by Bijou Hunter
“My hero.”
Smiling wider, she flashes a look that makes me think I won’t suffer from blue balls for long.
The sound of an approaching motorcycle kills her grin and my boner. There’s nothing sexy about the worry on her face. I tense up and stare at the front door where her gaze is also focused. Nothing in this world matters as much as protecting and soothing this woman.
My role as protector would be a helluva lot easier if I knew her damn name! For fuck’s sake, why can’t I remember?
The motorcycle’s engine shuts off right outside the house. Her breathing quickens, and I notice her reach into her pocket. Is that a weapon I see?
The dog yaps at the person on the other side of the door while his owner’s breath catches, and I prepare to beat the shit out of someone. Then a booming voice calls out the name I’ve been willing to sell my left nut to know.
THE BOHEMIAN
Last night, I sneaked by the bedroom to reach the bathroom, hoping to avoid any detection from Bubba. That’s when I heard him mumbling in his sleep. I should have kept going, but I was highly paranoid at that point.
What if he choked on his vomit and died at my house? After resting on my couch under my tattered afghan, I came to the realization that this man is important to the Reapers Motorcycle Club. If he dies in the home of the daughter of the VP of the Brotherhood, does the passive hostility between the clubs get personal? Which side would the Hayes family take? Likely fatigue caused my sudden hyper-concern for my dad. Whatever the reason, I kept checking on Bubba.
I also leave on the white bulbs strung up around the bedroom to provide faint lighting. If he wakes to pee, there’s no way he’ll avoid crashing into everything in the dark. The first few times I check on him, he’s dead to the world, stretched out on his stomach and less prone to gagging on any potential upchuck,
This time, though, he’s still asleep but whispering about someone doing him wrong,
“I’m always sorry,” he mumbles against the pillow, “but you never are.”
Warily, I reach out to rub his head to encourage him to stop sleep-ranting. Bubba sighs when my fingers stroke his hair, and he murmurs his approval when I caress the last few days’ worth of damage to his face.
I keep waiting for him to grab my wrist as if the entire sleep-babble is a ruse to get me closer so he can pounce. But Bubba just returns to sleep while I rub his head and wish I could sleep comfortably now that I’m stuck on the couch.
Managing only a few hours of rest, I keep waking up certain that I hear someone at the door—mainly Griff—or I feel a presence standing over me—Bubba. Neither proves to be real, but I’m nervous.
I also worry I’ll panic, trigger my switchblade, and either kill myself or, worse, my dog. No, maybe me dying would be worse. After all, who’d believe I was stupid enough to kill myself? Wouldn’t they just blame Bubba from Kentucky?
I don’t stab myself, and no one attacks me. As soon as the sun is up, though, I get off the couch and start my day. If I keep busy, I’ll remain alert. First off, I return texts from my brother to say I’m fine. I also ask if any of those rednecks got blood on his shirt? He assures me he dodged their blood as well as their fists.
I text my mom with my usual morning message. I love her. I love Dad. I love Keanu. I’m just a big bouquet of love flowers. XOXO
My mood improves until I imagine how Bubba might be less appealing when sober. He could get violent, expect me to service his oversized body. A fight would break out. I won’t go down easy, but I saw how confidently he challenged Griff who is far from tiny or weak. Ugh, why do I have a stranger in my house!?!
I’m sure meditation and yoga will settle the insanity brewing in my head. I need to remain calm and stop assuming the worst.
Eventually, Bubba is bound to wake up from his drunken stupor, and I want to put my best face forward. He likely won’t remember much from last night, and I’m rather curious about the sober version of Bubba.
Except he’s from Kentucky, and I can’t stand the state. There’s no logical reason to be curious. But I’m already sweet on the hunky puppy, assuming he’s the guy I met last night and booze didn’t provide him a winning personality.
Things don’t have to be complicated. Life can be easy. Yeah, sure.
Then to set the awkward mood for our first sober conversation, Bubba appears while my ass is in the air. I see he hasn’t put on his shirt, leaving his broad, ripped, tatted chest for all the world to enjoy.
