I walked to stand in front of him saying, “I’m not talking about that. I’m blocking that out. That didn’t happen. I’m talking about the someone who’s pulling Esposito’s strings and how I don’t know the whole story.”
Buck transferred his sandwich from one hand to the other so he could put his hand to my waist, slide it around to my back and pull me closer.
“Scott knows about Esposito. But he clearly doesn’t know Chap took care a’ things.”
Oh.
Right.
Onward.
“Is that the whole story?” I queried.
“Later,” he said.
And I could take from that it wasn’t the whole story.
“Later? When later?” I asked.
“Later,” he repeated then shoved the last of his sandwich in his mouth.
“Is Tia in more danger? Am I? Are you?”
He pulled me closer, finished chewing, swallowed and bent his neck so his face was in mine.
“Baby, in my bedroom, you made a decision. Now you gotta trust me. You’ve had enough for today. But I’m tellin’ you, I got your back, and soon’s I find your girl, I got hers. So, let it go for now, and when I think you’re ready, I’ll tell you, but that’s gonna be later.”
I stared in his rich brown eyes that were so very close to mine. The brown was deep, intense. His lashes were thick and spiky.
His eyes really were beautiful.
“Okay,” I whispered.
I watched those eyes smile. Then I felt his lips touch mine.
He pulled away and asked, “You doin’ okay? You need pills?”
I shook my head.
He nodded, grabbed his beer, then let me go but took my hand.
He led me to the couch and put his beer on the coffee table, picked up a remote and arranged us so he was sitting, feet up on a coffee table, and I was lying on the couch, my cheek to his thigh.
He turned on the TV, the sound low, and handed me the remote.
I gazed blankly at the TV, switching programs randomly as I listened to him send out the call for Tia to someone named Gash. Then he talked to Breaker, who I figured was Breaker Walinski, the man Esposito had sent me to visit, and I figured this because it was unlikely there were a lot of men called Breaker.
After that, he talked to one other, and he called him Tucker.
Clearly finished with his rounds, he tossed his phone to the side table, grabbed his beer, took the remote from my hand, found a program and slid deeper into the couch.
We watched TV together for a while.
And doing it, I fell asleep.
7
Is That Enough for You?
I felt the sun on my eyelids but didn’t open my eyes.
I was on my back, the only position that was comfortable since my ribs were bruised, thus I couldn’t sleep on my stomach, my right hip was scraped and battered, and the left side of my face was swollen and aching.
I felt something heavy on my belly and I knew it was Buck’s arm. I could feel him close to my side and he was somehow managing to be close and hold me without causing pain.
Even when he was asleep.
This said a lot about him (especially the fact he could do this…even in sleep) and I hoped what it said was true.
I opened my eyes to see bright sunlight coming unhindered through the windows.
But without a view to the angle of the sun, I couldn’t tell the time.
In August in Arizona, the sun shone bright from early to late.
It could be seven in the morning.
It could be noon.
I turned my head and saw Buck partially on his side, partially on his stomach next to me.
He looked good in his sleep, his face relaxed, those thick, dark eyelashes resting against his cheeks, his hair falling on his forehead.
He’d carried me to bed the night before, setting me in it gently.
I’d woken on the couch the minute his thigh slid out from under my cheek and stayed awake the twenty seconds it took for him to walk up to the landing and into the bedroom.
I was out when my head hit the pillow.
I hadn’t slept this much in ages.
Usually I tossed and turned, wondering how I was going to manage to eat the next day, how I would escape the repo men, if Dallas would come around to give me grief.
Then my mind would move to remembering the night the police came knocking on the door or when I’d call a friend and the phone would ring and ring and I’d leave a voicemail that would never be returned.
I hadn’t slept well in over a year.
Until last night where I slept the whole night through.
The night after the day I got beaten by a psychopath.
And that wasn’t about the pain pills because I didn’t take any before I went to bed.
It said something, and I was thinking about that something as my gaze moved over Buck’s sleeping face and I felt an almost overwhelming urge to touch him.
But touching him might wake him and I needed a shower, badly. I hadn’t had one in two days. I felt like walking, talking, breathing ick.
Carefully, for my body’s sake and not to wake Buck, I slid out from under his arm.
I noticed with movement that I felt no better than yesterday, but also no worse.
I decided to treat this as good.
I picked my way through the clothes on Buck’s floor to the dresser.
Top drawer, underwear and socks. I closed it quietly and opened the next drawer down and found his T-shirts, not folded but shoved in.
I grabbed a clean one off the top and headed to the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
I went to the medicine cabinet in hopes that he’d have an extra toothbrush.
He didn’t.
He had a razor, shave cream, a beard trimmer, toothpaste, a comb and deodorant.
Even with this dearth of toiletries, his medicine cabinet was jammed full. The shelves taken up with gauze, bandages, medical tape, antibiotic cream and bottles of alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, ibuprofen, acetaminophen and aspirin.
If the contents of a medicine cabinet defined a person, Buck’s said scary things.
Though I found no product for his hair.
