Still Standing

by Kristen Ashley

  Buck kept talking.

  “Clara, listen to me, I’m offerin’ you a home, a car, a job, protection for you and your girl and the opportunity to stay clean. Are you seriously gonna turn that down?”

  Something occurred to me.

  “Did you know that you’d…that you’d try…that we’d—?”

  “Saw pictures of you, babe, lots of ’em. Can’t say they didn’t catch my interest but in the flesh…” He tugged my hair, let that finalize his point and moved on. “So no. I didn’t know you’d be where you are right now and I didn’t know I’d make that offer because I didn’t know the offer needed to be made. Though, considered an offer after our abbreviated twenty questions and definitely was movin’ toward it after you got smashed, chatty and seriously fuckin’ cute.”

  I missed the last part, which was too bad, but it was because I was stuck on what he said earlier.

  “So this is pity?” I asked, my voice rising again, and I watched him arch his neck back and listened to him sigh.

  Once he’d done that, I listened to him mutter, “Fuckin’ hell.”

  “Well?” I demanded.

  It was then I watched him tip his head down and felt his eyes burning into me.

  “Let me sum up,” he stated with unhidden, barely restrained patience. “You…are…fucked. You haven’t worked in nearly a year. You’ve come to the end of the money you had in your own account, as well as the end of the money you got when you hocked anything they left you with that had value. You haven’t paid on your car in six months. You’re three months out on rent. You were six, but the money you earned from Esposito caught you up, just not enough. You were served an eviction notice a week ago. Your three credit cards are maxed. You haven’t paid on them in six months either. They’re with collection agencies who are at your door so much, they could move in.”

  Okay.

  One could say he’d really, really looked into me.

  And he wasn’t done.

  “Your girl is unsafe and the only way to keep her safe is to accept death-defying errands for a sociopath. That is, until he gets tired of watchin’ you charm your way through badass bikers and psychopathic filth by wearin’ tight skirts, high heels and bein’ cute, and he decides to loan you out too.”

  This, I had to admit, was a concern I’d had as well.

  And…

  Buck still wasn’t finished.

  “Client one, my guess, Imran Babić, who hasn’t made public his reasons for lettin’ you strut away from him unharmed, but who I know likes blondes, tight asses and long legs. Client two, Breaker Walinksi’s boy, Bug, who was there when you strutted in and strutted out and has made public his interest in Esposito’s new piece of tail.”

  Fabulous.

  Buck kept talking

  “Like I said, you need to start makin’ the right allies. Now, this is just my guess, but you walk outta Ace’s Dive without my protection, three things can happen. Esposito keeps usin’ you until he uses you up one way or another. Babić picks you up and has his fun with you. And babe, you’re cute, you may be able to get him to be your shield, but Babić does not like brown skin and Tia won’t be along for that ride. Or last, Breaker pulls you in for his boy, and Walinskis, they know and appreciate a fine woman. So they pull you in, babe, they like you, and they will, you ain’t ever gettin’ out.”

  At long last, he finally stopped talking.

  But I didn’t know what to say.

  There was a lot there and none of it was good.

  And regrettably, I had a feeling with all of it, he was right.

  When I didn’t speak, Buck did.

  “Or you pick smart. You pick me. You make the right ally. You work an honest job, you get honest pay. You get a ride you don’t have to hide from the repo man. You get your girl safe. And you and me, we enjoy what we gave each other four times before we had this chat and we keep enjoyin’ it until it isn’t so much fun anymore.”

  It had to be said, I did enjoy what he gave me four times before we had this chat. I enjoyed it a lot. What made it more enjoyable was that he could give it to me four times. He wasn’t exactly sixteen. In fact, even Rogan, who was legendary, could only manage twice.

  Definitely a point to ponder.

  Just one to ponder when I wasn’t still inebriated.

  “Can I delay my decision until I don’t have so much tequila and beer in my system?” I requested.

