“What’re ye wearin’ tae the party?”
Whatever the hell I want.
Walking over to the bed, I slipped in next to Pirate, who snuggled up close. Leisurely, I pet his head as Lachlan continued outside my door.
“Yer pot roast was damn good,” he complimented.
That made my stomach somersault, and my cheeks heat in a way that felt so good. I was kind of giddy.
“I know ye’re still pissed at me.”
I’d never been anything of the sort with him. I was hurt. The end.
“I didnae mean what I said aboot yer voice.” He sounded like he was in pain. A thump hit the door that had to have been his head, as his voice lowered to a raw whisper. “I miss ye, my leannan.”
It broke my heart to listen to the words flutter from his lips. Words that I had been needing to hear for a week—dying to hear. What hurt even more was my determination to keep my distance for my own sanity. I couldn’t let him hurt me anymore by shutting me out. The line between teaching lessons and my own self-preservation had already started to muddle. I was getting in way too deep. Feelings were morphing into much more than I’ve been willing to acknowledge.
He’d left after that, and I cried myself to sleep. This morning, I came to work early to try and shake off this feeling of guilt that’s gnawing at my insides for not responding to his plea last night. I’ve been kicking myself in the butt ever since. Even though Bonez reassured me that it will all work out in due time. He’s been my constant sounding board through this week of hell. We’ve been texting regularly, and are really turning this patient-doctor thing into a real friendship. One that I value and trust.
Speaking of the devil. . .
My phone vibrates.
It’s Bonez.
He’s over at Whisky’s again staring at the shop. Maybe you should drop by.
I reply. And do what while I’m there? Be a stalker?
“Is that Smoke?” Cas snoops, breaking away from the car door.
“No; it’s Bonez. Why?” I know why, but I’m still asking.
Cas shrugs before he moves over to my tool box, haplessly fiddling with my wrenches for no reason. “Just curious,” he mutters.
Just curious, my patootie. He’s trying to look out for Lachlan. I know that. They’re tight. I just wish he’d cut me a little slack. He’s been asking me questions every day. It’s a little much.
“Hey Cas?” I exit Viola, shutting her the door.
“Yeah?” He leaves my wrenches alone, turns around, and pulls the cigarette from behind his ear, before placing it to his lips and lighting up.
“Is it okay with you if I drop by Whisky’s? I gotta ask her what I should bring on Saturday.” That’s the best excuse I could come up with on such short notice. True, I could just text her to find out, but then I wouldn’t be heeding Bonez’s gentle persuasion. Plus, I have another question I need to ask her, anyhow.
“Sure.” He grins victoriously, exhaling a puff of smoke. “Whatever ya want.” He has to know Lachlan is over there, and is probably hoping that I’ll change my mind about Saturday. Not going to happen.
With a quick wave and a thank you, I make my way over to Whisky’s. Her bell rings as I enter, even though it barely registers, thanks to those teal eyes scorching me as I stroll through the door.
Whisky lifts her head from behind the sugary display, and flashes me a wide smile. “Hey there, sister,” she greets happily.
Raising my hand, I return a “Hey,” as I make my way to the back counter. Whisky’s standing behind it, fumbling with some trays.
“What can I do ya for?” she asks, setting the trays on the counter with a loud bang. “Want some more cupcakes?” she teases, wagging her eyebrows, knowing darn well that as of Sunday I’ve asked Bridget not to bring me any more of those addictive cupcakes.
I can already start to feel my clothes shrink, or perhaps that’s my imagination. Either way, I’ve stopped devouring those heavenly treats, and made a pact with myself to indulge only once a week. So far, I’ve not succumb to temptation. It’s been difficult, especially when I add the stressors of Lachlan to the mix.
Setting my hand casually on the counter, I take a deep breath and do my best to keep calm and collected, even if my palms are now beginning to sweat and my heart’s rapidly beating. Its Lachlan’s attention; he’s doing this. I can feel him, smell him, and almost taste him. It’s distracting.
