by Debra Kayn
"Fuck." Half-rack groaned. "I was just getting a good buzz on."
His buzz started a good hour ago, and if the request wasn't mentioned, Half-rack would keep going until he passed out in the yard. Cam motioned for him to leave.
The volume on the car stereo got louder. Cam found Christina's hand and walked her onto the porch. He sat down in the old, wooden rocker he'd reinforced first thing when he got out of the pen, and pulled her on his lap.
For all her soft curves and plush ass, she sat stiff, unforgiving, upon Cam's lap. He scooted forward, widened his feet, and she slipped down between his legs, hammocked between his thighs. While she remained off balance, he pulled her back to lie against his chest. He cupped her head and held her to his shoulder.
"Stop." She pushed against him.
"Give me this." He twined his fingers through her hair holding her to him. "Soon, I'll have to leave. Jeremy will be gone too, and I'm going to put two men on the house. As long as you don't step outside, you won't even know they're out here. You step outside the door, and..."
Christina's breath came in short pants. He stared out into the darkness, every once in a while he'd see the flash of one of the women's white shirts, but here on the porch he was alone with Christina.
"When I get home, I'll be sleeping in my bed." He lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. "I want you to have my warmth when you sleep, so you get a better rest. I also want to feel you against me, so I can sleep. It's been a long damn time since I had a woman lay by me, and I spent years wanting that woman to be you. Give that to me, too."
She pushed harder against him. He let her go and missed her contact when she stood on the porch and moved over to the railing. He raised his arms and clasped his hands behind his head. He hadn't had a woman since he refused to let her leave. His dick was hard, his patience gone, and he had to get out of here before he forgot he wanted to go slow with Christina.
"Can I sleep on the couch," she asked, picking at the wood on the railing.
"No."
She let her hand fall to her side and whispered, "Please?"
"I'm not changing my mind." He stood and approached her, turning her to face him. "I need to talk with you about something important for a second, so pay attention."
She glanced at him and shrugged. He took that as a positive sign she'd listen.
"If shit goes down tonight and I get picked up, I want you to stay at the house. I've left instructions with the club if I'm put away. They know you have the house in my absence. Money wise, you're taken care of. Most importantly, you'll be safe here. If I'm not here, you lean on Gunner to help you. You can trust him and my V.P., Merk...he'll be out of prison soon enough."
Her brows lowered. He framed her face with his hands. What he had to say was too important for her not to understand the danger involved and he needed her to follow his instructions.
"Every run I go on, I plan for it to be my last." He swept his thumb over her bottom lip, wishing he'd had time to sample her taste and make her his before he had to leave. "That's how I live, and you might not get used to it, but you'll learn to accept what you can't change."
She caught herself relaxing and pressed her lips together. He sighed, regretting that he had to leave before he could soften her again and show her how good it'd be between them.
"Go ahead and go inside the house. If I come home, I will be in my bed tonight with you." He patted her hip. "Lock the door."
She jumped to escape. He wanted to put her at ease and yet he had to force her to face the hard truth. He was an ex-convict on borrowed time.
In so many ways, Christina was innocent. A woman who'd lived through hell and walked away as her own worst enemy. He believed she was strong enough to protect herself should something go wrong.
Christina paused at the door, turned toward him, and hugged her middle. "Cam?"
"Yeah?" His body hardened, alert, and ready.
She opened her mouth. He waited, because she deserved the chance to speak her mind and get all her thoughts out in front of them. If she talked through her feelings, even if he couldn't answer, she'd adapt easier. Hell, how long had it taken him to adjust to life on the inside and become the leader of Moroad, in charge of the biggest illegal gun run from coast to coast?
Christina shook her head and turned back inside without giving him a clue. She shut the door, and he stood on the porch alone. She was messing with his head. Used to prison rattle and chatter twenty-four/seven, the quiet unnerved him and he wanted her back. He checked his phone for the time and walked away from the house. In an hour, it'd all be business.
Chapter Thirteen
Sheltered inside Cam's house, Christina stood at the barred window and stared down the road. The last biker's taillight disappeared into the night. She continued to stand there contemplating why she sought the bedroom when she had the freedom to be anywhere inside the house.
Maybe because here in the room, she was free to think without anyone pressuring her. Cam's space became her space, and now he wanted to take back his room, his bed, and have her in it.
There were two men somewhere outside watching for her to leave. She racked her teeth over her bottom lip. It was dark and quiet. There was a good chance the guards were close to drinking themselves into a stupor and she could quietly escape without detection.
She could go to the sheriff and inform him that Cam kept her at his house under duress. She swiped a tear off her cheek. They'd never believe her. Cam had covered his tracks and moved her out of her apartment, had her resign from her part time job, and for all purposes, he could hand over her letters and claim they had a personal relationship.
Nobody would believe her.
She'd lost all means to support herself and her security. She inhaled deeply. Her loud exhale broke the silence inside the house.
She hated Cam for what he'd done. At other times, when she watched Cam patiently work with Jeremy, she hoped he'd change his mind about keeping her. There were even times the fluttering sensation in her stomach returned. The same feelings that had possessed her when she received a letter from prisoner #18794...Cam.