  “I’m thinkin’, Toots, you didn’t get me when I told you that you should live more,” he replied.

  “So your advice is to make a major life decision naked, in bed with a man I barely know, after having four orgasms, our first fight and while somewhat intoxicated?” I asked.

  “Definitely,” he answered without hesitation.

  I stared at his shadowed head.

  Then I burst out laughing.

  “Toots,” he called over my laughter.

  But I kept laughing.

  So hard I had to lift my head up and shove my face against his neck at the same time wrapping my arms around him to hold on.

  There was no reason to do this since I was horizontal, I just did.

  “Clara,” he called again when I kept laughing, so I struggled to control it, dropped my head to the bed and looked at him again.

  “Give me until morning,” I said through residual giggles.

  “Gorgeous, just pointing out, you’re holdin’ on to me tight,” he said quietly, my residual giggles died, and I started to slide my arms away until he ordered, “Don’t,” and I stopped.

  “Buck,” I whispered.

  “You got until morning,” he acquiesced. My body relaxed under his, his head dipped, and I felt his lips at my ear. “And so do I,” he finished.

  His mouth moved to mine, and he kissed me.

  Then he went about giving me orgasm five and he took his time doing it.

  Shortly after, he took more time and gave me orgasm six.

  After that, I passed out, and my last thought was I could enjoy West “Buck” Hardy for a long, long time.

  Especially if he could keep all that up.

  And I meant all of it.

  But mostly, if he kept kissing my nose.

  3

  Redhot

  I opened my eyes to see sun shining into Buck’s room at the clubhouse.

  I also saw Buck’s (impressive) chest.

  I saw this because my cheek was to his shoulder.

  I’d been right and I had a variety of sensory proof.

  Buck was muscled everywhere.

  He also had tattoos on more than his arms. They slid up his shoulders and there were two on his torso. One, in black ink on his lower left abs over a nasty-looking scar that said, Never Again and another one over his heart that said Gear.

  I looked beyond his beautiful chest, sensing my hangover, which I suspected would hit full swing the minute I moved any body part. So I tried only to shift my eyes because I didn’t want my hangover to hit and because I didn’t want to wake a sleeping Buck.

  I’d been occupied last night so I hadn’t taken in the room, which was not only messy, it appeared filthy. It definitely needed dusting and a pick-up. So much so, the chores might take a week.

  Clothes everywhere. Bits of paper. Discarded disposable coffee cups. Beer and liquor bottles. Dirty glasses, dishes and take out cartons. And…my gaze narrowed…bullets.

  Um…ack!

  I closed my eyes again to shut out the filth (but mostly the bullets) and snuggled deeper into Buck’s warm, hard side which made his arm tense around my back, the pads of his fingers digging briefly into the flesh at my hip before he settled again.

  I waited and he didn’t move any more.

  Still asleep.

  I could see that.

  Last night had to exhaust him considering he did the vast majority of the work.

  Then I remembered I had a decision to make and I opened my eyes, but didn’t focus.

  I liked this man against me in bed and not just because
he had more stamina and skill than five Rogan Kirks.

  No.

  It was because he kissed my nose. Because he listened to me. And because he made me laugh really hard. He didn’t mean to, but he did it, and I hadn’t laughed in a really, really long time.

  It felt good.

  He protected his Club and he wanted to protect me.

  That felt nice.

  The part that didn’t feel nice was that he wanted to do it until it wasn’t so much fun anymore.

  This wasn’t surprising, of course. We’d not known each other even twenty-four hours. I knew he enjoyed me, it was impossible to miss. Not to mention he told me straight out after orgasm three (mine) and again after orgasm five (his). But I knew we were nowhere near avowals of love and shopping for wedding bands.

  Still.

  How long would it take for a man like West “Buck” Hardy to find me not so fun anymore?

  Probably not very long.

  And he’d kissed my nose.

  Kissed my nose.

  I’d probably find him fun a lot longer.

