But the rain on the roof and the warmth from the wood stove is lulling me—not to sleep, but somewhere else. My stomach, which is always in knots, eases up, unfurls. I feel floaty, boneless. I pull my legs up and sit cross-legged like I used to when I was a kid at home.
This is the most comfortable sofa ever.
“What about you, girlie?”
Huh. Boots is talking to me. He has Jimmy sorting all these bits of foil and feathers and metal beads, and he’s leaned back in his wheelchair, smiling at me.
“What? Pardon?”
How embarrassing. I come over to ask him a question, and I decide to veg out on his couch instead.
“Jimmy says he likes it here. What about you?”
“Oh.” I hadn’t thought about it. I’m too busy trying to keep it together to think about whether I like it or not. “The river’s real nice.”
“That she is. When Charge was a kid, I couldn’t get him out of it. Always messin’ with the crawdads.”
I try, but I can’t imagine the chiseled biker with movie star good looks as some off-brand Huck Finn. He’s too…stunning.
“What’s a crawdad?” Jimmy pipes up.
“A mudbug.”
Jimmy takes this as a good enough answer and goes back to his sorting.
“Where you grow up, girlie, that he don’t know what a crawdad is?”
Boots says this like it’s a real shortcoming.
“Gracy’s Corner.”
I wait for the judgment. Everyone in town hates Gracy’s Corner. It was built by the mill owner, Gracy Petty, so he didn’t have to live near the men who worked in the mill. It’s the only gated, McMansion development in the county. When I moved out with Jimmy, I learned real quick that no one has kind feelings toward people from Gracy’s Corner.
“Oh yeah? Charge lived up that-a-way.”
“He did?”
“Yup. Till his woman kicked him out.”
Oh. I feel kind of bad listening to this, but if I were a rabbit, my ears would be perked straight up. The biker had a rich wife? I could kind of see it. He is freakin’ gorgeous. Maybe he was a kept man. Some kind of roughneck gigolo. My mind is swirling at the thought.
“Oh, that’s rough.” I remember my manners. I shouldn’t be gleefully imagining that man, shirtless and mowing a lawn on Gracy Lane while a lady who looks like Victoria gives him orders as she sits on her porch, sipping Chardonnay. I really shouldn’t.
“Sure is. Had a mind to get me some grandbabies, but the female heart is fickle.”
I guess I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been in love. I can’t imagine it. I mean, I know in my head that there are good men in the world. Reliable, kind, decent. After all, I’m raising Jimmy, and he’s a great kid, so he’s definitely going to be a good man. But when I think of the men I know— the guys down at General Goods, the boys from high school before I had to drop out, good is not the word that comes to mind. And how can you love a man who isn’t good?
Curse this couch. I’m drifting off into my head again. I shake myself to clear my mind, and as I do, I hear an engine out front.
“Speak of the devil,” Boots says.
And just like that, my stomach clenches again. I try to straighten up, but the couch is nothing but give. I don’t want to spring up like I’m guilty of something, but I’m thinking about it when Charge comes through the door, hair down in a dripping wet braid, saddle bag in hand, his leather jacket slick with rain.
“God damn pouring out there now.”
He stamps his feet at the door, drops the bag and squeezes out his braid on the welcome mat. It’s like he takes up most of the room and makes the ceiling seems lower.
And there are raindrops in his beard. Then he sees me. His eyes blaze, his expression turning from mild irritation to something…hotter. I’m still sitting like a kid, and I can feel him rake his eyes down my splayed thighs and crossed ankles. A wave of heat blossoms in my belly, turning my palms and behind my knees damp. I clasp my hands in my lap, aware too late that I’m wearing shorts, and even though you can’t see anything, you can still see a lot.
And then he tears his eyes away and looks for Jimmy.
“Hey, bud.” He scoops up the bag from the floor and tousles Jimmy’s hair on the way to the kitchen. “Boots put you to work?”
“I’m organizing.”
He grunts, unpacking groceries. “And what are you doing? Supervising?”
