“That’s right, baby.” She’s quiet a moment. “It’s going to be okay, Kayla. I know it.”
“Okay, Sue. But what if—”
I don’t have to say it. Sue and I have known each other half our lives. I know her worst fears—wolf spiders and an apocalyptic event that destroys the electrical grid—and she knows mine.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Kayla-cakes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not ruined?” The question is hardly even a whisper.
“Nope. Not at all.”
Another beep—this time on my end—interrupts our conversation. Over by the shed, Pops is showing Jimmy how to cast a line. He seems to be having as much fun as my boy. Shirlene is on the front porch, shucking corn. She waves. I check my phone, and it’s General Goods.
This can’t be good. It’s Sunday. My day off.
“Sue? Work’s on the other line.”
“Okay. Call me when the hot biker comes sniffing back around.”
“I don’t think he will.”
“Oh, I think he will, Peaches.”
The phone beeps again.
“Gotta go. Love you.”
I press the button a second too quickly, and end up telling Greg, my team manager, that I love him. He thinks this is hilarious.
“You’re gonna love me even more in a minute. I got you another shift. Time-and-a-half.”
Greg’s the type who makes a big deal about being cool, but he makes you clock out and then return a cart of go-backs before you can leave.
Plus he calls us his girls even though there’s at least two guys on our team.
He can call me whatever he wants for time-and-a-half though.
“When?”
“Right now. The ten to six. The Mother’s Day orders have started rolling in and corporate didn’t staff up enough.”
Oh, that sucks. I’d already mentally banked that time-and-a-half. The Corolla needs a tune-up. Maybe some new used tires.
“I can’t do it, Greg. I have my son.”
“Call a sitter. We need you.”
I wish. Sitters are like unicorns in my world.
“I can’t Greg. Maybe next time?”
“Not gonna be a next time. I can’t rely on you in a pinch, I can’t keep scheduling you on the plum shifts. It’s scratch my back; I’ll scratch yours. You know that.”
I do know that. Usually scratching Greg’s back means doing double go-backs or getting him a Coke from the staff room. But I’ve seen the way he schedules people on his shit list. Different days each week, rotating shifts, cutting hours. I can’t lose my schedule.
My chest tightens. I can’t call Victoria. It’s Sunday. Victoria and Dad have church and brunch at the club. I can’t ask Sue. She’d do it, but she’s at least two hours out. If I’m lucky enough that Mrs. Jenner would take Jimmy on a Sunday, she charges double for drop-ins, and that would be the grocery money.
“Greg, I’m between a rock and a hard place here. I’d come in if I could—believe me, I need the money—but I don’t have anyone to watch Jimmy.”
“Reliable transportation and child care are requirements of the job, Kayla. You knew that when you applied.”
“I have—” No. Arguing is not going to help. Maybe flattery? “Greg, I know you understand how it is. I can’t make it this time, but next time—”
“Not going to be a next time, Kayla. I don’t need girls on my team who aren’t reliable. I do need someone on second shift.”
I can’t do second shift. I’d never see Jimmy. Mrs. Jenner can’t watch him until midnight.
Oh, God, I’m starting to hyperventilate. I need to pull it together. Think. Solve the problem.
A peal of Jimmy’s laughter pulls me out of my spiral. His laugh?
He never laughs.
Pops is casting a line across his yard, and one of the feral cats that roam the cul-de-sac is chasing the red bobber.
I take a deep breath, force myself to go over the facts. I can’t lose my schedule. The grocery money can be diverted this once. I have spaghetti and a half jar of peanut butter, and I can take Jimmy to visit Victoria a couple times this week. Get dinner there.
“I’m coming in, Greg.”
“That’s my girl. See you in an hour.”
“Okay, Greg.”
“And Kayla?”
“Yes?”
“Any longer than an hour, and I’m gonna have to start dialing my other girls.”
“I’ll be there, Greg.” I pluck the cotton balls quickly out of my toes and screw the top on the nail polish. I guess I’m going to have three pink toenails.