Clearing my throat, I reply, “No, thanks. No cupcakes. . .but. . .I was hoping you could fill me in on what I need to bring to the club’s get together this weekend? Should I make a dish? Bring drinks? Cups? Plates? Whatever you need, I’m more than happy to bring. I’d really like to help.” It all starts to tumble out way too fast that by the time I’m finished, I’m in desperate need of oxygen.
I inhale deeply, and Whisky’s smile explodes into Las Vegas itself, lighting the whole damn place. “Be still my fucking heart, you beautiful, big titted bitch! Where in the hell have you been all my life?” She dramatically throws her head back, covering her heart with her hand—swooning. “Woo hoo! I think I mighta just died and gone to heaven!”
Unable to control it, thanks to her theatrical display, I start to laugh, a full body one. I grab my stomach as tears wet my eyes.
Oh my, she’s hilarious!
Bridget walks in from the back, catching me in the throes of laughing my butt off, and her aunt still swooning, mumbling on and on about where’d I’d been all her life.
“What in the heck’s going on here?” she asks, amused, her own smile blinding me.
Whisky is the first to stop her dramatics as I try to calm down long enough to catch my breath, and wipe the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand.
“Mags asked what she could bring to the club party,” Whisky explains, enthusiastically.
“Oooohhhh.” Bridget giggles. “That makes complete sense about the whole ‘all my life’ craziness.” She air quotes before she turns her attention to me with a dab of teal frosting painted on her nose. “Whisky’s been saying for years that the boys need to find themselves good women so she’s not stuck cooking for all of the parties by herself.”
“Hey!” Whisky intervenes, cupping her hand on her hip in a playful manner, before pushing it out. “Rosie and you help, too,” she argues, mock affronted.
“Right.” Bridget rolls her eyes. “We help some, but we don’t do the shopping, or the cleanup, or any of. . .that.” She flicks out her hand. “It’s a good thing Sniper’s not completely lazy, because he does help you. But get real, Whisky, we only do a dish or two; you do the rest.”
“The brother’s pay for the stuff,” Whisky notes.
“True, but you still cook it, and clean it up. That’s a lot harder.”
“True.” Whisky nods in agreement, then both of their eyes swing to me, and both of them alight with glee.
“Can you make your meatloaf into smaller sizes?” Bridget queries at the same time Whisky asks, “What are you good at cooking?”
They both laugh at each other’s disruptions, lay hands on one another’s shoulders like close girlfriends do, and give each other a squeeze before letting their arms drop.
“You don’t like meatloaf,” Whisky reminds her.
Wish I’d known sooner that she doesn’t like it, because I wouldn’t have made her mine. Maybe I should have asked.
“I like hers,” Bridget throws out with a bit of attitude. “It’s really good.”
Never mind. Guess that was a good decision on my part then. She likes my meatloaf, even though she doesn’t like meatloaf. How awesome is that?!
My insides go a little squishy at the thought.
We carry on like this for some time, talking about what I could bring. In the end, they leave it up to me, but give me a wide variety of choices to think about. Lachlan’s eyes never stop burning through our entire girl chat, and he doesn’t interject either. It’s strange knowing someone’s in the same room with you, listening to your conversation, yet,
they remain eerily quiet.
Whisky goes to help a customer that comes in as Bridget walks around the counter, grabs my hand, and pulls me in through the back, coming to stand in a bakery kitchen with a huge mess of teal icing dotting the counters, and a glob on the floor. I guess when Bridget said she wasn’t very good with frosting, she wasn’t lying. It’s a disaster.
“I didn’t want to have this talk with Dad out front staring at you like he’s thirsty and hasn’t had a drop to drink in a century,” Bridget remarks with a lopsided grin. “But I want you to know that I know that you’re going with Bonez to the party.”
Uh-oh, I was afraid of this. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, which is why I haven’t brought it up yet. I figured I’d wait until Saturday to let it slip. I guess someone already beat me to it. It was probably Whisky and her big mouth.
Kindly, she taps my cheek. “Stop frowning; it’s not a good look on you.”
I try not to frown, but it doesn’t work. Apparently, I’m a pro at it. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Bonez. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I know you think there’s something going on between your dad and me.”
“There is something going on,” she corrects.
“If there is, it’s going nowhere fast.”