He gives me a look over his shoulder. It’s not friendly. But it’s not exactly unfriendly.
“I came by to ask if your dad has a number for my landlord.”
“You don’t have your landlord’s phone number?” He raises an eyebrow, and his look turns decidedly too friendly. Aggressively, suggestively friendly.
And then I can see what this looks like.
This looks like I came up with an excuse to come over here.
Like I made myself comfortable waiting for him to come home.
Oh, no. He thinks I’m creeping on him. And when he walked in, filling the doorway, bringing in the scent of leather and rain, so help me my nipples got hard when a very twisted part of me thought, Daddy’s home.
I am creeping on him.
Oh, no. We need to go.
I ignore him, forcing my eyes away and willing my cheeks to cool down. “Do you have a number for South River Property Management?” I ask Boots. “Nobody answers the number I have.”
“Something broke? My boy’s good at fixing stuff.”
An image of a shirtless Charge, on his back, under my sink…oh dear Lord.
I don’t want to look at him because I’m convinced he knows what I’m thinking. Lord knows my face must be bright red.
“No. That is—the fridge is broken. I just need a replacement. I’m sure if I can get ahold of them, they’ll get a new one.”
Boots snorts. “Doubt it, girlie. Ain’t no such thing as South River Property Management.”
I must look really pitiful because Boots’ kindly face wrinkles up and he rolls over to me. “South River whatever is some dude named Irvin. Gunderson maybe. Or Gunnerson? He only comes around when he rents a place out. He don’t even mow. Prospects do it when they do mine.”
My stomach sinks like a stone, and all the weird things my body has been doing—floating and blushing and sweating—the stress comes sweeping in like a broom and all those feelings are gone.
I need a fridge. Jimmy needs milk and yogurt, and yeah, maybe I could make do with the cooler for a while, but I have to buy in bulk, and you can’t store bulk in a cooler. And a bag of ice at Rutter’s is five dollars, and I’d need maybe three bags a week, and that’s fifteen dollars a week and sixty dollars a month and math—I hate math.
I need to breathe. Think. This is a problem, and problems have solutions.
I force the panic down.
“Woman?” Charge stares down at me, his face severe, his beard still wet.
Boots is staring at me too, his brown, crinkly eyes warm and worried.
“Kayla,” I croak. My throat is totally dry.
“Kayla,” Charge repeats. “You okay?” I glance over, and I see Jimmy is staring at me too.
I nod.
I’m okay. I have to be okay.
“Do you have a number for Irvin Gunderson?”
“That I don’t,” Boots answers.
I stand on shaky legs and gesture to Jimmy. Thank the Lord he doesn’t argue.
“Well, thank you anyway.” My voice cracks, so I clear my throat and keep going. “And thanks for letting Jimmy help you. Jimmy, what do you say?”
Jimmy mumbles his thanks, and usually I’d make him try again, speak up, but I just want to get out of here and go home. I know Charge is still staring at me, from the kitchen now, all tall and strong and badass, while Boots smiles at me with pity in his eyes.
It puts a pit in my stomach.
“Why don’t—”
I don’t wait to hear the rest of what Charge is going to say. “Well, see you around,”
I interrupt, a little too loud and way too cheerful. And then I drag Jimmy behind me out the door and across the yard between our places.
It’s raining buckets now, and we’re both going to be drenched by the time we’re up the stairs, but I’m not so worried about that. It’s bath night anyway.
I peel Jimmy’s wet clothes off as soon as we’re through the door, wrap him in a towel and then run the bath water extra warm. His forehead’s furrowed, and his lips are screwed down.
Uh, oh. He’s thinking.
“Do we need a new fridge, Mama?”
“Sadly, yes. I think we do.”
He thinks about this. “Do refrigerators cost much money?”
“Some,” I say. I don’t know how much a used fridge might cost. I don’t know if this is an I can’t afford this emergency or an I hella can’t afford this emergency.
“We don’t have no money.”
“Any,” I correct. “Any money.” Because what else am I going to say to that?
