He seems to think a minute. Then he takes my hand, very slowly, and he lowers it below the countertop to his lap. He presses it to the zipper of his jeans. It takes me a second, but then I realize what I’m touching. He’s hard. Really hard, and really big.
Adrenaline surges through my body. If he moved at all, even another inch, I’d probably run. But he’s as still as a statue, intently watching my face.
“Every part of me wants you. Always has. I want to hear you laugh, and I want to smell strawberries on your skin, and listen to you, whatever you’re talkin’ about, don’t matter. I don’t know why, but I do know it ain’t gonna change or go away. I wouldn’t want it to.”
His dick jerks against my palm. His abs flex tight.
“I want you, Crista. You can’t even imagine how bad.”
I keep my eyes locked on his, and for once, I catch a glimpse past my own bullshit. It’s there, the way he feels, blazing for anyone to see. It stokes a yearning in me, makes me shift on my stool.
“I don’t know if I can,” I whisper.
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t want to try and freak out and ruin everything.”
He smiles, and I don’t understand why. “You said ruin everything. That means there’s something.”
I did. I did say that.
“There is something, isn’t there.” He lifts my hand from his lap and brushes a kiss across my knuckles.
“Yeah, there’s something.”
“Then let’s go grocery shopping and worry about the rest later, when we ain’t hungry.”
CHAPTER 9
SCRAP
Fortune favors the bold. That’s what Heavy used to say when we was kids, and he was tryin’ to get us to do something that seemed likely to get us hurt, beat by our folks, or arrested. We never did come to ill when Heavy made the plans, but still. He had some crazy ideas back in the day.
Fortune favors the bold.
I honestly don’t know what was goin’ through my head when I threw Crista Holt over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Now, watching her pick through the cantaloupes at the Save Right, I don’t really care.
I’m just happy I done what I did.
She’s fussin’ with the melons, pickin’ one up and puttin’ it in the cart only to find another she likes better and swappin’ ’em out. She’s been at it for five minutes now, at least.
I could watch her thump melons forever. Her hair’s still damp from her shower, and she’s in a new set of ratty hoodies and jeans. No makeup.
She’s so fuckin’ pretty. She’s got this straight little nose and tiny freckles across her cheeks. And her body. I know what’s under the baggy men’s clothes now. Her skin is soft, and her tits are lush as fuck.
On the sofa last night, when she started getting comfortable, she reached for me, put her arms around my neck, and it was all I could do not to put her on her back and grind into all that soft sweetness. She had those titties squished against my chest, and I could feel her nipples bead through my shirt and hers.
Her eyes got all hazy, and she was risin’ up to meet me, pressing a little closer each time I kissed her, smilin’ a little more. I was so hard for so fuckin’ long my zipper made an impression all the way down my dick.
And I knew, if I pushed too much, she’d go back into her head, start worryin’ at shit. So I put myself on a schedule. I let myself kiss her whenever people on the movie was talkin’. They were action movies, so it wasn’t that much of the time.
Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought I could let myself touch her like I did and hold back. I figured ten years with only my hand, and a few years before that as well, I’d be coming in my jeans as soon as she let me slip my tongue in her hot mouth.
I didn’t count on the fact that this is Crista Holt, and she’s always made me stronger than I thought I could be. All those years in lock up, so many times I wanted to lay on my bunk and sleep the time away, I made myself get up, work out, read, all because when I got out and saw Crista Holt, I didn’t want her to be ashamed of what I was.
So, yeah, I had no problem keepin’ my hands from slippin’ down those jeans to explore the wetness between her thighs. For that girl, I can do anything.
I know she was wet, too. Before Grinder came home—and I’m gonna have to have a conversation with that motherfucker about movin’ out of my woman’s place—I could smell her pussy cream whenever she lifted the blanket to get up.
Shit. I move away from the cart to stand over the berry display, like I’m deeply interested in which identical carton I should pick. I better keep my mind off last night, or I’m gonna be starin’ at fruit for an hour until my dick calms down.