“Not true, because Whisky told me Dad’s been sitting here every time you work just to watch the shop and make sure you’re all right. He also leaves when you go to lunch with Bonez and follows you there. So he’s obviously got some stuff going on up here.” She taps her noggin. “I don’t know what. . .And I’m guessing my dad won’t share with me, anyhow.”
“Probably not,” I agree. “And don’t feel bad, because he won’t share with me either,” I tack on, after crossing my arms over my chest.
“Give him time,” Bridget reassures, showing wisdom way beyond her years. I know she’s right. It’s just hard to swallow.
“I’m trying.”
“What you need is a killer outfit to go with your trying.” She bounces her red eyebrows, and I chuckle, shaking my head at her silliness.
Oh yeah. . .duh. . .the other question. . .
“That’s what I forgot to ask Whisky. . .What should I wear on Saturday?”
“Sister,” Whisky cuts in, joining us in the back and stopping right next to me, bumping my shoulder on purpose. “If you wait until we close, Pip and I will take you to get sexed up for this Saturday. My brother and all of the boys won’t know what hit ‘em.” She snaps her fingers with flare, before sweeping a mess of red curls off her forehead. “You’re gonna knock those motherfuckers dead!”
Bridget giggles at her aunt’s over the top antics, and I join right along.
Guess I’m going to get sexed up. Gah!
“Sure. I’ll see you after work,” I concede with an anxious grin, as Bridget squeals, clapping her hands with excitement.
Boy, oh boy, am I in for a treat. I just hope I don’t end up looking like an oversexed harlot.
Wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Stopping outside of Whisky’s rural farm house, I roll up next to a row of shiny motorcycles—a very long row of them. Maybe I shouldn’t have come? My thoughts race as I audibly gulp.
The scent of mini meatloaves clogging the air reminds me that I need to pull up my big girl panties and get the hell out of Viola.
Shutting off the engine, I reach back and grab my sheer black thigh-highs and white heels off the passenger seat. They’re the finishing touches to my biker chick outfit. The very outfit that Whisky, Bridget, and I took two hours to agree on because just about everything had been a “no” in my book. Most of it was too trashy. Which Whisky assured me¸ men like. I don’t, and neither did Bridget, so we bought a mid-thigh faded jean skirt, a white slouched neck tank top, and a fitted black leather jacket. To accessorize, I got these heels and thigh-highs because Whisky refused to let me leave the store without them. We purchased my dainty necklace and earring set that I picked out, too.
Last night, Bridget sat me down in Lachlan’s hideous bathroom and we talked about my makeup options. I know nothing about the art of makeup so she showed me a few tricks of the trade which I’ve used to enhance my features tonight—whatever the heck that means. Bridget’s the one who used that mumbo jumbo. She rattled on something about the swish of a brush to enhance my sharp cheekbones, and a dab of this, here, or a smidge of that, there. I have no clue what any of it means; I just know she wrote the instructions down after we’d gone through it and I’d reapplied it just now before I left. It turned out okay. . .I think.
Opening the car door, I swing my legs out and tear open the package of thigh-highs with my teeth before I slowly glide them up my smooth, brace-free thighs.
Running my hands over the silkiness, I admire the new look. Wow, they really do make me feel sexy, and a bit naughty, too. Not that I’ll admit that to anyone, except you.
Once they’ve been secured without any wrinkles, I lay my white heels onto the gravel and slip my feet into them. Using the door handle to pull my body to stand, I wobble just a bit before my bearings get straightened out. I smooth my hands down my curls to make sure they’ve not frizzed on the way over. Not sure why it matters, but something deep inside says it does, so I’m going with it.
A voracious catcall catches my attention, and I look around to see who they’re whistling at. When I see no one else is around except me standing here, I fidget, as the strong urge to slip back into the car and leave overwhelms me.
“Don’t do it!” Bonez hollers across the yard, eating up the distance with his long strides until he meets me toe-to-toe and grabs hold of both my hands. They’re shaking. Tipping my head back, I meet his friendly gaze. “You’re scared. It’s okay to be, but I promise these fuckers are really nice fuckers,” he reassures with a smile.