I call Mrs. Jenner, and thank the Lord, she takes pity on me. Then I holler at Jimmy that we have to go. He isn’t too pleased at that, but when he starts to complain, Pops says something and Jimmy falls silent.
I’m inside tugging on my work khakis, grabbing my shoes and keys when I hear a bike pull up.
My stomach does a weird drop, like when you speed over a bump on a back-country road.
He’s ba-ack.
When I hurry down the stairs, Charge has parked his bike, and he’s striding up to Pops and Jimmy. Damn, that walk. So cocky. Like music should be playing along.
Even though it’s a weekend, he looks like he’s coming from work. His boots are mud-crusted and there’s red dust caking his jeans. He’s wearing the vest with the patches, a ratty black T-shirt under it, and his hair is up in the man bun again. When he walks, his beat-up jeans mold to his butt and thighs, and I don’t want to stare, but I can’t not.
He squats next to Jimmy and picks up a rod, spins the handle of the reel. They talk low, heads together. I can’t hear until I’m up next to them.
“—always sticks, this one.” Charge spins the handle again.
Jimmy’s listening so intently. His chin is tilted up, his big eyes stuck on Charge, while his fingers reach for another rod.
I don’t want to drag him away, but…I sigh. Louder than I intended.
“Jimmy, honey, Mama got called into work. I need you to hop in the car.”
“But—”
Charge cuts him off with a pat on the back. “I’ll catch up with you later, little man. Pops and I will check out this reel while you’re gone. See if some oil will help.”
Charge and Jimmy exchange a look, and then Jimmy nods. It’s like they understand each other without words, and I’m baffled. Jimmy stonewalls everyone. And it’s not like he knows Charge that well.
Charge stands, his eyes dragging down my front. I feel myself turn red, and I try desperately to ignore the butterflies that start beating like crazy in my stomach. He’s a neighbor. He’s clearly not that interested. This isn’t a big deal.
I give him what I mean to be a chill, pleasant smile. I’m pretty sure it comes off like I’m baring my teeth for the dentist.
I’m so not any good at this.
“In the car, Jimmy,” I say, managing a real smile for Pops and a wave.
It takes little time for him to belt himself in, and I can exhale a little. I have forty-five minutes to drop Jimmy off and get to General Goods. I’m going to make it. I turn the key.
And nothing happens.
No sound, no shuddering complaint. The engine doesn’t turn over at all.
I try again.
Nothing.
Oh shit.
“Mama?”
I break into sweat, all over my body. What do I do? What do I do? My gaze darts around, as if help is somewhere if I can only find it. A magic key that’ll start my worst-possible-timing broke down car.
I barely register Charge returning the rods to the shed.
“Mama, what’s wrong?”
“The car won’t start.” It comes out a whisper.
My mind is racing —Dad’s at church, I can’t afford a tow, let alone repairs, there’s no money, call Greg and tell him I’m stuck, reliable transportation is a requirement for employment, I’m going to lose my schedule. If I tell Dad,
he’ll say I should’ve gotten the oil changed but I do get the oil changed, I just have to space it out more than you’re supposed to because of math…my body moves of its own accord.
I pop the hood, get out, and stare down at the engine. I have no idea what I’m looking at. Vaguely, I hear Jimmy get out and join me.
“What’s wrong with it, Mama?”
I have no idea.
I can’t afford this.
I don’t have time for this.
“What’s wrong with it, Charge?” Jimmy asks.
I startle. I hadn’t heard Charge and Pops come up, but Charge is beside me now, and Pops has rolled up next to Jimmy. All four of us are staring under the hood.
“She turn over at all?” Charge leans over the engine.
I shake my head.
I’m numb, trying to think of what to do next, when Charge carefully takes off his vest with the patches and hands it to Pops. Then he pulls his holey T-black shirt off. He unscrews the dip stick, wipes it on the hem, and then checks the oil.