“You want to get strawberries?” Crista smiles at me from by the oranges, all innocent. That hardness she has at the club is wearin’ off, and I can see glimpses now and then of the shy girl I knew before.
“Yeah, baby. Gimme a minute.”
Guess spending a lot of time on this shit seems reasonable to her ‘cause she just kind of hums and moves on to the vegetables.
“Do you like asparagus?”
I don’t know. My dad didn’t make it, and they didn’t serve it upstate. “Sure.”
“I’m going to make you dinner. Steak and asparagus and mashed potatoes.”
“You’re gonna make me dinner?” I have myself under control so I push the cart to follow her.
“I can cook, you know.”
“I believe you.”
“I don’t very often ‘cause—” She kind of trails off. That’s her gettin’ in her head again. It’s so obvious. She slows down and those fingers start worrying the cuff of her hoodie.
“You gonna make me dessert, too, right baby? I want dessert. Chocolate cake.”
She shakes whatever it was off, scrunching her nose and smiling again. “I think I can manage that. Did you like the cake Harper got you for your homecoming party?”
“I didn’t have any.”
“No?” She’s throwin’ all kinds of things in the cart. Onions. Other onions with stalks. Small onions in bags.
“I was busy tryin’ to talk to a girl.”
“Yeah?” She’s not meetin’ my eyes on purpose now. “What did you want to talk to her about?”
“Oh, any old thing. Mostly I wanted to hear about her. What music she likes now. Does she still play the clarinet. Does she think about me.”
Crista walks slowly toward the meat section. She’s got her hands yanked up in her sleeves. “I don’t play the clarinet.” Her voice lowers. “But I do think about you. I did.”
“What did you think about?” I fall into step beside her and lower my voice, too. There’s not a lot of people here so early, and we have the aisle to ourselves, but the whispering seems to turn her cheeks pink.
She nibbles on her bottom lip and my cock jerks. “Riding on your bike. The time you kissed me.”
“I thought about you, too.”
“You did?” She tilts her head.
“All the time. I’d imagine us, like this.”
“In the produce section?”
“Yeah, smartass. In the produce section. And watching TV. And you makin’ me dinner.”
“And a chocolate cake for dessert.”
“And a chocolate cake.” I glance over. She seems okay. Her hands have crept out of her sleeves. “I’d think about you at night, too.”
She blinks.
“I’d imagine us having a picnic somewhere. Maybe up by Lake Patonquin where we used to have those club cookouts on the beach. We’d be layin’ on a blanket, all alone. I’d kiss you, work your dress over your head. Kiss your tits, work my way down to your belly. Settle in between your legs.”
“Scrap.” She kind of pants my name. Her face is so bright red, it matches the tomato sauce jars.
“I’d taste you. You’d wiggle and squirm, and I’d tongue you ’til you came all over my face.”
“Scrap.” She tries to hustle and leave me behind, but my legs are long.
“We could do that. Not outside, but in your bed. I could kiss you, just like I did last night. I’ll unzip that hoodie and kiss your tits. Then, I’ll get you to help me pull down your jeans, and you’ll scoot to the end of the bed. I’ll kneel on the floor, and you’ll put your feet on the edge. And then I’ll lick you while I work my dick in my hand.”
I’m a little worried that my girl’s gonna pass out. I ain’t never seen a person’s face go so red. She must realize ‘cause she pulls up her hood.
“We could do that. No surprises. It would be over the minute you say. I’d stop whenever you want.”
I can tell when she understands that I’m serious; I’m not just talkin’. I can see her mull it over in that twisty little brain of hers.
We walk the next few aisles in silence, both of us throwing stuff into the cart.
I’ve just thrown a box of macaroni and cheese into the cart when she says, “Would I keep my tank top on?”
Holy shit. She ain’t sayin’ no.
“Baby, you can do whatever you want. You call the plays. Whatever you say goes.”
“What if I wanted to do it exactly like that? Would you remember?”
Like I could ever forget. “Yeah. I’d remember.”
“And you wouldn’t do anything different?”
“I wouldn’t change anything up on you. You’d be the boss. You wanna wear a tank top, you wear a tank top.”
