by Nicole Fox
I guess I get to sit here and wait until his father gets home and turns the damned volume down. I sighed, grinding my teeth together as the rowdy sounds of TV violence continued to spill into my room. The boy’s a spoiled brat, thanks to his shitty, no-good father. His incredibly sexy, no-good dad.
I could remember every inch of him behind my closed eyes. The soft, blonde hair hanging in dirty locks to his shoulders with the sides closely shaved. The carefully-kept beard tinged with red. Those amazing smoky gray eyes that were as hard as steel and just as icy cold.
A trickle of warmth lit up my thighs as I remembered over details of the beautiful biker with the wild child. The colorful lines of his flame tattoos coming up over his collarbones to wrap around his muscled neck. Those wide shoulders filled with enough strength to lift me from the ground and--
You’re not seriously daydreaming about the crazy next door neighbor, are you? I admonished myself, surprised at this little turn of events. I mean, he was handsome, well-built, and dangerous as hell. And every single one of those things looked like something I wanted pressed between my legs. There’s no harm in daydreams, I guess.
But those thoughts too were cut short as the TV volume suddenly plummeted, signaling the return of the man next door. The revving of wild engines circled the parking lot, the scream of a motorcycle engines cutting through the sudden silence like a knife.
I pressed my pillow down over my ears, closing my eyes as tightly as I could, trying to drown out reality. This is not where I’m supposed to be. I’m not supposed to be in the poorest part of town, surrounded by bugs, lowlifes, and crazed bikers.
I’m not supposed to be here, dammit. Tears slipped past my eyes, squeezed shut so hard they hurt.
I wanted my life back. A hole cracked open in my chest. I didn’t want that man next door and his kid to hear me crying through the thin walls. So I buried my face in the pillow and sobbed as silently as I could manage until I finally fell into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Four
Colton
“And what is the most important thing to remember while I’m away?” I asked Dean again as he fidgeted and swirled around the room.
He stopped for a second, staring at me with his huge brown eyes. Little brat was lucky he was adorable. “Don’t open the door for nobody. No matter what. Not even the pizza man or Jerry Springer.” He resumed his bouncing, climbing over the bed and running around the back of it.
“And why is it important not to open the door for anyone no matter what?” I asked, my eyes locked on his little face. I needed to make sure he was taking my warnings seriously. Luckily for me, his brows were furrowed like he was actually thinking his answer through.
Dean bounced off of the edge of the bed and back to his feet over and over, his sticky fingers in his mouth. “Because the last guy I let into our house burned it to the ground, and that’s how we ended up here in this shitty motel.” My kid paused in his jumping for a second, his eyes tracing some invisible pattern on the ceiling. “Did you ever get the guys that did it, Dad? Did you ever go after the men who burnt down our house?”
I wish I could have, Dean. I would have if the Boss would have let me. But he would not, so my hands are tied. I growled something non-committal in response and handed Dean a sandwich I’d bought for him at 7-11. “Here’s your dinner, brat. Try to stay out of trouble, okay? No loud music or TV. Don’t let anyone know you’re home, no matter how nice they look. I mean it.”
Dean nodded as he bounced around, taking the sandwich between his paws and spinning in place. I hated that he did that, hated that the brat couldn’t hold still for even a second to talk to me. But I also knew he couldn’t focus until he was moving and wouldn’t remember a damn word I’d said if I made him hold still. Grunting, I got to my feet and walked out of the motel room, my eyes scanning the world around me for potential hazards. I locked the door behind myself, reset my traps, and started towards the steps.
Rivals are getting really gutsy, attacking us at our homes. It’s no surprise, with the direction the Boss is taking the Heaven’s Horns. The feel of the heat from the flames across my skin was burned into my memory. I’d thought Dean died in the blaze that day. If he hadn’t been big enough to pick up a chair from the kitchen and throw it through the window, he probably wouldn’t be here today. And as uncomplicated as that would have made my life, losing Dean wasn’t an option. I’d never forgive myself.
It was all because of the Heaven’s Horns and the plans the Boss had for us. No matter how we were attacked, no matter who we lost, the Boss had no interest in being second place. He would do whatever he needed to do to be number one. I tried my best to remain the impartial little soldier serving the Boss, but it was difficult when his choices recently had been so volatile. The whisperings behind his back had become more frequent and open, and he seemed completely oblivious to all of it. There was more crazy in his eyes and less thoughtful expressions on his face. I winced to think about it.