What kind of woman could feel anything toward a man who kidnapped her? She turned away from the window. She'd confided him in, believing he was an anonymous man and she'd never meet him face to face. Tension shot across her shoulders and she hugged her middle. Hollow and alone, she'd relied on him and he'd built her confidence over the years.
Most of all, she feared him. She disagreed with him on everything, but when he touched her, she felt more alive than she'd ever felt before. That was a powerful emotion to contain when she had nobody in her life. She constantly fought to give in to him and touch him, to press her body against his, and to acknowledge the promises he gave her.
She was tired of being pissed off all the time, tired of going out of her way to ignore him, tired of the charade of pretending he meant nothing to her when he was probably her only friend she'd had since her life became a mess of police visits, adult responsibilities, and loneliness.
She yearned for an emotionally safe relationship with him. The same kind she'd created while writing back and forth with him. It was safe and perfect. She'd confessed all her fucked up thinking and he'd accepted her. She laid down in the bed, kicked off her shoes and socks, leaving the rest of her clothes on, and pulled the blanket over her. She'd felt safe with him locked up in prison. She'd project all of her worries and hopes on an inmate who wanted nothing more than to be a depository of her secrets.
The house, quieter than normal, lulled her into relaxing. She wrapped the blanket tighter around herself. Her immediate worry only involved Cam coming home and not landing back in prison or she'd lose him for good. If he came home, then she'd deal with her conflicting thoughts toward him in the morning.
Sometime later, she woke when the mattress dipped. She held still, eyes closed, and barely breathed. Though she couldn't pinpoint what woke her up, the air in the room thickened.
Heavy boots
thunked against the floor next to the bed. The hair on the back of her neck prickled and heat swarmed her middle. Cam arrived safely home without being caught by law enforcement. She wanted to sigh in relief, but she held her breath in trepidation of what was to come. Even though she'd had sex a few times before she'd lost her parents, she'd never slept with a man in this kind of situation.
Cam never hid the fact he wanted her. She couldn't reciprocate, even though her stomach fluttered at the thought and made her woozy.
Cam's breath whooshed out of him and he settled in the bed on his back. His hand came over and landed on the top of her head. Her eyelids popped open and she stared across the empty space in the dark. She couldn't see his features, but his large dark shape took up most of the bed.
He stroked his thumb against her skull. "Jesus Christ, relax and sleep. We're only sharing a bed."
She waited for him to make a move toward her. His breathing slowed and soft snores interrupted from his side of the bed. Several minutes later, she still waited for him to make a move. Every minute that ticked by without him rolling toward her woke her up more.
Her brain slowed. The only thing she could focus on was the warmth of his hand lying on her head. The claustrophobic feeling pressed in on her, reiterating that she was no longer alone.
His legs twitched and he rubbed his feet together. She counted every time his chest rose. He wasn't forcing himself between her legs—not that he could get past the wrapped blanket she'd cocooned herself in, but he could demand oral sex.
He jolted in his sleep. She flinched, ready to fight him if he came on her side of the mattress. She wasn't ready, and had no idea if she'd ever be ready. Her main goal was to survive the night and deal with everything tomorrow.
A snortle came from his mouth and he turned his head on the pillow, silencing his snores. His hand continued to rest on her head and she yawned. She peeked at him again, judging whether he was faking sleep or getting ready to attack.
He simply slept.
No, that wasn't true either. Nothing about the man was simple. While Cam rested, his legs constantly twitched, his body rode a tremulous wave of cognizance. In his subconscious, he continued to make sure she stayed aware of his hand on the top of her head, protecting her, comforting her. She reached up and lightly touched his arm lying on her pillow. He remained unaware that she was awake, waiting for him to rape her. Unable to give him the security he needed to sleep peacefully, she closed her eyes and gave him the only thing she was possible of giving him. Obedience.
Chapter Fourteen
The gust of wind blew the empty, brown paper sack off the porch. Cam set the hammer on the railing and stepped down onto the grass when he caught Christina jogging over to retrieve the bag before it tumbled under the travel trailer. He stopped to enjoy the way she flashed a perfectly round and squeezable ass in his direction.
Christina straightened and turned toward him. Seven o'clock in the morning and he already found it difficult to be around her without his dick pointing out he needed a woman. Not any woman. He needed Christina.
She held the sack out to him. He touched her fingers as he took the bag that had held the nails he used to fix the board on the porch.
"Thanks." He shoved the sack in his back pocket.
She stayed and eyed the newly replaced board. He glanced down at his handy work and ran his hand through his hair. One side of the wood was crooked and he'd bent three nails out of the eight he'd hammered in.
"They didn't teach carpentry in the pen," he muttered.
Christina nodded, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. He nudged the edge of the board with his boot. Hell, the porch wasn't even level.
"Do you have extra nails?" she asked.
He walked over and picked up the coffee can he'd dumped the nails into and set them by the repaired patch. "I'll replace it."
"No," she said quietly. "You almost have it. Can I see the hammer?"
