by Stacey Keith
“What happened to that guy at the shipping warehouse?” April asked, desperate to change the subject.
“Didn’t I tell you? He got fired. And he was so mad about it, he didn’t want to see me anymore. Said I reminded him of what happened.”
April looked over her shoulder at Jacey, but she didn’t seem too torn up about it. Jacey never was. When something bad happened, she never blamed herself. She just shrugged it off and went on living her life. In fact, if the shoe were on the other foot and Jacey were a caseworker attracted to a client? She’d probably keep right on dating him.
One of the many things April admired about Jacey was her refusal to beat herself up over stuff. But April knew what Jacey thought about her shy, scaredy-cat ways because Jacey never hesitated to tell her. If you don’t get out of your shell, April, pretty soon your shell will be too old to get out of.
Yet something told April that even Jacey would call her a fool for dating a guy like Brandon. She would say that April was out of her league, setting herself up for heartache, seeing only what she wanted to see. And it was probably true. She was in the deep end of the swimming pool and didn’t know how to swim.
No matter how many reasons April gave herself to not see Brandon, they all melted in the blast furnace of her desire for him. She wasn’t thinking clearly. Not anymore.
Because the awful truth was she couldn’t wait to see him again.
* * * *
The thing Brandon liked best about his house was the isolation. Except for that asshole farmer, there was no one around for at least a quarter of a mile. If April was ever going to feel comfortable coming out here, it would be because of the privacy. And Brandon loved everything about the idea of getting her out here.
She haunted his every waking moment. Even now, walking out to the garage, he remembered how she’d trembled when he kissed her. The soft warmth of her skin, her hair. The way she felt on the back of his bike. Sometimes it took more trust to share the saddle than it did to share a bed.
And he was determined to share a bed. Not because he wanted to be April’s first—he didn’t care about that. But because he just wanted April in whatever condition she came in, virgin, non-virgin, technically almost a virgin. People were way too hung up on that shit.
A woman you wanted as badly as he wanted her? Hell, that was just Christmas.
Yet he couldn’t shake a sense of impending doom. There would be a price to pay. There always was. He didn’t know what it was or when he would have to pay it, but guys like him never got to be with girls like her without the world demanding its pound of flesh. And cutting it out of him was going to be painful and bloody.
Even that wasn’t enough to put him off. Maybe he really had lost his fucking mind.
Maybe April was a dangerous obsession.
Brandon turned the corner to the garage and spotted something shiny in the distance, something that looked suspiciously like the chrome fender of a motorcycle glinting in the sun.
He squinted to get a better look at it. His Choctaw blood told him that whoever that was out there meant trouble. Long Jon was nowhere to be seen. Brandon had a premonition that Long Jon was talking to whatever douchebag owned that motorcycle and he might be about to do something stupid.
The gravel driveway leading to the garage wasn’t a long one. It stopped at a dirt farm road which ran in front of the property and had barely any traffic because of a dead end. On the other side of the road were open fields, blackbirds and telephone lines. Farmer Bill clanked away on his tractor in the distance.
Brandon started down the driveway and then toward the road where it ended in a thicket of trees. Sure enough, his old prison buddy Doc Thompson stood talking to Long Jon. Cutty was on the bike next to his parked one. When Brandon showed up, Cutty looked ready for takeoff, which might have had something to do with Brandon putting him in a chokehold last time they’d met.
Well, didn’t that just figure.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Brandon asked Doc. He didn’t bother looking at Cutty because Cutty wasn’t important enough to look at.
“Howdy-fucking-doo to you, too, McBride.” Doc crossed his arms and leaned back against his bike. “Still doin’ the grease monkey thing? Must feel real good, being all holy and law-abiding and above it all, right?”
Brandon swung his gaze to Long Jon, who had the grace to look away. He had the same expression Matthew had when Brandon caught him looking at porn on his cell phone.
“You wanted me to be a better friend to you?” Brandon said to Long Jon. “Well, here it is. Walk away from these assholes. Whatever it is they’re trying to talk you into, walk away.”
“Now why’d you have to go and interrupt our meeting like that?” Doc drawled. “Long Jon here strikes me as someone who’s more’n capable of thinking for himself.”
Brandon knew if it came right down to it and fists started flying, Long Jon would probably side with him. Doc knew it, too. Cutty was about as useful as a tit on a bull, so Doc couldn’t count on much help there.
“You’re still recruiting for that lame-ass bank job, aren’t you?” Brandon shook his head. “If it were worth even half a fuck, you’d think somebody would have taken you up on it by now.”
Long Jon rubbed the back of his neck before shoving both hands in his pockets the way he did when he was undecided about something.
“Goddamn, McBride, if you don’t mind me sayin’,” Doc told him, lifting one leg over his bike and dropping into the seat, “I wish you’d mind your own fucking business.”
If the odds of beating Brandon’s ass had been in his favor, Doc probably would have said something a lot more cutting. Brandon wouldn’t have backed down either way. He loved a good street fight. It was simple, fast, efficient, winner take all. And Brandon made sure he was always the winner.
“Don’t come around here anymore, Doc,” Brandon said. “You too, Cutty. If I see either one of you assholes again, I’ll smash your face in.”