Something is going on, and I have a feeling none of us are going to like it. I have a feeling it involves the drug cartel that we’ve been courting from the south. A drug cartel on our shared territory would be enough to provoke the attacks we’d been experiencing from the other two clubs; it wasn’t only my house that had burnt to the ground in these last few weeks.
Sighing, I swung around the corner from my shitty room, nearly running into the very pretty face of my next door neighbor. She was short, her tiny body seemed to get smaller as she recognized who she’d almost collided with. Her eyes were the color of black coffee. Her gold-touched mocha hair fell in big, winding waves from the crown of her head to nearly the middle of her back. Long lashes slid down over her eyes, her pretty, tanned skin paling a little at the sight of me. Good, she’s scared. As she should be. What did Dean call her? Marion?
Marion tried to sidestep around me, ducking her head in a sign of respect. But I stepped in front of her path again, keeping her from moving past me. “Do you think this is some sort of playground, Marion?” I hissed through my teeth.
The woman looked up at me, her pupils dilating in fear as she took a step back. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She looked like a fish pulled out of the water to suffocate. Good, that fear is healthy. Perhaps she’ll learn her lesson now instead of me having to rough her up later.
I continued like I hadn’t been expecting an answer. “Who gave you permission to speak to my son?”
Marion said nothing in response, instead choosing to stare down at her boots. It was probably for the best; there was nothing that she could say that would make me less angry at her messing around in my business. I took hold of her arms and pushed her back against the corner. Her skin was hot and quivering under my fingers, and I had to take a deep breath to steady myself. That pretty, tanned skin was soft as silk under my fingers, and I was hard pressed not to caress every line of her I could reach.
God, she’s fucking hot. Why did she have to be hot? It was harder to stay angry with her when she was looking up at me through those long lashes. But no matter how hot she is, she isn’t worth the extra complication, the extra body to keep safe from the arsonists. No, Marion isn’t worth anything to me. It’s hard enough to keep Dean relatively safe from the clubs and the rivals.
“Who gave you permission to break into my house?”
The woman blinked up at me, finally finding her voice even through all of the shaking. “He was lonely and scared and just wanted in. I never meant to--”
I shook her, perhaps a little too hard, making her squeak in fear. “Don’t ever talk to me or my son again, Marion, or else you wished you never moved into this place. Do you understand me?”
The woman nodded, her eyes wide like a rabbit’s. She turned as soon as I let her go, fleeing into her apartment and locking the door behind her. Odd, hearing her talk. She doesn’t sound like she belongs here. She didn’t have an accent, but she spoke like she’d been educated well. At least, educated better than a
ny of the schools in this trash part of town could do.
I stared after her long after she had vanished, pondering the mystery of her. Her clothes aren’t new, but they are a much better make than most clothing in this place. The way she talks makes her sound like she’s from the other side of the river, not here. She must have been rich at some point to live where she would have picked up that way of speaking.
It was pretty obvious to anyone who saw her that she didn’t belong here. It was equally as obvious that her transition was new, and she was trying desperately to fit in. It made me wonder where she was a year ago that she’d ended up in such dire straits.
Not that it’s any of my business. Not that I care.
It didn’t matter how hard life was for the poor little rich girl next door; my life had been harder. It was harder. Either way, it wasn’t like I could help her out. I had my own problems. If the Boss didn’t stop with his wild planning soon, the number of those problems would start growing by leaps and bounds. Sighing through my teeth, I turned away from the bewitching woman’s door and started back down the stairs. With every step, I tried to will myself into icy numbness. It was probably the only way I would ever get through this next meeting with the Boss.
Chapter Five
Marion
Another night shift, another too-long day with crappy tips. And now a run in with the scary guy next door. Today was simply not my day.
My heart still fluttered uncertainly in my chest. I locked the door, but I was still waiting for him to crash his way into my room and wrap his hands around my throat, squeezing until I vanished. My breath came in quick gasps as I pressed my back to the worn, wooden door, the hard surface the only thing in the world that wasn’t spinning. I closed my eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath to trying and calm my heart.
