Nowhere (Crimson Outlaws MC #1)

by Bink Cummings

“Mr. Grey’s handbook?” She snickers.

  “Well, yes.” I shrug. “Or is this more like a Hitler thing? You know, blondes being supreme and all. You’re not going to lock me in a cellar somewhere and kill me because I’m a brunette, are you?”

  Oh God, why can’t I shut up? I’m digging myself into a deeper hole, even if I do think my points are marginally valid. Okay. Maybe I should just go back to sleep and forget this ever happened. I’m behaving like a delusional idiot. Hitler … Christian Grey? Who comes up with this shit? Me … apparently.

  Undeterred by my idiocy, Zoe shakes her head. “I can assure you, Mr. King just prefers blondes.”

  “Attractive ones with flawless complexions and no cellulite,” I tack on.

  Jesus, I really need to shut it. What in the world is my hang up?

  Zoe nods. “Yes. Attractive ones. Are you done?”

  For a fraction of a second, I want to ask her ‘done with what?’, but I zip my lip since I’m certain she’s referring to my stupidity. Hell, I just met the woman; yet here I am spouting nonsense, in a strange house, wearing nothing but my t-shirt, bra, and panties. Yeah, I can feel that my legs are bare without having to look. I’ve been trying to ignore the sensation, so I don’t dwell on the fact that someone had to have undressed me without my permission. That’s the least of my worries at this point.

  Flicking my hand out, I gesture for her to carry on. “You’re at Mr. King’s mountain estate, where he summers. I will be here to assist you with anything you should need. Lunch was served an hour ago, but I saved you a sandwich. I hope you like turkey.”

  I nod, afraid that if I speak more drivel will filter out.

  “Good.” She stands taller, her shoulders pushed back. “Once you’re presentable, you’re welcome to use the phone in the kitchen to call your daughter and whomever else. However, it would be in everyone’s best interest for you to keep your vacation details to yourself.”

  Again, I nod as she keeps on.

  “Mr. King is otherwise engaged at the moment, but he will see you for dinner this evening. It’s at seven, sharp. Don’t be late.”

  Zoe pivots on her heel, headed to the door when a yell from the hallway draws our attention.

  “She’s here! She’s here! My teacher!” a boy’s voice screeches just before my door is thrown open, and a skinny, brunette teenager bounds into my room without apology.

  “You’re my teacher!” His eyes zero in on me as he fidgets, flinging his words with his fingers next to his temple.

  “Garrett,” Zoe reprimands softly, unmistakably annoyed. “I thought Dad said you could meet her tomorrow. He told you that he wanted her to settle in first.”

  “Don’t want to wait. Wanted to meet her now.” He bounces on his heels as his hands twitch like he’s unable to control his excitement. It’s adorable.

  I smile.

  From the way Garrett sways and his mannerisms, it’s easy to see he’s autistic. I’m not sure how severe it is, but I’ve worked with many autistic students in my life. It is not difficult for me to point them out, even if their behaviors are subtle. I guess that’s one of the gifts of being a teacher.

  “Garrett, you know you’re supposed to be getting ready to go to work.” Zoe slowly touches his arm, and he jerks it away, glaring at her. Perhaps touching is one of his eccentricities; most autistic people have them.

  “I know what I am supposed to be doing, Zoe. I’m not stupid.” He slaps the side of his head, driving his point home. Then he looks at his watch. “It’s 1:15. I don’t have to be at work until 2. I have time to meet my teacher.”

  Both sets of eyes turn toward me; Zoe’s are creased with worry like she’s waiting for me to bolt, and Garrett’s eyes are full of hope. I choose to overlook Zoe and address Garrett since he’s so freaking cute.

  “I’m going to be your teacher, you say?” I smile at him as I catch Zoe visibly release a breath, her shoulders relaxing.

  Garrett rocks on his heels, as he shifts from eager to shy, now that I’m addressing him. Redness dots his cheeks, and all I want to do is reach out to hug him.

  Leaning over, I gently pat a section of the comforter at the end of the bed. “Would you care to sit down, Garrett?” I offer, and he meanders over, taking a seat on the edge, almost falling off. That’s more than I’d hoped for.