I try not to talk about it in front of him. But Victoria and my dad…whenever they see me in a new outfit, they ask, “Can you afford that?”
When I tell them I’m thinking about taking Jimmy down to Harrisburg to the science museum, they ask, “Do you have the money to spare for that kind of thing?”
No, I can’t, and no, I don’t, but I need to cover my nakedness with something. Victoria’s hand-me-downs only kind of fit up top; the bottoms don’t fit at all unless they’re elastic—and Jimmy’s only going to be a kid once. So I rob the hell out of Peter to pay Paul.
“Maybe Charge can fix this one. Boots says Charge is good at fixing things.”
“I’m sure he is, baby, but I think this old gal is beyond repair.”
Besides, this is real life. No one swoops in to save the day. And if they do, you can be sure there are strings attached.
I’m real familiar with strings.
While Jimmy sails his amphibious assault vehicle through the tub, I have some time to think this problem through. I can’t afford a fridge, but my dad does have a largish mini-fridge in his garage. It’s got a freezer compartment.
He’ll probably let me borrow it. I’ll just have to let him and Victoria yank my strings a bit.
I’m sure they’ll be very gracious about helping out. They won’t use it as an in to drag us back. Victoria won’t gossip about me to my old friends’ mothers, letting them know how proud she is of how independent I am, even though I do need a lot of support, like I didn’t even have a working fridge so of course, she had to step in because even when they have babies of their own, they’re still just babies themselves. Right?
Right.
I hold up the bath toy net and tell Jimmy, “Drive those bad boys into the garage.”
He beeps and revs pretend engines until all the bath toys are accounted for.
“Read me the bulldozer book tonight, Mama?”
“Sure thing.” I pat him dry and help him into his pajamas, being careful not to mother him too much. He gets prickly if you love on him unless he’s really tired.
When he’s almost asleep, though, he cuddles up to me, tucking his head into the crook of my neck.
Yeah, I can grit my teeth and smile at Victoria for a mini-fridge. I tuck a stray curl behind Jimmy’s ear. I can do anything for this guy. I have before, and I will again.
Giving up is not an option.
CHAPTER 4
CHARGE
I swear, that ass is haunting me. Right now, it’s boppin’ up the cul-de-sac to the school bus stop. Kayla’s holding her kid’s hand, and it feels dirty, thinking these thoughts about someone’s mom, even though she’s ten years younger than me, easy.
And the thought’s I’m havin’…ain’t right. I can’t sleep for shit, never could, so last night I stared at the ceiling and pictured her sittin’ on the sofa in her shorts, her legs crossed and those sexy fuckin’ seams where her calves pressed into her thighs, her flip-flops on the floor and her little bare feet tucked up.
I want to tickle her sweet, chubby middle until she squirms and spreads those legs, and then hitch one up so I can bury my face in that sweet pussy while she watches me go to town.
I bet her eyes would get all big and round. She don’t strike me as the type who’s had a lot of men between her thighs.
There’s the kid and all, but something about her screams innocent. She ain’t like the sweetbutts or the girls down at The White Van. She blushes.
She blushed yesterday before she ran like a dog was chasing her.
I’m so tempted to make her blush again.
What is wrong with my head?
Even when I was a young buck, I wasn’t into the girl-next-door thing.
Those chicks in the eighties videos, the ones with the tight black dresses and killer heels, bright red lips and pantyhose with the line up the back. Man-eaters. Females who know what they want. That’s what does it for me.
Well, did it for me.
Maybe this is some kind of rebound thing, a reaction to Harper bailing.
Whatever, I can’t resist. When the bus pulls away and she heads back down the hill, I duck walk my ride to meet her. She’s holding herself tight. I bet she thinks her face is guarded, but you can read every worry there. Makes her eyes dull and turns her mouth down a little at the corner.
It’s cute as fuck, but it bothers me. Couldn’t say why.
“You get that number?” I call out and pull to a stop next to her.