Doc gave him a long look while throttling open the Harley. It was a look that clearly took his measure. Unlike Cutty, Doc was old enough to wait things out before coming back to get his revenge. He would, too. Brandon knew that. But for now they were on his turf. As he had proven more than once, the only man who could put him down would have to be toting an automatic weapon with enough firepower to level an entire city.
“That was stupid,” Brandon said to Long Jon after the two other men drove off. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“It’s easy money,” Long Jon said sheepishly. “I’m running mighty low on funds.”
“How is going back to County going to solve your money problems?” Brandon replied. They walked up the driveway to the garage. “You know better than to do business with Doc and Cutty.”
“Yeah, but my bike still needs fixin’. Those parts ain’t cheap, you know.”
Brandon knew that was true. There were some parts he could cobble together out of Kleenex and spit, but there were others, like the transmission, that required a whole bunch of cold hard cash. And while he’d never charge a friend like Long Jon for fixing the Harley, he didn’t have the thousand bucks to buy him a new transmission either.
“Can’t you wait?” Brandon asked him. “Something’s bound to turn up. I’ve got money coming in this week. We’ll figure it out.”
Long Jon shook his head. “Listen to you! I don’t even know who you are anymore. Next thing I know, you’ll be wearing a helmet.”
“Like hell I will.” But Brandon didn’t take offense. He kind of liked laying low and staying out of trouble. When you weren’t running from the law all the time, you could focus on other things, like making sure your kid brother didn’t waste his time doing drugs and other juvie crap. Matthew hadn’t so much as jacked a vending machine in months.
“Besides,” Long Jon said with a sly grin. “I need to move outta
here before you and April get too hot and heavy. The only thing worse than seeing you turn all law-abidin’ is seeing you in love.”
Chapter 15
April didn’t remember Brandon’s house being so close to the cornfields; on this visit she thought it a little shabby like most of the old sharecroppers’ houses, but not without its charm. April pulled her car over and tried to calm her pounding heart, but for such a small house, it loomed large in her peripheral vision.
The magnolia tree that shaded it was covered in cup-shaped ivory blossoms. So many petals had fallen in the yard, they looked like snow. The scraggly old rose vine seemed to have rallied. Now it spread over a trellis on the sunny side of the garage, creating velvety red splotches against the peeling paint.
The last time April was here, Roxanne had been standing in the doorway and another girl was dressing in the bedroom. There was a part of April that almost wondered what she’d find now when she knocked.
Brandon’s world was not her world. She had no footing there, no rights, except those she claimed for herself.
Dear God, help me. Am I doing the right thing or the wrong one?
Her car idled on the side of the road for ten minutes before she had the courage to drive up to his house.
She wondered if she would still feel this sense of nervous dread if she didn’t have to lie to be here. First to Jacey and then to Joanna, who took one look at the smorgasbord April brought her and said, “Are you sure there isn’t some nice family in town who might need this?” That was before she’d gestured toward her kitchen counter, every square inch of which was crowded with tinfoil-covered casserole dishes exactly like April’s.
And now the food sat in the backseat, making the whole car smell like potatoes and roast turkey.
A screen door slammed and Brandon came out of the house. When she saw him, time oozed like molasses from a jar, slow and sweet. With his broad shoulders and narrow waist, Brandon moved with a predator’s grace. Despite his horrible childhood, he’d somehow survived, the way steel was forged by fire. And she couldn’t take her eyes off him.
She got out and they met on the concrete pad in front of the garage. There was a dirt bike with its front wheel secured inside a bike stand next to a chest full of mechanics’ tools. A shiny new carburetor lay on a tarp.
Brandon’s green eyes gleamed with male approval when he saw her, but he didn’t say much. Maybe it was hard to talk when all you wanted to do was rip each other’s clothes off. With the sun slanting across his face, he looked even more spectacularly handsome than usual. It deepened his natural tan, created shadows under his cheekbones and carved an outline around his full, sensual mouth.
She tried not to stare, but he was staring, too, and neither one of them seemed able to speak.
He had his hands in his pockets. She had her hands in hers.
The world around them was a blurry watercolor, but Brandon looked almost too real. The fitted black T-shirt. The jeans. The motorcycle boots. She wondered if the reason they kept their hands in their pockets was to stop themselves from doing something crazy right here in the driveway.
Nobody had warned her that desire had a blade edge to it. Nobody had told her that wanting someone this badly felt a bit like dying. But when he didn’t step toward her right away, she knew why.
If he did, they would both go up in flames.
“The bike,” he said slowly, jerking his chin toward the motorcycle on the bike stand. “I’m going to teach you how to ride.”
She blinked up at him. “Really?”
“Dirt bikes are perfect for beginners. But I’ll get you up on a Harley in no time.”
“Isn’t that Matt’s bike? I don’t want to—”
“No, he rides the 450. Besides this one’s clapped out.” He saw her puzzled expression and explained, “A bike that’s seen better days.”
She went over to it and lightly traced the curve of the handlebars. It seemed impossible that she could command such a thing. Images slid through her mind of her and Brandon riding side-by-side past a field of bluebonnets, through a canyon pass, down an open highway.