  Standing by the door, Zoe opens her mouth as if she wants to speak. Instead, I wave her off, shooing her from the room to give us some privacy. Her expression pinches for a moment before complying with my silent request. I’m sure if Garrett were uncomfortable, she would have stayed, but we’re okay here. He’s perfectly fine in my care.

  Once the door is closed, I continue to give Garrett time to calm himself as his hands tumble nervously in his lap, and he rocks.

  “Dad said you were going to be my teacher this summer. He promised me you’d look like Lara Croft,” he says.

  Covering my mouth, I quash a giggle. Lara Croft? So cute.

  I hate to say it, but if Wes brought me here to help his son, that’s so much better than the dirtier things I thought he might have in store for me. This, I can handle. This, I’d love to handle. I adore teaching. Especially children with a thirst for knowledge, as I feel Garrett has. Which is apparent by his bursting into my room.

  Holding my arms outward, I draw his attention to me and away from his hands. “How do I fair? Do I look like Lara Croft?” I beam, showing all my teeth, and he laughs a little.

  “Yes.” He bobs his head. “Dad never breaks a promise. I already knew you’d look like her.”

  To hear him speak so kindly about his father makes my heart warm. Damn. And here I thought Wes was some fatheaded jerk. Maybe that’s the way he wants people to perceive him because it’s definitely a different picture than his son and employees are painting for me. The man’s a Rubik's Cube with pants.

  “So, you don’t have a thing for blondes, too?” I crack, and Garrett’s baby blue eyes light up just before he breaks into a fit of contagious laughter. Soon, I’ve got tears streaming down my cheeks, as does he.

  “What’s so funny in here?” A tickled voice startles us both. We jerk our heads toward the door to see Wes, in a white button-down and black dress slacks, enter without knocking.

  “Oh, Dad,” Garrett quickly rubs the remaining tears from his eyes as his hands fidget near his face. “She’s funny, and she looks like Lara Croft. Can we keep her all year?” The edge of longing in Garrett’s sweet voice tugs at my heartstrings, and part of me wants to say yes, even though I’ve just met the kid. There’s just something about him that I can’t help but love. Call it mother’s intuition.

  Wes checks his watch. “You have half an hour until work, bud. I think you need to finish getting ready so you can meet with Blake in ten minutes. You don’t want to be late, do you?”

  That gets Garrett moving as he shoots up from the bed like a rocket, gives me a hurried goodbye, kisses his dad's cheek, and then he’s racing out of the room to go to work.

  Once he’s out of earshot, I give Wes ‘the eye’. You know the one I’m talking about. It’s the one that says you’d better spill now, or I’ll cut off your balls, boil them, grind them in the blender, and then feed them to you through a straw.

  Wes takes my expression seriously when he sits in front of the window on a bench that I just realized is there. The contrast of his dark pants and all of that white is sorta beautiful.

  I raise a quizzical brow, and Wes must grasp it when he’s the first to speak. “So now you’ve met Garrett.”

  “Your son,” I observe.

  “Yes. My son.”

  Tucking the blanket around my waist, I set my hands on my lap. “The one I’m going to be teaching?”

  “Uhhh…” He shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah … about that. We were supposed to discuss our arrangement tonight over dinner. It seems Garrett couldn’t control himself long enough for me to handle this situation delicately.”

  Meeting Wes’s gaze, I hold my head high to show
him that I won’t be toyed with. “By situation, do you mean me ‘unexpectedly’ losing a race then ‘magically’ being brought here to teach your autistic son. A son who knew I was coming, for what appears to be a lot longer than a day.”

  This whole situation is starting to fall into place. Wes just happening to talk to Tony, being overly nice to me, losing an easy race earlier in the day. Then he threw that exciting bet into my lap last minute, so I didn’t take the time to think it through or confer with my trio. It’s all a little too fishy. If I had paid closer attention to the circumstances at the time, I’m sure it would have risen some sort of suspicion. But I was too high on my wins, too focused, too stupid. Let’s face it; he took advantage of my winner’s high before purposefully stealing the most significant victory right out from under me. It’s brilliant if you spell it out. At the same time, it’s also kind of fucked up. Not that I should be surprised. Maybe Wes is the kind of slimeball I figured he was from the get-go.

