by Debra Kayn
"What the hell?" he muttered, shoving his shoulder against the door to open the barrier a few more inches.
He couldn't even get inside. There were boxes packed from floor to ceiling. If there was a bed inside, he couldn't see it.
Shutting the door, he walked back to the living room. The only other places to stretch out was the couch or the floor. He eyed the sofa. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night.
He sat and bent over to remove his boots. No stranger to sleeping in odd places, knowing Faye was under the same roof, made him edgy.
Shutting off the light, he stretched out and put his hand behind his head. Staring up into the darkness, he let his eyes adjust. There was a faint light coming from outside. Probably one of the street lights lining the residential street.
Muffling came from the other end of the house. He lifted his head, straining to hear. He couldn't make out what Faye was doing, but she wasn't going to bed after her shower.
Several minutes passed, and more noise floated into the living room. Getting back up, he walked down the hallway.
Her bedroom door was open, the light on. Faye passed back and forth in front of the dresser, holding her hand over her mouth.
His balls tightened at the thin material covering her upper body, leaving her legs bare. Her breasts quivered with each step, and he strained to see underneath the blue covering.
A sob broke the silence, and Faye stomped her barefoot. He jerked his gaze to her face. She'd squeezed her eyes shut as her body shook.
She was crying.
He approached Faye. Showing up at the bar and coming to her house wasn't supposed to upset her. He was looking out for her safety. She had no idea what kind of place she was working for or how much danger prancing around half-naked in front of strangers could bring her.
Removing her hand from her mouth, he said, "What's wrong?"
Her chin trembled. "He died."
The hair on his arms prickled. "Who?"
She pointed, refusing to look in the same direction.
He went over to the window. On the ledge sat a small fishbowl. Bending over, he peered into the water. Sure enough, a goldfish lay at the bottom on the rocks.
Squinting, he took in the small castle that allowed a fish to swim through the opening. His chest tightened, and he glanced at Faye.
Nah, it wasn't possible. "Is this the same fish?"
She nodded sniffling.
"Jesus," he mumbled, picking up the fishbowl.
He'd bought her the goldfish on her tenth birthday. She'd wanted a puppy. The best he could do, considering Grandma June hadn't wanted a dog in the house, was to buy her a ten-cent fish from the local pet store.
"Where are you taking him?" Faye followed him out of the room.
He stepped into the bathroom, flipping the light switch with his elbow. "I'm going to dump him in the toilet."
"Oh, God." She pressed against his back. "I don't want you doing it."
"One of us has to do it." He set the bowl on the counter.
"He was my fish." She squeezed around him and inhaled deeply. "I'll do it."
Curley stepped back into the hallway, giving her room in the small bathroom to do the deed. She composed herself and opened the toilet lid. Stepping out of view, he leaned against the wall and turned his head, cracking the vertebra in his neck. Dawn would soon arrive. He should probably get on his motorcycle and ride home.
Plop
Faye sniffled. Curley swallowed, hating that one more thing in her life had upset her. She was too old for him to go out and buy her another fish, thinking it would replace the one she enjoyed.
"Rest in peace, Curley," she whispered.
The back of his head hit the wall at hearing his name, and he frowned. The toilet flushed. Still reeling, he continued to stand in the hallway as Faye washed her hands and shut off the light.
As she walked out of the bathroom, he said, "You gave the fish my name?"
She stopped. "At one time in my life, you were my favorite person. And you gave me a fish. A fish that lived 14 years and heard every secret I had and listened to me cry when Grandma June died and when I missed Uncle Walker. That fish was here for me when all I wanted was you, so yes, I named him Curley."
His heart hammered. Emotions like a knife stabbed into his chest, penetrating deep in his heart.
She walked into her room and shut the door. He slid his back against the wall until his ass hit the floor. That was the last thing he'd expected her to say.
Faye spent most of her time angry with him. If he wasn't fighting with her, he fought with his feelings for her.
He banged the back of his head against the wall. One fucking mistake, and he was going to pay for the rest of his life.
If he could change places with Walker and give Faye her uncle back, he would in a heartbeat.
Living in hell couldn't be that much different than living in a cell.
Chapter 11
Faye
Cupping her mug of coffee in her hands, she leaned against the counter, looking at Curley. He'd stayed overnight instead of leaving before she got up. That shouldn't have surprised her because he rarely listened to her.
What had surprised her was walking out of the bedroom and finding Curley sitting in the hallway as if he'd slept there all night. Finding him still in the house, her body betrayed her.
Even fifteen minutes later and fully awake now that she had some caffeine in her, she still vibrated from having him here.
How could he look sexy after spending the night in the hallway in his clothes, minus his boots, when she felt like a train-wreck fully dressed?
The rough night on the floor had deepened the lines at the corners of his eyes. He looked at her through heavy eyelids. She bit the inside of her lip. God, he looked as comfy as a soft, worn flannel shirt she wanted to slip into.