That was interesting.
I closed the medicine cabinet, looked in the mirror and surveyed my injuries.
The swelling in my face had gone down.
This was good.
Unfortunately, that was all that was good.
The purple bruising around my eye had intensified. I lifted my T-shirt and saw the same amplification of color on my ribs and hip.
I dropped my T-shirt with a sigh.
Then I went about my business.
The water of the shower felt good—the stream strong and hot.
Again, if the toiletry stock of Buck’s shower defined him, it would say he was not a man who wasted his life primping (more mystery behind why his hair always looked so good).
He had a bottle of drugstore shampoo and a bar of soap.
That was it.
The shower was a place to get clean, the end.
In fact, it was clear the bathroom only had utilitarian purposes on the whole and perhaps served as a mini-emergency medical ward.
Not that this was a surprise. Buck was definitely not the kind of man who took bubble baths.
Drugstore products were in my shower at my apartment too, except with the addition of conditioner.
But this lack of pamper paraphernalia was only due to necessity.
Back in the day, I had more bottles, tubes and tubs than a small but exclusive salon. My bathroom was not utilitarian. It was an oasis.
A soaking-tub, Swarovski-crystal-knobs-on-the-cabinetry, mirrored-trays-covered-in-masks-exfoliants-oils-and-lotions, walk-in-closet-complete-with-massive-jewelry-island-leading-off-it oasis.
I was definitely the kind of person who wasted life primping.
Or I used to be.
Rogan teased me about it. Rogan used to
say that I didn’t need all that stuff. Rogan would tell me I looked beautiful, felt beautiful, smelled beautiful no matter what products I put in my hair, on my body and on my face.
And he said it like he meant it.
Then again, Rogan Kirk was a consummate liar.
There were a lot of things I missed about my old life, such as waking up and facing a day which consisted of making decisions on what to wear to work and what to make for dinner, not how to escape reporters or wonder if I’d get thrown into debtor’s jail.
These things constantly nagged at me, but I pushed them down and focused on missing things like salon-quality shampoo and facial masks.
Since those weren’t really important, I could handle that.
I shampooed and washed and then let the hot water run over me in an effort to work out the aches if not the pains. I got out, toweled off, and with difficulty, due to the tangles caused by no conditioner, pulled Buck’s comb through my hair.
After I did that, using my hand to scoop water into my mouth, I downed two ibuprofens and two acetaminophens.
To end my toilette, I put on my undies and the clean T-shirt.
I needed clothes, specifically underwear, but really everything.
I had to talk to Buck about that and what he said last night about my stuff being brought here and this being my place, my space.
I ignored the fact that I liked this place, this space and that it was Buck’s, who I also liked.
I further ignored the fact I liked to be somewhere that I wasn’t imminently going to get tossed out of.
I didn’t like Dallas Hill, but that didn’t change the fact that I genuinely owed him money and was living on his dime.
Sure, his apartments were crappy, his rent was inflated, and he treated his tenants like nuisances, even though their rent allowed him to drive a brand-spanking-new Jaguar.
Still, I didn’t like the guilt that not paying rent made me feel or the person that it made me be.
I ignored all that and thought about the fact that I didn’t know what to make of what Buck had said or what it meant. Everything seemed to be going very fast. Too fast. Too much happening. Some of it dangerous, some of it scary for other reasons.
But I needed to prioritize.
And clean panties were always top priority.
Panties and making sure Tia was safe. Then making sure Mrs. Jimenez and her children didn’t hate me after what knowing me had put her through the day before.
With these things heavy on my mind, I walked out of the bathroom being quiet so Buck could sleep, intending to go to the kitchen and make coffee.
I was two steps into the room when I heard Buck’s deep, gruff voice calling my name.
“Clara.”
His voice saying my name felt like a touch, a nice one that glided across every inch of my skin.
I stopped and turned my head to the bed.
He was on his back, sitting partially up, head and shoulders to the headboard. Covers around his waist, chest, muscles and tattoos on display, hair a sexy mess, eyes lazy, the Arizona sun shining into the room behind him.
He looked like an advertisement for the biker way of life.
Any man seeing him would want to be him.
Any woman seeing him would want to hook her star to the nearest MC if it meant she could be me, standing in his room, wearing his T-shirt after having taken a shower in his bathroom and spending the night in his bed.
And there I was, that woman.
My belly got warm.
“Morning,” I said quietly.
“Come here, baby,” he replied just as quietly.
I went there. I didn’t hesitate and I didn’t think. My feet just moved me to him, such was the power of his pull.
When I got close, he curled up slightly, grabbed my wrist and gently tugged so I was sitting on the bed by his hip. He released my wrist, settled back, and his fingers curled around the skin on my thigh, warm and strong.
“How you feelin’?” he asked.
“I’ve been better,” I answered honestly.
His eyes moved over my face.
“Swelling’s gone down,” he observed, and I nodded. “Bruising’s come up,” he carried on, and I nodded again.
He curled to sitting, his hand moving to my belly and around to rest on my waist as his torso got close.