  Tearing me from my tumbling thoughts, Wes’s tone grows harsh. “We don’t use that word in this house.”

  Huh?

  “Which word?”

  “Autistic,” he clarifies.

  Um … okay…

  “Then which word do you use?”

  “Uniquely perfect,” he enunciates, giving me zero chance to laugh or wonder if he’s toying with me.

  By the unyielding expression on his face, I can tell he's truthful, and it’s one of the most oddly adorable things I’ve ever heard a man say in my entire life. Doesn’t call his son autistic, but says he’s uniquely perfect? I couldn’t agree more. It’s true.

  A small sliver of iron bitterness falls from my heart, and a genuine grin quirks from the corner of my mouth. “I like that better.”

  “So do I.” He smiles in return, his posture less tense than before.

  Confidently, I get down to brass tacks. “Would you care to elaborate on your little hoax?”

  “Hoax?” he plays dumb.

  Oh … no … no … no. He doesn’t get to act all innocent. No way.

  My grin is quickly replaced with tight lips when I ask, “Do I look stupid to you?”

  Without pause, Wes shakes his head. Smart man.

  I keep on. “You totally rigged the race so you’d win. Loading down with NOS—which is just plain dangerous. You knew you’d smoke me. You’d planned this outcome out to a T, didn’t you? And I was the fool to fall for it.”

  Wes pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, dipping his head down, staring at his feet. A few beats pass before he glances back up, garnering eye contact. “You’re right,” he sighs. “I did orchestrate it, but you’re no fool. I wouldn’t go through this much trouble for a fool.”

  The strange compliment and confession is both bitter and sweet as I swish it around in my mouth like an expensive wine before swallowing it down. It lands into my stomach like a boulder, leaving me uncertain of how to respond.

  Taking a deep breath, I choose to let these emotions go. There is no reason to focus on the past when I can’t change it. I need to live in the here and now, and we have to move forward. Staying angry about something isn’t going to fix a damn thing. God, I just wish letting it go was easier said than done. I’m still edgy, even if I don’t wanna be.

  Another deep breath in and slowly out helps center me further. “Okay ... in the respect of full disclosure, I want you to lay your expectations on the table for me. Even if you orchestrated this bet, knowing I’d lose, I’m still honorable enough to push that fact aside and do what I promised. But no bullshit. I don’t like to be jerked around.” My words come out fiercer than I intended, then again they work just as well.

  Wes looks impressed. “Straight and to the point. I like that.” He smirks.

  Expression stern, I wait for him to deliver me his expectations on a silver platter.

  “My son is smart and capable. But his reading and writing skills are not where we want them to be. Garrett desires to become a fully functioning adult so he can go away to college. He’s quite independent. However, all of his previous teachers couldn’t seem to get him to focus long enough to read more than a paragraph or two. We’ve gone through five tutors over the course of three years. While some of them could help him in certain areas, he hasn’t found a teacher that inspires him enough to work on reading and writing. The most I’ve ever seen him write in one sitting is a paragraph. He gets frustrated when he can’t remember how to spell a word, or his writing isn’t legible enough. He’s my perfectly imperfect son, who is very motivated to do better with his life. Yet, parts of him are holding him back.” Wes finishes on a weighted sigh, rubbing the back of his neck like that just took a lot out of him.

  “So that’s where I come in,” I note.

  A soft grin passes his features for a split second. Then it’s gone the next. “Correct. That’s where you will come in. He’s brilliant in math and the arts. But he’s not going to become an independent adult without the basics. That’s why I’d like for you to tutor Garrett two hours a day, five days a week, while you’re here. For the summer, I found him a job at the local library. I figured it’d be a good way for him to gain some experience and more self-confidence. Plus, it’s simple work. If this expands into a love for books, then it’s an added bonus.”