His bare chest, damp with a sheen from his long day, is inches away from me. I can see the tan line on his biceps where his T-shirt ends. The man is built. His sides, his shoulders, every plane of his body ends in a hard ridge. He’s strong. Not gym rat strong, but like he uses his body. Like he spends his days lifting and climbing and hauling. Working.
I’ve got to think of a plan, and his bare chest is messing with my ability to reason.
I’m going to lose my job because I’m ogling a biker’s obliques.
“Well, you got oil.” Charge leans further, looking closer. “Battery cables don’t look corroded.”
“Do you know what’s wrong with it?” There’s hope in my voice. Something’s gotta break my way at some point.
Charge shakes his head. “I’d need to get it in the shop.”
The shop?
I can’t think about taking it to a shop. I have to get to work or Greg will call Sheila, I’ll lose my shift, I’ll have to quit General Goods, after moving I have nothing saved so I’ll miss my first rent payment, Victoria will take Jimmy…
“Peaches?”
I suck in a breath. I realize I’m just standing there, my hands gripping the hood for dear life, knuckles white, and everyone’s looking at me. Charge is staring at me, intent, his face…worried?
He lays a calloused hand on mine, pries my fingers loose. Gently moves my hand to my side.
I force myself to relax the other.
“What’s going on, Peaches?”
We’re standing there together in a line, and they’re all waiting for me. Jimmy expectant, Pops patient, Charge with his impossibly handsome face dark with concern. It strikes me as so crazy then. The boy and the two men, looking to me. As if I’m in charge.
I can’t be in charge. I don’t know what I’m doing.
My eyes search out Charge’s. “I have to get to work.”
“Can’t you call out?”
I shake my head. “I’ll lose my shift.”
Charge looks to Pops. “Truck’s gassed up,” Pops says.
And then everything moves fast. Charge heads into the house and comes out in another black T-shirt. Then he gets me to explain how to take Jimmy’s car seat out. He carries it like it weighs nothing to the truck parked behind Pops’ house. It’s a big one—real nice—the kind with a back-row seat.
Pops reminds me to shut the hood, and I follow Charge, holding Jimmy’s hand—for once, he lets me—and clutching my purse.
A part of me wants to say no, I don’t need the help, I’ll call a ride. But I do need help. And I can’t call a ride. I don’t have the money. Not if I’m paying Mrs. Jenner.
So I just sort of numbly follow along as Charge boosts Jimmy into the back seat and then gives me a leg up into the front. I clutch my purse tight in my lap, and I jump when Charge reaches an arm across me.
“Seatbelt,” he says, pulling it forward from where it was tucked behind the seat.
His hard arm presses against my chest, and shivers skitter across my skin like ripples.
I suck in a breath and try to hide it by grabbing the belt and jamming it home.
Charge gives me a side eye. He noticed. He starts to grin, but then he’s distracted by Jimmy in the rearview.
“Ready, bud?”
Jimmy nods.
“Where to, Peaches?”
I give him directions to Mrs. Jenner, and then I fall quiet. I don’t know what to say. I’m embarrassed that I need help —again— and my body is being weird. I feel small in the big truck, next to Charge. I can smell him—he’s kind of earthy from work and sweat—and my stomach is fluttering, and I don’t know what to do with my legs. Cross them? Lean toward the door?
I’m startled when Charge speaks.
“Roosevelt,” he says.
“Ayup,” a young man’s voice rings out in the cab. Oh. Charge made a call on his Bluetooth.
“Swing by Pops with the tow truck. There’s a tan Corolla there. Take it to the garage. Ask Big George to check it out. When he figures out what’s wrong with it, gimme a call.”
“Ayup.” The calls ends as abruptly as it started.
I turn my head to look at Charge. He’s staring at the road, his perfect face unperturbed. Calm.
I can’t let him have my car towed. I can’t afford it. None of it.
My cheeks heat, this time with embarrassment. I have to speak up.
“Charge.” I take in a breath. “I can’t afford a tow.”
He glances at me quick and returns his eyes to the road. “No cost.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
Of course there’s a cost.
I squirm in my seat. Check Jimmy in the rear view. He’s contentedly fiddling with two plastic soldiers he must have squirreled away in his pocket.