I can tell she doesn’t know if she should give me the cold shoulder or be neighborly. Hell, part of me wants to yell at her to hustle her ass back to her apartment and lock the door. She has no business talking to men who look like me. What’s wrong with her that she can’t tell trouble when she’s looking at it?
Oh, yeah. Pops said she’s a rich bitch. From Gracy’s Corner. That’s what’s wrong with her. Someone taught her being polite was more important than exercisin’ her damn common sense.
Also, my face has turned plenty of ladies reckless before. Not braggin’, just truth.
She blinks at me and stops walking. “No. I looked up Irvin Gunderson on the internet, but I didn’t find anything.”
She’s decided to be neighborly. It’s what I want, but it irritates me a little, too. Again, can’t say quite why.
“Don’t mail the rent check. You’ll hear from him.”
She gives me a thin, worried smile. “I’ll hear from the sheriff.”
I shrug. “Doug Baker’s good people. He’ll hear you out.”
“You know the sheriff?”
I grin wide. The smile that drops panties at the clubhouse. “I get around.”
She doesn’t know what to say to that. Pink circles show up on her cheeks. Like little lolliops. I don’t think this girl’s been flirted with much. The idea’s strangely satisfying.
“Yeah?” She crosses her arms, tryin’ to look tougher. Less innocent. It ain’t workin’.
“Yeah. People like me. We tend to run into people like him.”
“People like what?”
“You seriously need to ask, little girl?” No one’s that innocent.
“Oh…” She’s takin’ a step back now, tentatively, her gaze ducking over her shoulder, checkin’ to see if we’re alone. We are. There’s no cars along the curb; everyone’s at work.
So now is when she decides to start showin’ some common sense. When if I were a different sort of man, she’d already be in a mess of trouble.
The thought worms into my head, does somethin’ strange. My body gets all tight. Ready. Now I got a picture of her standin’ by the side of the road, all wide-eyed and friendly like she is now with Bucky or Creech or fuckin’ forbid one of the Rebel Raiders. My fists clench.
And I kinda lose my grip for a second.
“Oh.” I mimic. She cocks her head, confused. A little pissed at my tone.
I should drop it. Ride away. I’m the one who started this. I’m the one who pulled over.
But I’m an idiot
because even though I know I have no business fuckin’ around with her—and no right givin’ her shit for being friendly—that irritation is ridin’ me and nothin’ in me wants to drop it and roll off. Besides, she smells like vanilla body wash. I love that fuckin’ smell. Harper wouldn’t wear it, said it made her smell like a cheap soap store.
I guess I kinda like the way a cheap soap store smells.
“I guess it’s none of my business.” She can’t look at me now. The blush on her cheeks has spread, and her whole face is bright red.
“I guess it isn’t.”
Her eyes search me. She’s puzzled, and holy hell, she’s so damn young.
“You got your phone on you?” I ask.
Her forehead wrinkles. The question throws her for a loop. “I don’t—not right now. No.”
“You don’t have a phone?” The irritation is burrowing down, spreading. Like when I see an asshole leave his ride out in the snow. Just the thought of someone not taking care of somethin’ nice.
“Of course I have a phone. Just not on me right now.”
Not the right response.
“How can you be walkin’ around alone with no phone? You got a kid. You can’t have no sense of self-preservation and no phone.”
“Are you lecturing me? It’s eight in the morning in broad daylight.”
She’s confused. Offended. I don’t blame her. I have no idea where I get off either. I ain’t never been the preachy type. And she’s right. This ain’t a good neighborhood, but it ain’t a war zone either.
“Lecture’d be longer. Said my piece.”
She’s good and pissed back at me now, those brown eyes flashin’ and that stubborn chin up. Damn but you can read every single thing this girl is feelin’ on her face. Is this what growin’ up in Gracy’s Corner does? Cause Harper sure as hell doesn’t have this…whatever it is. She’d been bangin’ Des Wade for months before she told me, and I had no clue.
“Fine,” she huffs. “Point taken. Don’t talk to people like you.”
Charge: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 3
