“That you’re for real.”
A beat went by where his face froze.
It unfroze when he growled.
I lost sight of it after that because he kissed me.
I went up to the toes of my boots to kiss him back.
When he broke it, he murmured, “Ready to go?”
I gave him a big smile.
“Absolutely.”
Still Giggling
Rebel
With the way things were going, I totally should have known.
Even so, I was unprepared for when Rush and I stood at the door of a nice house with a great yard, plump balls of rust-colored mums planted in some pots on the front porch, Rush hitting the doorbell and then promptly pulling open the storm, pushing open the door, and hand in mine, guiding me in only for the first thing we saw to be two dark-headed boys racing up to us.
I lost Rush’s hand because he was a big guy, and he was built, but no man could be tackled by two boys without at least going back on a boot.
He went back on that boot as both boys shouted, “Rush!”
I stared down at them, trying to come to terms with the fact that his sister had a baby, not young boys who looked maybe seven and nine (or around there), before I realized these weren’t Tabby and Shy’s.
They were Rush’s brothers.
His freaking baby brothers.
Of course.
I wasn’t having dinner with Rush’s sister, brother-in-law and their baby.
I was having dinner with the Allen family.
I processed that about a nanosecond before I processed Rush getting them both in a headlock and demanding in his rough, deep voice that was now filled with brotherly affection that they, “Give.”
That voice would sound like that, except better, when he had Rhodes in a headlock and he was demanding he “give” with fatherly affection.
On that understanding, my heart squeezed, my belly fluttered, and I had to remind myself it would not be appropriate to pounce on him mere seconds after entering his sister’s house with his baby brothers right there.
“Never!” one boy, the taller of the two, who I could just about see had blue eyes, shouted.
“Give!” the other boy who had green eyes shouted.
He was let go.
The tall one twisted around in the headlock, wrapped his arms around his bother’s hips and made adorable grunting noises as he tried unsuccessfully to heave Rush off his feet.
Upon a moment’s reflection, I saw Allen stamped all over the both of them.
They were totally Tack’s.
I then gave up any hope of passing on my red hair.
Or, say, anything.
The one with the green eyes definitely got those from his mother.
But other than that, they were all Kane Allen.
Like Rush.
It was then I turned my head and saw walking our way a female version of Tack, including his sapphire-blue eyes.
And apparently like Tabby.
Man, she was a knockout.
“Ride, kid, stop. I want you to meet my girl,” Rush said.
“Whoa,” the green-eyed one muttered.
This made the one who had not ceased his assault on his big brother do just that, step back and look up at me.
Then he went still.
“Rebel, baby, these are my little brothers, Ride and Cut,” Rush introduced.
“Hey,” I said on a smile.
The green-eyed one, Cutter, stared at me.
The blue-eyed one, Rider, blinked.
“What do you say?” another rough, deep voice came.
Not Rush’s, Tack’s.
I looked to see the gang all there. Tack. Tyra. Tabby. And Shy.
Shy was holding a baby to his hip.
Serious.
Good-looking men and babies.
Melt.
I turned my attention back to the boys when there was a clamor caused by them cutting and running.
They disappeared at the back of the house, which was kind of impossible, considering it looked like the whole main floor of the house was one big great room.
One big fantastic great room.
The living area had black-painted walls with some kind of treatment that made them look like velvet. A caramel-colored leather chesterfield. Black leather club chairs, four of them, allowing for lots of seating. Brass, iron and distressed wood. Great spot lighting. And a sepia print over the sofa that was an enlarged copy of a patent that had a drawing of an old motorcycle on it and was dated December 23, 1919.
The Harley patent.
Awesome.
The large open kitchen at the back was a cave of black cabinets, marble countertops, clean gray subway tile and chrome fixtures, lighting and fittings, with a glass bowl of green apples on the island that gave a pop of color and granite-colored countertop appliances.
To the left was a dining table and the area was so awesome, with the rest of the awesome, I couldn’t take it in.
The whole place was kickass.
And it smelled of good food cooking, which made it even better.
“My sons have no manners. I blame it on their father,” Tyra declared, coming to me and giving me a hug.
I gave it back, replying, “Anything wrong with children is always the man’s fault.”
“Takin’ the blame. Our lot,” Tack muttered, moving in after his wife, looking in my eyes and saying, “Hey, darlin’,” before he gave me a one-armed hug around my shoulders that included an affectionate jostle.
I liked that they hugged.
I liked it a lot.
I smiled at him when he let me go only to have Shy come in and say, “Hey,” before he gave me a one-armed hug, his around my waist, this necessitated by him having his son on his other hip.
When that hug was done, Rush cut in front of us in order to take possession of his nephew.
Oh shit.
“This is Kane,” he told me something I knew before he shoved his face in Kane’s neck, blew a raspberry, making the boy giggle and clutch at his hair. Rush then pulled him away and grinned in his adorable baby face.
Totally a natural.
Like he handled babies every day.