  Hells bells.

  I’d learned this lesson before, very publicly.

  I thought Rogan was the key to a beautiful life and the reason I thought that was not because he was a beautiful man who gave beautiful orgasms who made me feel beautiful with the way he looked at me and all the things he was able to give me.

  But instead, with the way he treated me.

  I’d loved him.

  And then…

  Enough said on that.

  Now I was offered Buck as the key to safety and security.

  But I’d also learned a long time ago, and stupidly forgot along the way, that I needed to look out for myself.

  And Tia.

  Buck was right. We should just go.

  I didn’t have any money, but Tia could lay her hands on some. My car was being shopped out for repo and Esposito probably put tracking devices on his to keep tabs on Tia, but it would make it harder for the repo man if my car was five states away.

  I was thinking Seattle. I’d always wanted to go there. And I liked coffee and they had a lot of coffee places in Seattle. Maybe I could get a job in one.

  So, we’d go.

  And then, when someone snuffed Esposito out, we’d come back.

  When we did, I’d find Buck, and if he wasn’t nailed down by some gorgeous woman who he enjoyed more than me, maybe he’d give me another shot without this hanging over my head.

  Not for pity. Not for protection.

  For me.

  And I’d come to him clean.

  I cautiously raised my head and studied his face.

  I would never have imagined he’d be my type.

  Way too rough, way too rugged.

  But he was my type.

  He was gorgeous.

  In more than just one way that word could define a person.

  I sighed quietly, slid up carefully and kissed the hinge of his whisker-covered jaw. Then I gave myself another moment with his face, memorizing it gentle in sleep like that but still masculine and magnetic.

  After I gave myself that, I slid away.

  I hurried through the room, grabbing my clothes as I headed to an open door where I saw a sink. I went through, found the bathroom was definitely way ickier than the bedroom, and I tried not to think what the soles of my feet were encountering as I dressed.

  I used the facilities, washed my hands and splashed water on my face.

  Mistake.

  I knew this when I looked at the crusty towel.

  Big time ick.

  Bigger time ick with a hangover.

  My stomach roiled as I used the edges of the towel that were less crusty and wiped my hands and face as best I could.

  I walked out of the bathroom carrying my shoes.

  Buck was still asleep in bed, and seeing him there, the sheet down at his waist, his tattoos, skin and muscles on display, it was hard not to disrobe and join him again.

  Instead, I quietly searched for a piece of paper (this was not hard to find) and a pen (also not hard to find), and I wrote him a note.

  * * *

  West,

  Thank you for the offer, but I need to start making the right moves.

  You’re a fantastic man and I’m glad I met you.

  ~Clara

  PS: Thank you, too, for making me laugh. I haven’t done that in a long time.

  * * *

  I studied the paper and considered thanking him for kissing my nose then I reconsidered thanking him for making me laugh then he moved on the bed. I froze, and my eyes shot to him.

  He rolled to his side and shoved a hand under the pillow.

  I stayed still, but he made no more movements.

  Not wanting to take any more chances, I didn’t touch him, and I laid the note on his nightstand.

  But I did clear some of the bits away so he’d see it.

  I walked out of the room, closed the door and put my shoes on in the hall.

  I was walking to my purse that was still on the bar (these boys definitely were clean, it was a nice purse, one of the few I didn’t hock due to its size and versatility, and there it was, safe on their bar) when I heard, “Yo.”

  I jumped and turned to see the big, dirty-blond, long-haired man standing several feet behind me, smirking.

  He had a ponytail today.

  “Hi,” I greeted.

  “Babe,” he replied.

  Something about the way he was smirking made my cheeks turn hot. It wasn’t ugly, it seemed almost teasing.

  It was also knowing.

  “You gettin’ Buck breakfast?” he asked, coming toward me.

  Oh dear.

  Was this what a biker expected from a woman the morning after?

  “Um…” I replied.