Eyes darting around, I attempt to look around him to get a better view of the yard and all of those in it. More specifically, I want to see Lachlan; it is an indescribable need. I haven’t seen him since last night, and my junkie fix needs tended to. Maybe then, my nerves will calm.
“Hey, hot stuff.” Whisky arrives, slipping past Bonez to my side and hooking her arm around my waist in support. “You look beautiful.” Her voice is tender and genuine, which helps a minuscule amount.
“Those meatloaves, pasta salad, and mini quiches are in the back,” I explain to her as I appreciatively take in her fanciful biker chick form.
She’s wearing a similar jean skirt as mine, except the bottom of hers is frayed. She’s also donning a black, scoop neck, rhinestone encrusted skull shirt that shows a lot of cleavage. Way more than mine does, even though I’m sure we’re about the same size in busts. Her feet are stuffed into a pair of black wedges, and her makeup is way smokier. This is also the first time I’ve seen her with her hair down. It’s a thick, gorgeous mane of red, curly beauty, just like Bridget’s. I’m instantly jealous. She’s striking and sexy without looking like a trashy street walker.
“Sounds good,” she replies about the food. “I’ll have the boys come and get it.”
“You look hot,” I blurt, and immediately regret it when her eyes widen and my cheeks catch fire. Me and my big mouth.
“You think I look hot?”
“Very hot,” I mumble, and turn my attention to Bonez, who I just realized still has a hold of my hands. I tug them away and wipe the dampness on my skirt. “She looks hot, doesn’t she, Bonez?” I bait, trying to shove some of the heat off myself.
Sorry, Bonez.
“She’s always hot, as are you,” Bonez answers coolly, inclining his head to me, then offering his arm to escort me like a gentlemen.
Whisky pats my butt and whispers in my ear, “Go make him eat his Scottish heart out. You got this, sister.”
Duly noted.
I nod in understanding, pat her side in return, then hook my arm through Bonez’s as I realize that he, too, looks different tonight. For one: he’s wearing a black t-shirt; not a dress shirt. Two: he’s clad in his
patch-covered leather vest. I thought he looked mighty handsome in his work clothes, but I think I like him better this way. It suits him, and it’s sexier. And apparently, he likes to wear his shirts tight like Lachlan does, leaving nothing to the imagination. Talk about hunky muscles galore. If my heart hadn’t already been spoken for, I might be tempted. Fiddle Sticks! Did I just say that?! Get a grip, Mags.
“You ready to meet the family?”
Bonez leisurely walks me through the gravel and up to the grass where the party’s in a full midday swing. I shrug uncertainly, my voice caught in my throat from the overwhelming sight in front of us. There’s an average farm house to the right and an old barn attached to a garage straight ahead. I’ve never seen anything like it before. There’s a fire pit roaring to the left, surrounded by tons of sawn off logs that are being used as stools. Scattered among all of this real-estate are men, lots of men of all shapes and sizes. All of them wearing some variance of leather, bandanas, jeans, and some of them have beards that hang over their chests. Most of them have lots of tattoos, and I’m pretty sure black is their only color of choice. Wait. . .I think I see a man in a gray t-shirt. Okay, so maybe gray’s safe, too.
Bonez escorts me toward the house, where the food is being set up on long rectangular tables. That’s when I first feel the prick of warmth spread through me as the backdoor of the house is slammed shut, and a set of boots stomp down the stairs. Coming face-to-face with Lachlan, his eyes bore into me just a few feet away, wearing a panty dropping kilt. Jesus, that’s a sight to behold. My mouth waters involuntarily as I take in his massive hotness. Tight black shirt, black vest, black riding boots with the edge of white crew socks poking out, and more and more of those sexy tattoos that make love to my eyes. When I finally focus on his face that’s hard, unshaven, and stupidly attractive, I catch his eyes roaming me up, down, and back again, not even trying to hide it. He stops and lingers on my face before running through the same motions. His gaze feels like a thousand little fingers ghosting over my skin, sending shivers of raw pleasure straight through me. I smother a needy moan as my legs wobble.
Beyond Her Words (Corrupt Chaos MC) Page 28