Okay.
I pretty much knew I was gone for this guy.
But watching that, and him with his little brothers, I was now officially gone.
I jolted out of my fascinated study of Rush with a baby when a woman’s voice said, “And I’m Tab.”
I turned to her.
Tyra was in one of her tight skirts, with blouse and heels.
The men were in jeans and various forms of tees (Rush, a washed-out blue Henley, Shy, a gray thermal, Tack, a black thermal).
Tabby was wearing black skinny jeans with the knees frayed, a dark-red, slouchy V-neck sweater that fell over her hips and down her shoulder, a black tank under. Bare feet. Burgundy toes.
Outside Tyra, who had obviously come from work, I was overdressed.
And I was okay with that. It said I’d made an effort, this was important. And I had made that effort because this was important.
Tabby put me right there. “Rad dress.”
“Thanks,” I replied.
“Want a beer?” she asked.
“That’d be great.”
She gave me a cautious smile, turned and moved to the kitchen.
“Please tell me you didn’t cook,” Rush called to her back.
“We like Rebel so we want her to survive the night,” Shy declared.
“I would care about the stick you’re giving me if I gave a crap about cooking,” Tab called back as she opened the fridge.
“I cooked,” Shy shared.
This surprised me, even with the smell.
Not him cooking and Tabby not.
The kitchen was pristine.
“Thank God for that,” Rush muttered then called to his sister, “I’ll take a beer too, you’re getting them.”
“Whatever,” Tabby replied, but came out
with two beers.
“For God’s sake, give that child to Rebel before he sprains something,” Tyra ordered.
I looked to Rush to see Kane, aka Playboy, arching my way.
There was Allen in that child for certain.
But Shy was stamped all over him.
So maybe I stood a chance.
“Hey, kid,” I whispered, putting my hands to him and gently taking him from Rush’s hold.
He instantly latched onto my hair, grunted as he used it to pull himself up, and I ignored the pain in my scalp when he landed a sloppy wet kiss on my lips.
He came away with my raspberry lipstick around his mouth, bobbled in my arms with excitement and screeched his victory.
I started laughing.
Totally a flirt.
“Take a load off,” Shy invited. “And if he gets too much, hand him to whoever or put him down. He’s motoring now and he hasn’t found his quota of trouble today so we’ll need to give him his shot.”
I grinned at Shy, moved to the chesterfield and sat in it with Playboy in my lap, using a thumb to swipe my lipstick from his mouth, something he turned his head this way and that to avoid, clearly liking that mark of triumph.
The minute I got my ass to the seat, though, Playboy immediately showed everyone a healthy dose of the lace of my pale pink bra by yanking down my neckline.
I burst out laughing.
He started giggling with me.
I straightened my top then put him up to my face.
“You’re a little bugger, aren’t you?”
He dove in for another kiss.
I kept laughing.
“That’s it,” Tack growled, pulling him out of my arms and tucking him, belly down, at his hip.
I was disappointed Tack grabbed him until I saw Playboy reach out his arms like he was flying.
Too cute.
Okay, this family rocked.
My purse rang.
I looked up at Rush, who’d planted his ass on the arm of the chesterfield by me, and I shrugged the thin strap of my purse off my shoulder.
“Here, Rebel,” Tabby said, offering me the beer.
I turned her way, took it on a, “Thanks,” then opened my little bag enough to see that my phone said Diesel was calling.
“Gotta take that?” Rush asked quietly.
I looked up at him and shook my head, tucking my purse by my thigh in the arm of the couch.
D would leave a message.
“So, you’re a videographer?” Tabby asked.
She was in a club chair, Shy sitting on the arm.
Tyra also was in a club chair.
Tack was standing, keeping an eye on a “motoring” Playboy.
Good father.
Good grandfather.
I looked to Tabby, thinking it was sweet she went around my foray into porn.
“Kind of. I’d like to be a filmmaker,” I told her before taking a sip of beer.
“What’s the difference?” Tyra asked.
“Now, I do some weddings, birthday parties, anniversaries. Other events. Not my favorite, but it pays the bills.” Or did. “I also do videos for local bands. Some stuff for companies. Vloggers. I get to be more creative with those so those are better. But I’d like to make films. I have a script, I think it’s good. I just need to get organized. Find some funding. Maybe do a teaser trailer and—”
“You have a script?” Rush asked.
I looked up at him. “Yeah.”
“What’s the script?” he inquired.
I shrugged and muttered, “Just something I put together. Before I get serious, I’ll need a real screenwriter to take a look at it. It’s rough. It needs cleaning up.”
“Baby, you wrote a movie?”
I sat in the chesterfield and stared up at him.
Diesel.
Mad.
Molly.
Diane (when she was alive).
Amy.
Paul.
Essence.
Maybe a little bit from some other friends.
I would get it from all of them.
Easy.
But I’d never had the kind (or amount) of pride I saw in his face aimed at me.
It felt really good.