No one in Cuervo expected to see April Roby on a motorcycle. She could feel the adrenaline rush already, along with the dark, subversive thrill of shocking people. She couldn’t wait.
And she knew suddenly what he was offering her: freedom.
“When do we get started?” she said.
Brandon chuckled. “That’s my girl.”
She let her gaze flit away before he saw how much she liked him saying that, particularly the my part. That one word, my, made her purr inside, like a cat that had been petted in all the right places.
“Oh, the food!” she remembered with a start. “I brought you dinner, but I might need help carrying it inside.”
“How much food are we talking about here?” he asked.
She explained the situation while they walked to her car. The last thing she wanted was for Brandon to think she was one of those desperate women who tried to ingratiate herself by doing too much, too soon.
He opened her car door and then stood staring into the backseat with a glazed, hungry expression. “Holy shit.”
“Do you think Matthew and Long Jon—”
“To hell with those guys,” he said. “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in ages. Let’s eat and then we’ll get you up on the bike. Deal?”
Watching Brandon grab those dishes and run inside the house with them made her think he was telling the truth about no home-cooked meals. Did he even know how to cook?
Matthew and Long Jon, who must have been spying from the window, were both in the kitchen waiting for them. April may not have grown up with brothers, but it seemed to her that men always had radar when it came to food. She felt a little glow of happiness that came from being useful and needed.
“Is that for us?” Matthew asked hopefully.
Long Jon rubbed his hands together when he saw the roasting pan with the turkey in it. “Once I start puttin’ the hurt on that bird, you are advised to keep your fingers away from my mouth.”
April laughed. “I have to heat this stuff up first, you know.” She glanced around the kitchen. The place needed a good scrubbing, but she’d seen worse. At least there weren’t any motorcycle parts in the sink.
She cleared space on the counter and started unpacking the bags while Brandon peeked at what was underneath the tinfoil. When he saw the pies, he gave a low whistle. “Homemade?”
“Of course.” She preheated the oven. For all she knew, Brandon had a dozen women cooking for him. Naked. She shoved that thought aside.
“Is that scalloped potatoes?” Long Jon asked, sniffing the air appreciatively.
“My sister, Maggie, is a first-rate cook and pastry maker,” April told him. “She taught me how to make lots of things. Maggie owns that bakery on Main Street called Sweet Dreams. You’ve been there, right?”
They listened politely, even Brandon, but April sensed that they had no idea what she was talking about. She tried to picture them inside Maggie’s ultra-feminine bakery, all disreputable with their muddy boots and testosterone. Maybe it was better just talking about motorcycles.
“Well, ain’t this something?” Long Jon leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “It’s as close to a biker Hallmark card as I’m gonna get.”
While April was at the counter getting the turkey ready to put in the oven, Matthew rehashed the motocross race, punctuating his story with lots of f-bombs and sound effects. If April had sworn like that as a teenager, her mother would have sent her to her room for a week. But this was a household of men. Everything about it was different from what she was used to. Brandon didn’t even look as though he belonged in a kitchen. Or anyplace with walls for that matter.
Yet as she gazed out the kitchen window, there was a sense of contentment she hadn’t expected to
feel. A lot of their bike culture references were lost on her, but she liked their slangy way of talking. Men were…uncomplicated.
There were no placemats, but April hunted until she found a sufficient number of mismatched forks, spoons and knives to set the table. Brandon didn’t say anything, but she could tell he was watching her.
Being here with him gave her the same feeling of giddy excitement that riding on the back of his bike did. The idea of returning to her quiet single life with her fancy hand towels and her piano didn’t seem very appetizing all of a sudden.
As soon as the food was on the table, everybody tucked into it. For the first few minutes, all she heard were the sounds of munching. Long Jon sawed a leg off the turkey and said, “I’d drive fifty miles through a snow storm for a meal this good.”
Matthew had about half the cheesy potatoes, a pile of green beans, a mound of turkey and two slices of pie in front of him. “We usually have hot dogs for dinner,” he told her. “Or prison stew.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
Long Jon said, “When you’re in lock-up, it’s meat you chop up with the edge of your prison ID card and flavor with ground-up Cheetos. I like it better with Ramen though.”
“That sounds awful.” She glanced across the table at Brandon, who gave her a smile that made her toes curl.
“You like biker jokes?” Long Jon asked her. Without waiting for an answer, he said, “What’s the difference between a Hoover vacuum cleaner and a Harley?”
“What?” Matthew asked with his mouth full.
Long Jon scraped more green beans on to his plate and drawled, “The position of the dirt bag.”
* * * *
After dinner, which April had only picked at, Brandon took her outside to give her a bike lesson. Night had fallen. A full moon glowed like an all-seeing eye. Around it, long sweeps of stars glittered. She smelled corn ripening in the fields—green, if it had a smell, or honey. Crickets sawed away in the tall grass.
Brandon walked beside her. He’d been quiet for most of the evening. She was acutely aware of being alone with him. Always, she had this sense that time was running out, that Brandon would get tired of her and move on. April told herself that was the last thing she should be worrying about, but she kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. And hating that she waited.