“We need to get you some breakfast and pills,” he told me.
“I took a cocktail of ibuprofen and acetaminophen,” I replied. “We’ll see if that helps. Those pills knock me out.”
“However you wanna play it, Toots,” he muttered, his eyes dropping to my mouth.
I felt my belly warm again when they did, and it got warmer when he leaned in to brush his lips against mine.
I liked him doing that and how he did it, light, this rough man touching me gently, his beard tickling.
I liked it so much, my hand lifted to rest on his chest, and when it did, he brushed his mouth against mine again.
I slid my hand up his chest to curl around the base of his neck and he did another lip brush. My body leaned in closer and he did a lip touch, no brush this time, and I felt the tip of his tongue against my lips.
I liked that so much, my body leaned even closer, my lips parted, and my head tilted. His slanted the other way and then his tongue was in my mouth.
God, I’d forgotten how good he tasted. Even in the morning.
Amazing.
I slid my hand around and up, fingers in his hair. I wrapped my other arm around him, pressed my soft chest to his hard one and my tongue tangled with his as a low moan glided up my throat and into his mouth.
The minute it left my throat and moved down his, Buck’s arms locked around me and pulled me closer as he took the kiss deeper. My arms tightened, the kiss deepened further, and his arms tightened too, powerfully as he growled.
I liked that growl, the taste of him, his arms around me.
I liked it so much the pain seemed to come from nowhere, not only in my ribs but also from the cut on my mouth.
I whimpered involuntarily, pulling a hint away.
“Fuck,” I heard him mutter.
I opened my eyes as he loosened his arms, but he didn’t let me go.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
“Don’t be, baby,” he whispered back, the fingers of one of his hands stroking the small of my back over the T-shirt. “I didn’t intend it to get heated.”
He released me with his other arm so he could cup my jaw then his thumb glided along my lower lip.
I liked that too.
“You just taste good,” he finished on a murmur, his gaze going back to my mouth.
It must be said, I liked that too, his thumb at my lip, what he said, the way he said it and his eyes on my mouth.
“Thanks,” I said softly.
His gaze came back to mine, and when it did, his eyes were smiling.
His arm around me loosened more, his hand at my jaw moving back around me, and he pulled away a bit but didn’t let me go. I left one arm around him but took my hand from his hair and trailed it down his chest.
My heart was still beating fast from his kiss, my breathing slightly escalated, and my belly still felt warm, so I took that moment in Buck’s arms to recover before leaving him and making coffee. I was bruised and beaten, I didn’t need to get up and topple over because my knees were weak.
Even so, I felt awkward, busted up and sitting on the side of his bed, barely knowing him and not only depending on him but also easily slipping into a make out session with him.
This wasn’t me, none of it.
Not that I knew who me was. I just knew that wasn’t it.
Or it didn’t used to be.
I dropped my eyes to where my hand was on his chest and saw through my fingers the tattooed Gear over his heart.
Without me telling it to do so, my forefinger traced the curved edge of the G in “Gear.”
“Locke,” I heard him mutter, and I stopped tracing and lifted my
head again.
“Sorry?” I asked.
“My boy, Locke,” he answered, and I blinked at him.
“Your boy?”
“Yeah, Toots, my boy,” he replied, his gaze holding mine. “Gear is his nickname. Because he’s a gearhead. From the time he could even minimally cogitate, he was takin’ shit apart and tryin’ to piece it together. Swear to fuck, I had Big Wheel parts and Tonka toy pieces all over my house for years. Even when he started to get it, and be able to put shit back together, I still had bits and parts, screws and spokes and anything you can think of all over, because the more he figured out, the more he wanted to learn.”
“You have a son?” I asked, this surprising me.
I hadn’t done an inventory of his home, but it seemed like a bachelor pad, a nice one, but a bachelor pad all the same.
“Yep, and a daughter,” Buck answered.
Oh wow.
“A daughter?”
“Tatiana.”
“Pretty name,” I whispered, and he grinned.
“She’s a pretty girl, which fuckin’ sucks.”
I blinked again. “It does?”
“Babe, a man does not want his daughter to be gorgeous. He wants her to be plain. Gorgeous attracts attention. Plain, not so much.”
I smiled at him because he was being funny and sweet, and his attention dropped to my mouth again just as his fingers tensed on my back.
“They don’t live with you,” I remarked,
His eyes came back to mine, and they were no longer warm with sleep, necking and chatting while sitting in bed.
They were unhappy.
“They live in Flagstaff.”
I felt my eyes get wide. “That’s not very close.”
“It sure the fuck isn’t.”
My belly got warm again at his tone.
He missed his kids. Not a little.
A lot.
This defined him too, in a good way.
“How old are they?” I asked quietly.
“Gear is seventeen, almost eighteen. Tatie just turned sixteen.”
My wide eyes got wider. “Did you start early?”
“I was twenty-one when Locke was born.”
Yes, early.
Though I was surprised.
Doing the mental math that made him thirty-eight (almost thirty-nine) years old.
Still Standing Page 10