“I can’t let you do that,” I say. I keep my voice low, even.
Charge doesn’t even look at me. “I don’t know about that, Peaches. You said you’d do what I say. Remember?”
Heat blossoms in my cheeks.
Oh. He’s actually mentioning the other night. I thought we were going to pretend it never happened. That’s what I’ve heard most boys do.
I take in Charge’s beard. His big, work-busted hands. He’s not a boy.
“You can’t just take a person’s car without their permission.”
“Just did. Gonna fix it, too. Though really it needs to be taken out back and shot.”
He’s not wrong. But it’s all I have. I feel panic rising in my throat. What is he going to want for helping?
Nothing’s free.
Sadness rises up amid all the worry. I guess he’s going to be like all the men my dad and Victoria and Sue and the vast amount of my limited experiences have warned me about. Taking advantage. And it’s so damn disappointing.
“What do you want for the work? I don’t have any money.” I almost don’t want to ask because I don’t want to hear what he says. I don’t want him to turn out to be a real asshole.
He’s quiet a long minute, and then he says, “Can you check up on Pops? Maybe when you get home from work? Shirlene gets up there a lot, but there’s days she cain’t make it.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Yeah. I can do that.”
“Just, you know, make sure he’s still breathin’ and shit.”
I nod. A big feeling wells up in my chest, smoothing out all the bad and making me feel a touch stronger, more awake. I don’t know what it is, but my eyes burn, tears threatening.
I cannot cry in front of this man. I already feel too young and too hot of a mess. I try to breathe deep, and I end up sniffling.
“You cryin’, girl?”
Charge presses a rough thumb on the edge of my eye. A quick touch, there then gone.
“Ain’t no call for that.” He frowns. Drums his fingers on the steering wheel.
I can’t say anything, because if I open my mouth, I’m going to sob like a baby. I che
ck Jimmy in the rearview again. He’s still playing, not paying any attention to the front seat. I don’t want him to worry. I try so hard to stuff it down, but it’s like I’m shaking it up.
Charge lets out a sharp sigh. “Big George’ll get it runnin’ again. Even if it is a piece of shit.”
“Okay.”
He’s quiet a minute. “You gonna stop crying now?”
“Okay.” I don’t though. Not until we get close to Mrs. Jenner’s. I have to wipe my eyes with my forearm. I walk Jimmy in, and he gives me a big hug and no grief like he does sometimes when I have to go in on a day off, and that almost makes me lose it again.
We’re silent on the ride the rest of the way to General Goods. Charge pulls right up front, and he leans over me to push open my door. Before I can hop out, he stills me with a heavy hand on my knee.
“Pick you up here when?”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I usually think ten steps ahead. I never wallow when I have to figure shit out. Damn, but I’m off my game. My brains flips through possibilities until I realize I’m out of choices. I’m stuck. I’ve got to trust the bearded biker.
“Six.”
“Six,” he repeats. “I’ll text if I’m gonna be a few minutes late.”
“My cell doesn’t work inside. There’s no reception.”
“Then I won’t be late.” He smiles, all bright and white, and I jump from the cab, my cheeks still hot and my stomach flipping and a pulse starting between my legs, turning my legs to jelly.
As I walk into the warehouse, I know he’s watching me. He doesn’t pull off until the door closes behind me.
My step is light as I go to clock in. Everything’s wrong, just like always. But for some reason, the smallest part of me feels lighter. Like I don’t need to worry quite so much. I feel…
Right.
CHAPTER 8
CHARGE
It ain’t right.
After dropping Kayla off and watching that sweet ass swish into that ugly fuckin’ box, I decide to drive down to the garage. Check on the Corolla.
I guess I could head down the clubhouse, have a few beers. It’s what I’d usually do on a Sunday with no ride planned. But that not-right feelin’ is fuckin’ with my day off.
No part of me wanted to let her out of my truck, her eyes still red. Hell, I couldn’t hardly take my hand from her knee.
Charge: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 8