Last night while he slept, I couldn’t help studying the dragon tattoo across his lower back. That bastard must have taken hours and a skilled artist to create. Should I ask a question about his tattoo to break the awkwardness? Or will he realize I’ve been checking him out and increase my embarrassment?
And, of course, he thinks we fucked. Why would any woman bring a hunky puppy home except for the sole purpose of molesting his hot body? I can’t really explain why I brought him here when I never intended to do anything. He was too drunk to fuck. I doubt he even remembers my name.
Our current awkwardness makes me nostalgic for Drunk Bubba, who was easy to talk to since his brain cells were dulled by the hard liquor. Now he’s awake and sober enough to wonder what my deal is yet still buzzed and hungover enough to make an easy chat tricky.
I’ll feed him! Or offer a cup of coffee! Help him locate his shirt! Yes, talking like ordinary people will be so much less complicated if I don’t have to stare at his bare chest. The tanned skin, the perfect ink on his arms, the thick patch of hair down the center with a line that keeps traveling south of his jeans. Too much visual information!
Is liking him even an option? That’s a Reapers club tattoo on his left arm. I can’t swoon over an out-of-town biker when swooning over an in-town one already ended catastrophically.
Fucking Griff cost me my birds. Will riding this guy’s dick mean the death of Freki? Or maybe he’ll just burn down my house or steal my truck? No, I’m sure he’s completely sane and not at all like Griff. Sure, sure.
The sound of an approaching motorcycle awakens me from my internal dialogue and the need to study every inch of Bubba’s bare flesh. How is he so fucking hot? I noticed he was handsome last night. His drunken babble was beyond cute. But I wasn’t prepared for his level of buffed madness in the bright light of day.
And now my troubles deepen at the arrival of a biker. No one drives by this house or down this street on accident. I live on a rural road with only a few neighbors, and none of them are buddies with bikers.
I am, of course. My dad could be outside. Or maybe a random member of the Serrated Brotherhood just decided to show up at my place. Could totally happen. I know the sound of my brother’s Benelli. What’s parking in front of my home is a chopper like the Brotherhood guys drive. Including Griff.
I shove my hand into the pocket of my shorts and find the switchblade. It won’t help if Griff goes homicidal. My handgun is under my couch. A shotgun is stashed in the umbrella rack. I’d been worried about Bubba, but not enough to walk around the house locked and loaded.
My heart begins to race when the chopper’s engine shuts off. I shouldn’t be this nervous. I’ve dealt with the asshole nonstop for months. This isn’t new.
But Bubba is, and I don’t know what happens if the men fight again. Does Griff end the hunky puppy? Does Bubba kill a member of the Serrated Brotherhood? I know I’ve got a lot going on in the hot chick department, but that doesn’t mean I’m worth starting a damn war over.
I side-eye Bubba to find him bracing himself for whoever’s on the other side of the door. He’s got his macho thing happening. Usually, I’d admire how his chest puffs out, and arms flex into a fighting stance. Just like how my dad gets when preparing to beat down someone. This isn’t a normal situation, though, and I’m unbelievably nervous about what happens next.
The knock on the door goes unanswered. I can’t move. I’m so fixated on what could happen next that I’m unable to react to what is actually taking place.
Then I hear his voice.
“Soso Rutgers!” yells Dayton Rutgers—aka my father.
Relief floods through me until I remember the shirtless member of the Reapers standing nearby. Yeah, I’m not sure that’ll go over well with my dear old dad.
“Hey, Daddy,” I say through the door. “Come back later. I’m shaving my legs.”
Somehow, my ace lie doesn’t persuade my father. Bubba’s edgy demeanor drops a few notches after hearing who’s at the door. Or maybe he likes the leg shaving thing.
“Open up, Num-Num, or I’ll use my keys,” he says in his fake-patient voice.
“I changed the locks.”
“I got a copy of the new keys.”
“Go away,” I say, fighting laughter as my fear turns into wary embarrassment. “We don’t want any.”
When my father unlocks and opens the door, I immediately hug him. “Oh, Daddy, I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve missed you.”