  He made it to me, stopped to tower over me and advised, “You should hold out, woman, the brother is serious as shit with a fryin’ pan.”

  I tilted my head back to look at him and asked, “What?”

  “Buck can cook. We don’t got a kitchen here, but it’s worth the wait to get to his place.”

  “His place?” I queried.

  “Yeah, babe, he doesn’t live here.”

  “Oh,” I whispered.

  Of course he didn’t.

  And, wow.

  I wondered where he lived.

  I also wondered what he cooked.

  No, no, no, I didn’t.

  Well, I actually did, but I couldn’t focus on that.

  I had to focus on Tia, coffee and Seattle.

  When the big blond guy didn’t speak, I said, “We didn’t meet.” I extended my hand. “My name is Clara.”

  His big mitt engulfed my hand and squeezed a hint too hard before he let it go while saying, “Ink.”

  “Right,” I muttered.

  Ink. Buck. Where did they get these names?

  I should have asked during twenty questions.

  “Anyway—” I started but stopped when I saw him smirking again, so I asked, “What?”

  “Just a heads-up, now you got another name,” he told me.

  “I do?” I asked.

  His smirk became a grin and it made him kind of cute, even though he was about four days away from a clean shave and a lot more than four months away from a decent haircut.

  “Yeah, Redhot.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your nickname, babe. Redhot. Jesus, woman, listenin’ to you all night, a man don’t need porn.”

  Oh…God!

  My face had been warm, but I knew instantly now it was pale.

  Ink kept talking.

  “Thought you were ice, but you ain’t. You’re fire. Buck can always pick ’em.”

  He grinned through that sock to the gut (Buck can always pick ’em?) as I stared up at him, and then he continued, leaning in.

  “But breakfast?” He shook his head and finished on a meaningful, “Babe.”

  I should point out this “babe” was meaningful to him.
It was confusing to me.

  He shoved my shoulder playfully like he hadn’t told me not too long ago to get out, gave me another big grin and sauntered away.

  I stared after him, not knowing what on earth he meant, and I did this for a while trying to figure it out.

  Then I thought about Buck always picking them and I felt that hollowness in my stomach again. The despair I forgot through tequila, beer, pool, hamburgers and Buck slid right into its place alongside the nausea of my hangover.

  On that thought, I remembered Seattle, ran to my purse, grabbed it, and dashed to my car.

  I lifted my fist to knock on Mrs. Jimenez’s door, but it opened before my knuckles hit the panel.

  Her bony hand came out, grabbed hold of my forearm, and she yanked me into her apartment. She swiftly closed the door behind us.

  I turned to look at her.

  Mrs. Jimenez was my next-door neighbor and she liked me.

  She was a Mexican American woman who said she was seventy-eight, but she looked ninety-eight. She had pictures of herself, her husband, her kids and grandkids all over her apartment and I knew from those she’d shrunk about a foot. Her entire face was lined, and her hair was coarse, gray and always twisted into a bun at the back of her head.

  She also had the brightest, sweetest smile I’d ever seen in my life, beautiful, warm brown eyes, and she made great homemade tamales. Her cooking, and Tia’s, was the only food I’d eaten in the last two months. Without the two of them looking out for me, I’d be in more of a mess than I already was.

  “Tell me you hid your car,” she said.

  “Of course,” I replied then deduced, “The repo men have been here.”

  “Nosin’ around,” she said on a nod then her eyes got sharp. “The Jackal’s been here too.”

  “The Jackal” was what Mrs. Jimenez called our landlord, Dallas Hill.

  Mrs. Jimenez had been living there for years, and Dallas Hill had owned the apartments since she moved in. He raised the rent on a regular basis but didn’t raise the level of service provided. Which meant, if a toilet flooded, a roof leaked, the hot water went out or a refrigerator stopped working, he’d take his time coming to fix it and the time he’d take could be weeks. In apartments with one bathroom, waiting even a day to have your toilet fixed was seriously not fun.