one of the doors and holds it up against the cabinet face to demonstrate the difference, then pulls it away.
“It looks better without the door,” I decide.
“And what about the color?” His gaze scans the kitchen. “Because if I’ve got to paint some, might as well consider painting them all. The white good? Or do you think another color would do better in here?”
“It’s not really white,” I say and he looks at me like I’ve gone crazy. “It’s eggshell.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re one of them, huh?”
“Someone who prefers to describe things accurately? I guess so.”
He huffs out a short laugh. “Fair enough. So what about eggshell? Do you like it or does it need to go?”
“It’s nice. It brightens everything.” In a log house like this, the darkness could easily become overwhelming. But the French doors, big windows, and light cabinets provide a lovely counterbalance to the heavy wood.
Bull gives a distracted nod, as if in agreement, but the way his troubled gaze searches my face says he’s not thinking about kitchen décor anymore.
But he doesn’t say what he is thinking. Just rakes his bandaged fingers through his hair and heaves a sigh before reaching for the cabinet doors.
With the broken frames in his grip, he pauses on his way out of the kitchen. “Those parsnips?”
“They are.”
“Pop hates those.” He sounds sorry to tell me.
“I
know.”
Bull’s quiet for a long second, and his voice has a harsh edge when he says, “You know he didn’t have a thing to do with any of this.”
Mildly I look up from the cutting board. “Do you truly think I’d cook something that tastes bad as revenge?”
Something dark passes over his face. Shame, maybe. There’s gravel in his answer. “No.”
“Good.” I hold his gaze. “And I think you’ll really enjoy the peach custard tart I have planned for after dinner. It’s creamy and sweet and juicy. The perfect dessert…since you aren’t getting the one you wanted to.”
The way his eyes blaze. The way his fingers tighten so hard on the frames that I can hear the wood creak in protest. The stiff walk that tells me his cock’s about to burst through his jeans. That’s revenge.
But I think it’s playing with fire, too. And I don’t know how we’re going to get through three days without both of us getting burned.
9
Bull
I don’t look away from Sara even once as I devour a big slice of her peach tart—then slowly suck the tines of my fork clean when I’m done.
Across the table, she sits watching me eat every delicious bite, her cheeks flushed, her eyes feverishly bright, and her plush bottom lip caught between her teeth. Sitting over there with her pussy as wet as my cock is hard, I just know it—and knowing it makes my cock even harder.
Sitting over there, pussy swimming in her sweet juices and not wearing any panties.
This is the best fucking meal I’ve ever had.
And there’s my pop, oblivious to the tension between us. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet the entire meal, sliding into reverent silence after his first bite of beef that was so tender it slid right off the bone. At one point, I’m pretty sure there were tears of joy in his eyes. He even went back for a second helping of parsnips. I’m not sure what the hell she did to them, except throw in some herbs and mash ’em. But they didn’t taste anything like what Pop had been cooking up.
I reach for another slice of tart—because fuck yeah, something so sweet and juicy, I’ll go back for seconds and thirds and fourths—and Pop’s arm shoots out.
He jabs my hand with his fork before I can scoop out another piece. “Don’t be greedy, boy. You save some of that for tomorrow.”
Her gaze holding mine, Sara says with a wicked little grin, “Let him eat it all up. I can just make another one.”
Pop shakes his head. “That much sugar ain’t good for him. Now, me—I’m an old man. Going to die sooner than later anyway. So I’ll take another slice before bed, I reckon.”
“You do that, Pop.” I lean back, and my dick never ached so bad but felt so good all at once. “I’d rather have my slice in bed. Maybe first thing when I wake up.”
As if picturing my mouth on her in the morning, she squirms in her damn chair.
Hell. She wants to wiggle like that, she can do it on my face.
“Who’s going to serve you breakfast in bed? You can haul your lazy ass downstairs.” Pop snorts, then looks to Sara. “Don’t you go soft on him. If he had a choice, he probably wouldn’t get up before noon.”
I do have a choice. One I make every morning. “Some things are worth getting up early for.”
Her smile fades and her thick lashes fall, hiding her gaze from mine. Hurt again. I didn’t mean to with those words, but I did.
Maybe she’s also hurting over what we lost. Maybe thinking I’m full of shit when I say she was worth getting up for. Because after months of getting up early and sitting at her counter, I was supposed to be taking her out tonight. Was supposed to be licking her pussy. Instead she got a terrifying ride in a trunk and me holding her prisoner.
Though maybe if losing the sweet connection we had hurts her, she’d be willing to find it with me again.
Hope is a ragged pain in my chest. She’s still comfortable enough to tease me with this tart. She’s still aroused by the thought of me licking her. Maybe I can still win her back. But I’m not going to push now. Earlier I went fast and she was all right with it. That was before all this went down, though.
So this time, I’ll go slow.
With a contented groan, Pop leans back and rubs his belly like he’s coaxing it not to explode. “That was some damn fine eating, girl. Where’d you learn to cook like that?”