“Save the lies for the man about to die,” he says, glaring at Bubba.
“He’s a made man, Daddy. I heard he’s got lots of connections.”
“Who told you that?” Dad asks, still shooting hate-daggers at Bubba.
“The tall man from Mayo Pony.”
Dad gives me the quickest of glances before asking, “Do you mean the elderly one or the fat one?”
“I don’t think Cap’s fat.”
“Oh, but you think Hayes is elderly?” Dad says and frowns at me. “Well, I’m telling him you said that, Lil Miss.”
Freki decides I’m under threat and barks protectively. The dog doesn’t jump down from the couch or even get up from his spot next to his favorite pillow. No, my tiny defender feels his bark is terrifying enough to put my father in his place.
When Dad isn’t properly frightened, I stumble back to act as a barrier between him and Bubba.
“Put a shirt on,” Dad mutters, giving Bubba a disgusted frown.
Bubba’s earlier edginess is gone. My gut says he realizes the score. Rather than fearing my badass Brotherhood VP dad, he just smirks and mutters, “It’s hot in here.”
Dad forgets whose side he’s on and says, “I told her to get an air conditioner, but she won’t listen.”
“You raised her well, sir.”
“Are you talking smack, boy?” Dad asks, moving closer.
“Little bit, yeah.”
“Daddy, this is Bubba Davies. He stayed here last night, but we didn’t, you know, swap any kinds of fluids.”
“No,” Dad says, shaking his head and causing his shoulder-length blond hair to bounce. “I can’t have my only daughter shacked up with a hillbilly.”
“I come from strong redneck stock, sir,” Bubba says, still wearing his smirk. “Not a hill-folk in the entire family.”
“He sounds weird. Is he drunk?”
Unsure how buzzed Bubba might still be, I blurt out, “He’s from Kentucky.”
Dad instantly growls, “The home state of illiterates and inbreds.”
“But he’s a biker like you, Daddy. See how much I love you?” I say, hugging him.
“Stuff it, Num-Num. I know exactly who he is, and I know he threw down with my brothers last night.”
“Wait,” I grumble, stepping back. “You’re not here to defend my honor but to clean up the mess created by your stupid biker friends.”
Dad doesn’t fall for my feigned offended stance. “He shouldn’t be here.”
“Why are you really here?”
“I heard about the fight and needed to make sure you were okay.”
“Bubba stopped Griff from manhandling me.”
Dad doesn’t take the bait here either. Wow, my father has got me pegged completely. I find this fact oddly heartwarming.
“From what I heard, your brother was sitting right there, locked and loaded to break Griff and anyone else who gave you trouble.”
“That’s a lie, Daddy,” I say, tossing Keanu under the bus.
My brother will understand. He once blamed me for breaking something that his woman dropped because she was too scared to upset my parents. I just nodded and declared that my clumsiness was a sign of wisdom. Sure, it didn’t make any sense, but Dad was so busy wondering what the fuck I was talking about that no one questioned the broken Big Foot figurine. Yeah, Keanu will totally be cool with my current traitorous move.
“He was so busy watching Cap’s back that I think he forgot I even existed. You know how those two are,” I say, and Dad’s murder-frown shifts to his WTF-frown.
“Doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t be here,” Dad tells me and then lies to Bubba in his best growl, “She has no money if that’s what you’re looking for.”
Bubba shrugs. “I have plenty of money.”
“Bullshit. You don’t even have a shirt.”
“Why don’t we dial things down a bit?” I suggest. “Daddy, would you like homemade beef jerky?”
“No.”
Just then on the kitchen counter, my phone chimes a familiar ringtone.
“She cannot help you,” Dad warns me, though his gaze never leaves Bubba.
“We’ll see.”
Answering, I put my mother—the gloriously unfazed Harmony Slater Rutgers—on speakerphone. “Has your father murdered anyone yet?”
“No, he’s still stalking his prey, which is weird since Bubba is standing perfectly still. I think Daddy doesn’t really want to attack. Aww, he’s sweet on Bubba too.”