He gave her the tool and stepped back when she lowered herself to her knees on the porch. Curious to see what she planned to do, he leaned against the railing. When she struggled to remove the bent nails he'd pounded over, he grimaced. Fixing stuff around the house was a man's job.
After she pulled out the last mutilated nail, she grabbed a new one and with little taps, pounded that fucker straight into the board. He looked away from his failure out into the yard. She made the process look simple.
"The ends of the nails need to sink into the wood underneath. It pulls the board down snug." She stood and handed him the hammer. "Now you won't catch your boot and the hole in the porch is covered. Nobody will fall through your porch at night when they're stumbling around drunk anymore."
He set the hammer down. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." She lifted her shoulder, shrugging off the importance of what she'd done.
"How did you learn how to use a hammer?" he asked.
Her brows pinched and a flash of something he couldn't recognize shone in her eyes before she glanced away. He gripped down on the railing, wishing he could take the question back.
"It's not important," he muttered.
She gazed up at him and the lines on her forehead smoothed away. "It's okay. My dad taught me. Well, not so much taught me, but showed me. When I was twelve, I got the idea I wanted a tree house. So, all summer whenever Dad had free time, he spent it outside nailing boards that came off the crates he'd get for deliveries at the store. I wanted to help and like you, my dad wasn't a carpenter. I'd go behind him, remove the bent nails, and help put new ones in. At the end of summer, the tree house was finished and I became pretty good at pounding nails in straight."
The softness of Christina's voice as she retold her childhood tale hypnotized Cam. He stared at her face, blinded by the changes. Her brown eyes lightened and he caught green and yellow highlights in her gaze. He moistened his lips, not knowing what to say. His childhood experiences ranged from beatings that only split his lip to having a neighbor haul his unconscious body to the hospital after his dad beat him per his mom's orders.
"It was an ugly tree house, but I thought it was a magical place." She laughed quietly. "I spent every day after school that fall up in the tree, sheltered from the rain, and became the most popular kid on the block."
For the first time, he wanted to hear more about her childhood. He whispered, "Your father was good to you."
"Yes." Her smile failed to reach her eyes. "My mom...she put curtains up and painted the inside."
The conversation took her to another place and time. He pulled out a cigarette, surprised to find his hand shaking. He'd never seen this side of her or thought about her having a past she mourned. Her letters explaining her parents' murders were filled with anger, pain, and unending questions, but never the kind of sadness she showed him today.
She stared off into the grass with a faraway look. Her hair fell forward half hiding her face, and he wanted to brush the strands out of the way. He wanted to watch her and understand what made the sadness come into her eyes. The emotions she held privately inside were foreign to him, and he wanted to experience them through her. That way he could take them away, own them, and bring the light back into her eyes.
The loud purr of Jeremy's motorcycle invaded the moment on the porch. Cam picked up the can of nails and hammer. Christina wandered away, walking toward the side of the house. He put the supplies in the trailer and stopped to adjust Jeremy's idle on his bike.
"You want to set the idle a little fast," Cam shouted over the noise of the engine. "These old bikes need a constant supply of fuel going through the line or it gets laggy."
Jeremy nodded, adding a smile. Cam squeezed his shoulder. One thing he could teach the kid was how to keep his old motorcycle running. He'd spent more hours than he could count cussing out the bike when it left him stranded and even more time laboring over the machine because the bike was the only thing he owned.
Cam walked back to the porch and stepped on the new board, testing the solidnes
s. The patch job was barely noticeable, unless he looked down and spotted the new wood.
Movement came from his left. He gazed at Christina strolling through the yard. Not taking his gaze off her, he stepped over and sat down in the rocker. Always aware of her location and making sure she stayed within his sight, it was apparent today was different.
The Moroad members stayed away this morning, giving him extra time alone with Christina. He pushed with his right leg, setting the chair to rocking. Without asking, she'd followed him outside earlier and seemed to enjoy the breeze while the sun heated the chill out of the air.
Christina bent down, fought with a weed in the overgrown flowerbed that hadn't seen any attention since he'd taken over ownership of the house. He studied the way she worked around the green leaves, loosening the soil and extracting the wild plant with the roots still intact. She looked around and finally dropped the weed at her feet in the grass.
What made a woman care about whether a fucking plant contaminated the area? He stood and walked to the railing, watching Christina. He should get the mower out and cut the heads off the plants she was determined to remove.
The whole place needed help. He tossed his cigarette butt to the dirty patch in the lawn. The house provided a roof over his head and kept the rain and snow out. While there were better houses in the area, he was comfortable here while he was out of prison.
Christina plunked another weed, held it in front of her face, and blew. Tiny little seeds floated in the air around her head, and she smiled. Turning to watch the white fluff blow away in the wind, she blocked his view of her happiness. He glanced away, and caught Jeremy watching Christina.
Jeremy stepped out from behind his motorcycle and shoved his hands in his pockets, grinning. Cam growled, pulling away from the scene playing out in front of him. He didn't believe in wishes or wasting time to watch a damn weed float in the air.
The roar of motorcycles gave him an excuse to stop dwelling on how he couldn't change anything. He couldn't make Christina's wishes come true. Jeremy's mom was dead. He couldn't even repair a broken board in the porch.