And he hadn’t even read the thing.
My parents and Gunner never looked at me like that. Not even when I won an award in high school that had my teacher telling me I should try to get into UCLA film school, sending in the video I made of our cheerleading squad and how hard they worked to get to state with my application.
“It’s rough, Rush,” I whispered.
“You finish it?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Most folks don’t type that first letter, Rebel. You finished it. That’s fuckin’ cool,” he replied.
“What’s it about?” Tyra queried.
I tore myself away from basking in the glow of Rush’s handsome, admiring face and looked to his stepmom.
“It’s about a band. Kinda like The Commitments, except set in Denver. They’re a rock band with a female lead. Very Blue Moon Gypsies, except the lead falls in love with one of the guitar players. It’s a romance with heavy elements of women in rock and the music industry, and band dynamics and dysfunction. But it’s funny, I hope. And has a message, I hope. And unlike The Commitments, it has a happy ending.”
“Cool,” Tabby whispered.
My phone rang again.
I shifted a bit so I could open my bag and look in.
It was Diesel again.
“Maybe you should get that,” Rush said.
“It’s rude,” I told him.
He gave me a look.
I read his look, pulled my phone out and pushed up out of the couch, saying, “Sorry, my brother’s calling. I’ll just be a second.”
Setting my beer on a coaster on the coffee table, I took the call, put the phone to my ear and moved to the other side of the room that had a dining room table over which hung a huge chandelier made out of what looked like crystals formed from ash.
It was awesome.
“Hey, D,” I answered quietly.
“Where are you?” he asked irately.
I stopped by the table, surprised at his tone. “What?”
“Where are you? Right now?”
Right now?
“I’m out to dinner,” I told him. “What’s going on?”
“Where at dinner?”
Where?
Why did he want to know?
“Diesel, what’s going on?”
“Where, Rebel?” he bit out.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Where the fuck are you?” he clipped.
Whoa.
What was this about?
“I’m at dinner,” I snapped. “Now is everything okay?”
“Tell me where you fuckin’ are, Reb,” he demanded, and my back went straight.
“Where are you?” I asked.
I didn’t get his answer because my phone was slipped out of my hand.
I turned stunned eyes to Rush who was looking at me with my phone to his ear.
“This is Rush, Rebel’s man. What’s happening?” he said into the phone.
There was a pause.
Then, “Yeah, that’s what I said. Now what the fuck is happening?”
Another pause, a nod.
Then, “Unh-hunh.”
Pause and his eyes swept from me.
Uh-oh.
Rush was an eye contact guy.
This could not be good.
“Yeah,” he said to the dining room table, then he gave an address that I was pretty sure was the address where we right then were. “Right. Later.”
He took the phone from his ear and looked back at me.
“Your brother is coming over,” he declared.
My voice was three octaves higher when I asked, “From Phoenix?”
“No. He’s in town.”
In town?
Diesel was in town?
No, thi
s was not good.
Generally, I’d love a visit from Diesel.
With his tone, I was thinking this one would not be enjoyable.
I just couldn’t imagine why.
“I—”
“Babe, I think you probably should have told him you went undercover as a CI,” he said.
Oh my God.
My internal organs stopped functioning.
“He knows?” I pushed out.
“He knows,” Rush informed me.
It was a near screech when I asked, “How does he know?”
“We didn’t get that far. But to say he’s pissed is a pretty mammoth understatement.”
Oh shit.
Oh my God.
Diesel knew.
Oh shit.
Oh my God.
He couldn’t come there.
Not at all, but not pissed.
I’d barely said a few words to Tabby. I hadn’t had the time to win her over yet.
And now my brother was coming over, from Phoenix, and he knew I’d been a confidential informant for the police.
Definitely yes.
This was not good.
“He can’t come here,” I said.
“Too late,” Rush replied.
“But, Rush—”
“Babe, you should have told him.”
Oh no he didn’t.
He didn’t get to make this decision.
“Give me my phone,” I demanded, holding out my hand.
He didn’t give me my phone.
He said, “It’s not gonna stop him.”
I put my hands on my hips. “I can’t believe you gave him the address.”
“Tab did something like you did, she didn’t share, I found out, I’d want the address.”
Was he crazy?
“Rush, you don’t know Diesel.”
“I’m gonna meet him pretty soon.”
God!
“This is not good,” I snapped.
Our discussion was interrupted when two boys rolled into the room, wrestling, kicking and shouting, “She’s gonna be my girlfriend!” and, “No! She’s gonna be mine!”
Rush and I turned toward the fray to see Tack sauntering over to his sons.
He separated them by means of curling his fists in the backs of their tees, dangling them in the air for a second, then planting them on their feet but holding them apart, yes, with his fists still in the backs of their shirts.
“We do this shit in front of company?” he growled.
“Cutter’s a loser,” Rider declared.
“Rider’s a jerk,” Cutter declared.
“We do this in company?” Tack repeated, his voice now deadly.
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