  An itty bitty part of me is rejoicing in Wes as a parent, even though I haven’t seen him in action. Nonetheless, a proactive parent ranks high in my books. You can’t imagine how many students I see fall through the cracks because their parents don’t care. They figure once their kids hit high school they’re old enough to handle things on their own. That’s wrong on so many fronts, because high school is where parents should be pushing their children harder while being more involved. Why? Because it shows their support, since high school isn’t always easy, and it also keeps kids from slacking or getting into mischief. Teenagers are notorious for putting themselves in sticky situations, both in life and their school work. I can tell from the get-go which students’ parents are active in their lives, and those who aren’t. Frankly, I wish more parents were like Wes.

  Tossing my thoughts into the wind, I dial back into our conversation. “Is there a reason you didn’t address this sooner? You know … actually talked to me about it?”

  “Would you have listened?” he contests.

  He’s got a point…

  “Maybe?” I squeak, lifting my shoulders.

  Wes gives me a look that tells me he knows I’m full of it, and he’s probably right. “I’d venture to guess, no. It’s no secret that I repulse you, Gwen.”

  I wouldn’t quite say repulse…

  “What do you expect with the way you present yourself?” It’s true. He’s got millionaire playboy written all over him.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen it happen, so I’m not sure how to react when Wes is the one to roll his eyes at me. It’s kind of funny, yet kinda not. I ignore it altogether as he responds. “I’m a self-assured, self-made man, Gwen. I make no buts or excuses about it. I know what I like, and what I don’t. Who I like and who I don’t. And I refuse to spend any of my time doing shit that I don’t enjoy.”

  I can respect that … I guess.

  Not wanting to focus on Wes, since it takes away from the real reason I’m here, I revert back to our previous conversation. The one that will do us some good, and get me away from thinking of Wes in any kind of virtuous light. It’s bad enough that his son, and employees are trying to inadvertently sway me. Now he’s sort of doing the same. I have to stand strong. Women who find men like him charming will easily fall into the limitless trap of despair and heartbreak. I don’t think I could ever fall that deep, but you can never be too careful when it comes to your emotions. Self-preservation is a beautiful thing. Trust me. I’ve started shifting into that very mode because of Nash. I don’t want to have to do that because of Wes, too. That’s just too much to handle right now.

  “Sooo,” I drawl, shifting my panty covered bottom in bed. “Two hours a
day of tutoring Garrett, then?”

  “That is correct. We have a makeshift classroom that you’ll tutor him in during the day, and at night, you’ll accompany me.”

  I don’t like the sound of this.

  “To where?” I try to remain poker-faced.

  “Events. Dinner. A movie night … you know … whatever.” He waves dismissively like it’s not a big deal. Maybe to him, it’s not.

  “What about Garrett?” I ask, only because I have an inkling that Garrett might be our only buffer. Not that I’d want to use him that way since I already like him. But if we’re busy doing adult things then what is Garrett up to anyhow?

  Wes grins both wicked, and sweetly at my question. Crap. “What about him? Garrett spends most of his nights sucked into the teenage world of video games.”

  Ah…

  “Lara Croft?” I probe.

  He laughs loudly, and his eyes crinkle. It’s oddly comforting, like a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie straight from the oven. Shit … this isn’t good.

  “Yes. Lara Croft,” he replies, now chuckling under his breath. “She’s his dream girl.”

  “And you promised him a teacher that looks like her.”

  “I might have.” His charming, flirty smile makes its appearance, and I stamp down the need to cover my eyes and shield myself from it. He really is quite handsome. Too handsome.

  “You did,” I snicker.

  “Okay. I did,” he concedes, shaking his head in amusement. “My son is like his father; he pays more attention if he’s in the company of beautiful females.”

  “Except he likes a fictional badass brunette, while you prefer, attractive, twenty-something blondes,” I remark calmly.

  “And that bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  My brows furrow. “What does?” I hope he isn’t referring to what I think he is.

  “Me desiring twenty-something blondes. I can tell it’s an issue for you. You’ve spent a lot of time judging me on that fact. Do you ever see beyond looks? I do.”

  My temper flares, and I’m ready to tell him off, but he’s not finished.

  “You focus on these women being blonde, instead of being survivors that I happen to enjoy spending my time with.”