“This, specifically? It’s based on a braised beef dish I used to make at Sòlê—a restaurant in Manhattan. More generally, I learned from my…from my mama and grandmama.” Her full lips press together and the downward sweep of her lashes conceal her eyes again. “And culinary school.”
“New York? Is that where your family’s from?” Bushy eyebrows raised high, Pop regards her with disbelief when she nods. “What the hell possessed you to come to a nowhere little town in Oregon? How’d you even hear about Pine Valley?”
Shit. I’d like to know more, too—but I don’t want to hurt her by bringing up the topic of her dead family.
“Pop,” I say quietly but Sara shakes her head before I can warn him off.
“It’s okay. I never talk about what happened to them. Maybe I should.” She pokes at her half-eaten tart before laying down her fork and folding her hands together. “I dated this guy for a while—and when I tried to break it off, he, uh…” As if she’s seeing a lot more than she’s able to say, her eyes go glassy. Unfocused. “He stalked me, basically. My family tried to help me. Screening my calls, riding on the subway with me to work so he couldn’t just show up and hassle me. Even though it wasn’t easy for them, because my dad had an app development company that took up so much time and my mama had a dental practice. But Raphael, he said”—her breath shudders—“he said he was the only family I needed. So one night when I was working late, he barred the doors of our house and set it on fire.”
Raphael. I’m going to find him. Find him, douse him with gasoline, and light the match.
Pop whistles between his teeth. “Christ, girl.”
She nods, tears standing in her eyes.
“They get him?”
“No,” she says, her voice thick. “The police tried. The detectives believed me and I’d already tried filing a restraining order against him. But there wasn’t any evidence. He had an army of lawyers between him and the investigators so they were never able to touch him. And he was still always there. Watching me. Saying he wanted to comfort me. How sick is that?”
“Real fucking sick,” I softly growl. And he had an army of lawyers. Raphael was a rich fucker, then.
When Blowback gets me the rest of his name, no lawyers will be able to protect him.
My pop reaches out, folds his hand over her clenched fingers. Just like she did to me this morning, trying to comfort me when I was talking about Maurice and his boy. “So you ran?”
“I did. I have a little family still, aunts and cousins and—” Stopping, she shakes her head. “He’d have found me. Maybe hurt them. But I knew Minerva from culinary school and we’d kept in touch on Facebook, exchanging recipes here and there. And last year, right after my family died, her husband Reggie was killed in a fire, too. Though it was a forest fire.”
I remember. One of the Hellfire Riders is a helicopter pilot who flies teams of firefighters in. Zoomie flew Reggie’s team in, and later had to fly his body out.
With a soft sigh and a shrug, Sara finishes up, “So I’m helping her out at Reggie’s and she’s helping me out.”
Pop pats her hand. “Well, if you need anything at all, we’ll help you out, too.”
“Anything,” I confirm and the tears that were welling in her eyes abruptly spill over.
“Don’t cry though,” my pop immediately says. “You’ll start me blubbering.”
“Okay.” Laughing, she nods and wipes her cheeks. “And I’m tired finally. So I think I’ll clean up here and head to bed.”
“I’ll take cleanup tonight,” Pop says. “David’ll get it tomorrow.”
Another watery laugh escapes her and she gives me an
other of those wicked looks. “Then I’ll make even more of a mess tomorrow.”
“Can’t be worse than what I made today,” I tell her.
“No.” Her voice softens and her dark gaze searches my face. “I’m due at work in the morning.”
“I know,” I say gruffly. Her schedule’s as familiar to me as my own. “You’ll need to call in sick. The next two days you already have off, yeah?”
Lips suddenly tight, she nods.
“Then that ought to cover the time you’re here.” Three days. Maybe the last I have with her. Or maybe time to fix some of this. “I’ll bring you an unregistered phone in a minute.”
Her jaw clenches and she swallows hard, as if biting back a response. With another stiff nod, she stands and stalks out of the kitchen, heading for the stairs.
Maybe because in all this time, Sara’s never once called in sick. Never let down the friend who helped her. Maybe never lied to her friend, either.
Now I’m making her do all of the above.
Shit. On a heavy sigh, I scrub my hand over my face, then push my own chair back.
Gathering the plates, Pop says mildly, “What you gonna do about that Raphael fellow?”
“Get the rest of his name. Probably take a trip to New York.”
Nodding he says, “I haven’t been to the big city in a while. You need company, you let me know.”
That’s my pop. Not that I’d ever risk him. But still.
I clap him on the shoulder, scoop up the half-eaten tart Sara left on her plate, then head out to get that phone.
10
Sara
When I enter the guest room the first thing I see are my laundered clothes neatly folded at the end of the bed, topped by a boxed toothbrush and sample-sized toiletries—the kind you swipe from hotel rooms. No doubt Pop swiped and squirreled away a salon’s worth somewhere around here.
It’s such a sweet gesture, but seeing my clothes and the little soaps only sharpens the ache in my chest. Because Pop and Bull are treating me like a guest, but I’m not one.