Mom laughs, which makes my father roll his eyes. “You’re encouraging her.”
“It’s called good parenting.”
“He’s half-naked, Harmony.”
“Which half?”
Bubba chuckles, which pisses off my dad even more.
“Mom, I’m a grown woman with grown woman needs. If Daddy doesn’t leave soon, I might have to list out those needs in great and gooey detail.”
“You heard her. Just chill out and meet me for lunch. We’ll devise a game plan to break up the lovebirds,” Mom says and hangs up.
“Ha!” Dad cries and snaps his fingers at me. “She’s on my side. You’re screwed, Num-Num.”
“Well, then you best hurry along, so you can begin plotting,” I say, pushing him—gently of course—toward the door. “Bye-bye now. Love you. Drive safe.”
Dad glares at Bubba and then softens his gaze—just a little—for me. “I’m letting this happen because I know Johansson men are pussies. If he proves to be the exception to the rule, shoot him and call me to help with the corpse.”
“Message received.”
“This isn’t over,” he growls at Bubba suddenly. “Put on a shirt, pervert.”
Bubba only smiles wider while I nudge my father away from the shirtless hunk. “Though I’ll no doubt submit to your will, we’re not there yet. Until then, so long.”
Finally giving in to my subtle hints, Dad storms out of my house and to his Harley. He leans on the throttle, revving the engine dramatically. I laugh at my father’s always entertaining dick-wagging.
“He’s very macho,” I tell Bubba after Dad roars off and the door is shut.
A sly smirk warms his face. “I noticed how small and feminine I felt in comparison.”
“I’m short on breakfast options,” I say, walking to the kitchen where I sip my coffee, “but I can fix you something quick before driving you to Audrey’s house.”
“Tell me more about this asshole Griff.”
I freeze up, staring at him over my cup. Our gazes hold, and I realize I was wrong about his eyes. They’re blue rather than green. Or his eyes might change colors. Not that it matters. Nothing about him is more than a passing curiosity.
“That’s old business and none of yours,” I say. “Your shirt is in the bedroom. Watch your head.”
Erasing the space between us, Bubba now stands too close. “I want to be here with you.” His sudden bravado makes me wonder if knowing my name reignited his ego. Or does he think fucking the daughter of Dayton Rutgers will give him bragging rights back in
Kentucky?
“Why do you think I have nothing better to do than babysit you?”
Bubba’s steely glare falters. “I don’t know anything about you, but I woke up thinking I need to know everything. I can’t do that if you ditch me at Audrey’s. If you have places to go, I’ll tag along. If that’s not an option, I’ll sit on the front porch and wait for you.”
“You sound pathetic,” I spit out, wanting to piss him off so he’ll stop tempting me. I don’t know where my power went. This is my house. He’s on my turf. My family rules this fucking town. He’s no one here, so why do I feel like he’s holding all the cards?
“Look, maybe I acted like such a fucking loser last night that you can’t see me any other way. That makes sense, but you said my bullshit last night was sweet. Girls say that when a guy hits the right notes for them. I know who you are now. Like I don’t know all the family connections in Hickory Creek, but I know that was either Dayton or Camden Rutgers, and that makes you royalty around here.”
My father and his brother are twins. They’re technically identical, but decades on the planet branded them with enough individual scars to make them distinguishable to most people. Not a stranger like Bubba, though. He just heard the name Rutgers.
“That was Dayton,” I say, feeling hurt over—? Why am I upset? Is it that I’m sweet on this guy and I know he’s going to ditch me to go home in a few days? Why do I care? I used to date casually. I know how to be that girl, but now I’m heartbroken that a guy who does not own my heart might possibly break it in the near future. I decide fatigue has made me super girly hormonal.
“My father is not the nice twin,” I say, narrowing my gaze and unleashing my inner-Rutgers. “That man will be back to fuck with you. You might think you’re safe because of your bloodline, but in this area, my family name is all that matters.”
“I know,” Bubba replies, never missing a beat.
It’s like my angry routine doesn’t affect him at all. I’m seriously losing my mojo.