Except, she knew there was nothing soft about him. His broad chest stretched the front of his shirt. She lowered her gaze. Okay, there might be some softness on him. If she remembered right, his stomach, right above his belt, had fascinated her when they'd had sex. The light trail of hair down his abdomen had tickled her palm. She liked the way it felt, but she enjoyed his reaction more—his stomach had gone from soft to rock hard when she'd touched him.
But that was years ago. She swallowed. His body could've changed a little.
She sighed, catching the sound before it could escape her lips. No, his body hadn't changed.
He set his empty cup in the sink. "Did you change jobs because you need more money?"
Feeling flushed, she set down her mug. "If all I needed was money, I'd still be working at the lounge."
Bringing up her old job reminded her that Cal had stopped by in the middle of the night. That was something he hadn't done before. She figured quitting her job would stop the harassment.
"What gave you and your friends the idea to work in a topless bar, shoving your stuff in other men's faces?"
"We're women, Curley. Don't talk about us as if we're selling ourselves on the street. Kingston Bar doesn't sell sex, and I'm not shoving any part of myself at anyone." Her shoulders tensed. "Things changed at the lounge. We all quit, and when we couldn't get another serving job—thanks to you, Angela cracked a joke about working at a titty bar. I guess because I wasn't going at it alone, it seemed like something I could do with friends. The tips are good."
"What about the nursery? I thought that was your dream," he asked.
"It is."
"Then, concentrate on that job." He eyed her. "Unless you like the attention the men give you when you know damn well, all they're thinking about is shoving their dick between your breasts."
"I doubt that. There's nothing sexy about me. With or without a shirt." She walked out of the kitchen.
"That's a load of bullshit," muttered Curley.
Out of sight of him, her stomach fluttered, wanting to believe him. But she'd lived with the truth since she'd slept with Curley. For how much they were attract
ed to each other, he always stopped himself from acting on his feelings.
Because he rejected her, she knew exactly what men thought of her.
Whatever.
Other people disappointed her all the time.
Grabbing the dirty-clothes basket, she went into the laundry room and filled the washer, so when she got back, she could start the load.
There was no reason why she had to explain herself to Curley. He'd made his choice on not having her in his life long ago.
Shaking her hands to rid herself of the nerves leaving her shaking, she returned to the kitchen.
She turned on the faucet and wet the washcloth, wiping down the counters. "Don't you have something you need to do today?"
"I don't want you associated with Kingston Bar."
She turned to him. "Then, please, tell me what I can do? What's going to make you happy?"
What is going to make you leave me alone?
Her pulse roared in her ears. She couldn't take the back and forth of the conversation any longer.
She shouldn't have to listen to what he wanted. He could take the stupid belief that because he grunted and swore to take care of her straight to hell.
"I don't know what's going to make me happy." His gaze hardened. "I know you're more likely to get killed or raped at Kingston Bar than you would any other place in Missoula."
"Yet you screwed me over getting a job at Riverside Bar where I could work with all my clothes on. Explain that one to me because I don't understand what's in your head." She crossed her arms.
"The owner..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Shit is going down there, Faye. I don't want you mixed up in it all when something happens."
"What do you want me to do?"
His gaze burned into her. Tears blurred her gaze. She was tired of wanting him.
The pain of his rejection that had lingered long past the night they'd had sex never went away. Out of all the men who'd flirted with her, asked her out, and tried to be a part of her life, none of them ever compared to Curley—in reality, and in her mind.
She'd tried to forget him and stop loving him, and the harder she tried, the more he showed back up in her life, pushing his power over their relationship on her.
Looking away from him, she blinked. "I need to get going."
"Where?"
"It's the first Sunday of the month." She gazed back at him as if that day meant something.
He should know where she'd go.
He'd gone with her to the prison for years, using the same schedule. Her visits had to happen when Tarkio members weren't waiting to see Uncle Walker. Because Tarkio always came first.
"I'm sure Uncle Walker has mentioned I still visit him. I'm his only living relative left." She inhaled deeply. "I need to go put gas in my car. You can let yourself out."
He remained in the kitchen, studying her. Escaping from those dark eyes of his, she found her purse and emptied it of everything but her license and keys. They'd check everything at the prison and lock it up for her until the visit was over, and she didn't want them rifling through her things—no matter how mundane they were.
Visiting the bathroom one more time before she left, she came out and found Curley at the door, leading to the garage. She stepped out, sensing him following.
"I'll swing by tomorrow." He pushed the button for the automatic garage door.
She stood by the car. "Why?"
"You're due at work on Tuesday."
"And, I'll be going," she said.
"You won't be." He walked toward the driveway. "I'll have something else for you to do to earn money."
"Curley." Her throat tightened. "It's not only me. I won't disappoint my friends. Not having a job is devastating to all of us. Stephanie's a single mom. She needs the money to raise her child. Don't mess this up for me, for us."
He refrained from commenting. His stubbornness would be the death of her.
His cheek twitched, and before she could figure out what he was thinking, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. Holding his mouth on her, he inhaled deeply before pulling back. "Drive safely."
Her heart rate fluttered. He'd left her trembling. Why would he kiss her when he acted as if she was a burden?