“It’s just—” She glares without focusing down the aisle. “The scars are really bad. Especially the main one.”
“It ain’t gonna bother me, baby. You don’t have to hide shit on my account.”
It doesn’t occur to me right away that that’s a lie, but as we work our way past the boxes of spaghetti, I realize it is. She got mauled. Gutted. When we found her, I used my body to try to staunch the blood—my hands weren’t enough. There were flaps of her chest hanging open. The scar has got to be horrible.
That sick rage that used to ride me hard at the beginning of my stint inside rises in my chest like some rotting ghost. I bear down on it, hard.
Crista needs me not to react. It’s a tall order, but this ain’t about me.
Still, it’s hard to drive it back. It takes a minute.
I think she’s reading my mind ‘cause she starts to talk.
“If we—if we ever did what you’re talking about, even if I wear a shirt, you’re gonna see some of it. The main scar. It—” She’s struggling to get this out, and she’s got her gaze glued on the banana display. I don’t say anything; I’m so afraid she’ll lose her courage. “It starts at the top of my, um, vagina or whatever, and goes all the way above my left boob. Then there’s some other smaller scars from the surgeries. Those are more straight and even. Then there are a few other scars from the stabbing. It’s kind of a mess.”
She stares down at the linoleum. I don’t know the right thing to say, and I also know I have to say the absolutely right thing now, and I ain’t likely to get another chance if I fuck it up.
I draw in a deep breath. “I know what I’m askin’ for.”
She glances up. Her brown eyes are hooded and so wary.
“I’m askin’ you to trust me, and I understand that ain’t a small thing. Maybe I didn’t fully get it when I first got back. I get it now.”
“I’m really scared.” She keeps starin’ down those bananas when she says it.
“I know. I’m so fuckin’ proud of you.”
“’Cause maybe one day I’ll get up the courage to let you eat me out?”
I hate the bitterness in her voice, but still, my cock and my heart leap like crazy when she says it.
“Yes, baby. Exactly.” And then I laugh and kiss her and hold her hand, and I tease her when she slides a store-bought chocolate sheet cake into the cart.
I need to not fuck this up, and I ain’t ate pussy since I was eighteen years old.
◆◆◆
Crista’s been holed up in her room with her sister for two hours. I’m startin’ to get nervous. We’re goin’ to the clubhouse together tonight. There’s a party for Creech’s birthday. It didn’t occur to me ‘til I’d been sittin’ here long enough to watch three episodes of House Flippers, but we ain’t gone somewhere together before. Not with the MC. We’ve been keepin’ things between just us.
I been stayin’ with Crista for a few weeks now. After that first night, I kept comin’ back, after my work or hers. She’d feed me more often than not, and she ain’t told me to go, so I guess we’re shacked up, more or less.
Those first few nights I’d pass out on the sofa with her, but one night, I got a bad spasm in my back, so I hauled her ass to bed. She only grumbled some and went right back to sleep once I tucked her in, and in the morning, I’d left for the garage before she had the chance to wake up and freak herself out about it. That night, we went straight to bed, no fuss. She wears sweatpants, white socks, and a baggy T-shirt to sleep, and I keep my boxers on so she don’t get hinky.
There ain’t nothing I like better than watching late night TV under the covers with Crista Holt in a fat dude’s gym clothes. She wriggles up close to me and nuzzles her nose in my chest. I let my hands wander and stroke the silk where her shirt creeps up. Then we get to kissin’, and I’ll let my fingers slip under the elastic waistband of her sweats, and sometimes she shies away, but sometimes she throws a leg over my thigh, and I cup her ass, and her eyes go bleary and soft.
I ain’t never tamed an animal before, but I’m guessin’ it’s much like this. No sudden movements. The patience of Job.
I jerk it three, four times a day, and still, I’m hard as a rock as soon as she comes out of the bathroom in forest green sweats and a 2X Van Halen T-shirt with holes in the hem. She must get this shit from Grinder, which is not a thought I like to entertain for long.