She opened the car door. "I'll tell Uncle Walker you said hi."
"Don't bring me up to him, Faye." He walked out of the garage and got on his bike.
She slid into the driver's seat and watched him in the rearview mirror. Uncle Walker wouldn't talk about Curley. Curley wouldn't see her uncle. She was starting to think every Tarkio Motorcycle Club member was insane.
Chapter 12
Faye
The guard left her in the chair in front of the Plexiglass that would separate her from Uncle Walker. She wiped her palms on the thighs of her jeans. There was never a time when she comfortably walked into the prison and remained at ease.
Everything about the place made her feel dirty.
The guard on the other side of the room eyed her as if he could read her thoughts. The criminals partitioned from her gawked as if starving for the sight of a female. She could sense the way they wanted to touch her and imagine what they'd do if given a chance to be shut in the same room with her.
The penitentiary was an old and rundown building with years of grime, sweat, blood, and bodily fluids caked on the floor, walls, and ceiling, adding to the odd musty scent hanging heavily in the air.
She tapped her foot against the sticky surface, impatient for Uncle Walker to be led into the small area on the other side of the protective glass. There were times she'd waited for up to an hour only to be informed the visit was canceled, with no explanation, and she'd made the trip for nothing.
Motion from inside the secured room brought her to the edge of her seat.
Uncle Walker shuffled his chained feet forward, clasping his hands in front of his body to hold the cuffs still. Three feet of iron links secured his wrists to his ankles. It was absolutely ridiculous how they treated human beings in prison.
What could he do while visiting her when there was unbreakable glass between them that was thick enough, they had to talk through a phone?
She smiled, knowing her uncle had few bright spots in his days. He was serving a twenty-five-year sentence and had nine more years left. To her, he'd already been gone a lifetime and missed out on so much.
The thought made her sad. It wasn't fair.
Uncle Walker was alone. Confined. Miserable.
The jury only judged him on his crimes. They never looked past the murders to see the person who took care of his young niece when nobody else would or religiously took Grandma June to church every Sunday morning and picked her up after the potluck. They never heard how he often donated his money to his MC brothers, because they were struggling through hard times and had several mouths to feed at home. They never heard about how he'd sit on the edge of her bed and tell her wacky stories to get her mind off why her life was different than the other kids at school. They never witnessed him hugging her, drilling in the fact that she was loved.
They only saw a killer when they looked at the big man who wore his hair too long, left his beard uncut, and had tattoos snaking up both arms.
She studied Uncle Walker. Beyond the dedicated blood relative who loved her, his brown eyes were the same as hers. If he pulled back his hair, anyone could see that they had the same crazy ears that stuck out a little too far from their heads.
Uncle Walker sat down. Raising both his hands because of the cuffs, he grabbed the phone receiver he'd use to talk with her. She retrieved the receiver on her side of the Plexiglass.
"Hi, Uncle Walker," she said softly.
He cleared his throat, but his voice stayed rough. "Hey, sweetheart."
"My goldfish died yesterday." She shrugged. "It's pretty crazy when I think about how long it lived."
She always brought up something in her life to keep herself from asking how he was doing. It was apparent what he was doing and how he was
handling prison life. He needed a glimpse of what was going on in the outside world. Whether it was good or bad, it would give him something to think about while he sat on his cot and stared at the four walls.
"It lived for fourteen years." She leaned closer. "In a tiny bowl. Most of the time, the water was dirty because I was too busy to keep it clean, and I fed it too many flakes because I felt guilty for being out in the nursery instead of in the house."
"Sorry." He stroked his beard with his free hand since he couldn't lower his arm. "Everything okay with the house?"
She nodded. "The grass is growing fast now that I've started the fertilizer schedule. All the snow is gone. The rhoddies out front are budding already. Everything in the greenhouse is ahead of schedule, and I'm waiting to roll up some of the partitions soon, once there's no hint of the temperatures dipping to freezing at night."
"Summer is going to keep you busy," he muttered.
She nodded. "I hope so."
"This winter, make sure you roll up a towel and put it at the bottom of the back door to the yard. It'll keep the drafts out and lower your heating bill."
He'd reminded her every few months, every year, no matter the season as if saving her money was important to him. She rubbed her lips together. There were so many things she wanted to talk to him about, but they were uncomfortable topics, and she was hesitant about ruining their visit if she upset him.
But if he found out any information about her from one of the Tarkio members and not from her first, he'd be even madder.
"So, I quit my job." She wrinkled her nose. "Cal, the owner, he became impossible to work for."
"What's his problem with you?"
She'd hoped he wouldn't ask. "Remember when I told you he went through a divorce a couple of years ago, and afterward, his wife had nothing to do with the lounge after the settlement?"
He nodded.
"I guess his newfound freedom gave him the urge to get a little too friendly with me." She held up her hand when he opened his mouth. "Nothing happened. I never allowed him to get me alone at work, but he continued to get pretty handsy with me around the customers when I couldn't push him away. I told him to stop, and he wouldn't, so I quit."