Anyway, I ain’t pushed for anything, and maybe I’m doin’ something right, cause when I mentioned us going out for this birthday shindig, she agreed right off. I realize tonight ain’t her usual scene. It’s an all call, not only Steel Bones and the usual hang arounds, but Smoke and Steel from up in Shady Gap and a ton of randoms. Creech gets around.
Crista didn’t seem freaked out, though. She’s been keepin’ her hands out of her hoodie and leaving her nails alone. Then Annie showed up, and they disappeared into the bedroom. Even Frances is gettin’ nervous. He’s dragged his ass down the hallway to whine at her door twice.
I’m about to go get her when finally, the door opens, and—
Damn.
I’m on my feet in an instant.
Annie’s leading my girl out, and they’re giggling, bringing the smell of strawberry soap and tequila with them. Guess Crista’s been nippin’ at the liquid courage.
And she’s wearin’ a dress. Thin straps, the neck cut low, her tits are squeezed up by one of them fancy bras. They’re so perfect and creamy like milk.
“You like it?” She’s lookin’ up from under her eyes, shy and sweet. Annie’s done her makeup and put her hair back in barrettes.
“Twirl,” Annie orders, and damn if Crista don’t, swirling that skirt up past her knees. Her legs are bare, and she’s wearin’ sandals like she used to, her toes painted pink.
“You’re pretty as a picture.”
All that skin, her arms, her shoulders, her back. The dress has little birds or some shit on it, and it ain’t tight by no means, but it’s the sexiest thing I ever saw. I can’t help but touch. I gather her up, and she squeals, and Annie laughs. I want to walk her right back into that bedroom, kiss her stupid, but I guess I understand this ain’t entirely for my benefit.
“You ready to show off?”
“I’m not showing off.” She blushes a soft pink that matches her toes.
“Well, I’m gonna show you off. And you ain’t leavin’ my side tonight. Understood?”
I see Annie stiffen. She probably thinks I’m gonna trigger our girl. I notice that’s how her family handles her. They act like everything’s fine, and they ignore her nerve
s or whatever you want to call it until she’s in full freak out. I don’t wait. I tell her she’s safe all the time.
I see her hands creepin’ into her hoodie, I tell her. I got you. She starts pickin’ at her nails, I tell her. Ain’t no one here but us. Come over and sit beside me. At first, she’d get embarrassed and fuss. I don’t need you to humor me. I can handle it.
I kept at it, though, and now she’ll sass or huff on principle, and then curl up against me, all shy smiles and soft curves.
Like now. Crista rises to her tiptoes and kisses me, and I curl an arm around her back, tug her closer, push her a step further. My cock goes full mast when I hear the little intake of breath.
Annie clears her throat. “Can you drive? Mom dropped me here on the way to take the kids to Aunt Shirl’s.”
Guess we’re takin’ the cage. When I took a gander at what was sittin’ in my bank account, Big George showed me some sites on the Internet, and I bought myself a sweet ’69 Camaro in Rally Red. Bucket seats, a Muncie 4 speed under the hood, black Z stripes, the whole nine.
“Ladies?” I offer an elbow to them both, and we head off, a little unsteady it turns out. Annie definitely has more than a few under her belt.
It’s all fine—great, even—until we get to the clubhouse. Even from outside, I can feel the mood is off. Creech has a lot of associates from when he worked as a tattoo artist, and he’s got a lot of other contacts from shadier work he’s done in the past. His people are out in force, high strung and loud-mouthed. Their women are worse, sloppy drunk and showin’ out. Our sweetbutts are huddled by the pool tables. It’s sayin’ something when Jo-Beth and Danielle are lookin’ down their noses at the guests.
“Is she—? Is that—?” Annie’s staring at a naked chick on a table, covered neck to ankles in tattoos, three dudes lined up while a bare ass pumps away between her legs.
I steer Crista toward the back. Thank God she’s checkin’ out who’s workin’ the bar. I know she must’ve seen worse over the years, but she don’t know these people. And I don’t need strung-out trash from Pyle fuckin’ up my progress.
“Let’s go sit by the fire.”
Scrap: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 12