Under the fear, under the certainty I was going to die soon, there was the desire. My mind, even as frightened as it had been, had managed somehow to remember the fire in his beautiful, steel gray eyes. I could remember every angry line of his chiseled jaw.
Exhaustion hit me like a train barreling through the station, and I sagged against the wall. As soon as my breath steadied and I could stand without wobbling, I pushed myself away from the door, slipping my uniform off of my body and to the floor. I didn’t have to work until late tomorrow, which would give me plenty of time to run to the laundromat and wash it in the morning. Or afternoon. Stained with ketchup and reeking of old food and sweat, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stomach another day wearing that filthy thing without a washing. I wish I had the money for a second uniform, I mourned, looking at the dirty puddle of faded yellow and red fabric of my stupid uniform. But it doesn’t matter. Rebuilding my life doesn’t involve any frivolities.
Dragging on my pajamas and running a brush through my hair, I threw myself into my bed. I was starving, but too tired to do anything about it. So I wrapped myself up in my sheets and closed my eyes.
That’s when the little brat next door decided to blast the TV again.
Growling, I sat up, my eyes already feeling glued shut. Closing my fist, I banged on the wall. “Turn that down, Dean!” I yelled, my voice quiet compared to the blaring volume of the TV.
A brief round of banging on my wall and shriek giggling was the only reply. Sighing heavily, I could feel the aches and pains of every hour on my feet seem to grow exponentially as I glared at the wall in between us. I’m going to buy earplugs tomorrow. I can’t keep losing sleep because that little brat never learned any manners. Even if I have to take money out of me savings to do it.
Grabbing my fluffy robe and wrapping it around my aching body, I got back out of bed and headed for the kitchen. If I’m not going to sleep, I’m definitely going to eat something. That little bastard; why isn’t he in school? The sun was coming up over the horizon now after my late-night shift, so he should have been heading for the bus by now. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised that scary man doesn’t make his kid go to school.
Sighing, I shuffled into the kitchen on bare feet, opening my fridge to look inside. I pulled out some frozen onions, a frozen package of eggs, margarine, and a pan. I’d snuck my double butane stove top in with some of the rest of my old camping things that I hadn’t been able to sell. Now that I knew that the stove in my apartment was broken, I was glad I kept it. It was the only way I had to cook food inside the house.
Although it’s cheaper to swipe leftover food off of customer’s plates at work, I think I want to cook for myself for once. Perhaps a healthy, home-cooked meal would make me feel a little better after how this whole week had gone. If nothing else, it would ease the gnawing in my belly.
When I was eight years old, my father showed me how to make a perfect omelet. It was also my father who had shown me how to freeze everything under the sun, from eggs (“Freeze them in an ice cube tray outside of their shells and they’ll keep for months, Marion.”) to orange juice (“Buy it in bulk when it’s on sale and drink a glass before freezing it, so it doesn’t break the bottle when the liquid expands.”) All this knowledge I’d thought was useless for years was now coming in handy; more than once, my dad’s money-saving knowledge had saved my life these past few weeks. Without it, I don’t think I could have survived my world falling apart for the second time.
It was the omelet lesson I remembered better than all of the others. I was standing on the kitchen counter of our tiny little townhome, my father’s brilliant red hair mussed from a long, sleepless night of tossing and turning. My hair was similarly messed up; sometimes we couldn’t sleep. I supposed insomnia ran in our family. So instead of lying in bed and tossing anymore, we’d both decided to get out of our beds and had ended up in the kitchen.
It was an ugly little kitchen, all 1970s yellows and pea greens. But some of my happiest memories were made there. My father fumbling over the stove as he tried to remember recipes without the aid of a book. He messed them up nine times out of ten, but there was always one thing he could make without thinking about at all. The perfect eggs.
“It’s all in the margarine. Most people use butter,” my father said, condescendingly. “But they are all wrong. “Without the margarine, you won’t get this perfect, beautiful fluffy omelet.”
Tears pricked the edges of my eyes. I wiped them away and started the eggs cooking, on low heat since they were still frozen. It was a true testament to how tired I was; while I missed my father with an ache that never went away, thoughts of him weren’t usually enough to make me cry unless I was exhausted and already heartbroken. Well, it’s not entirely my fault. I can’t imagine anyone who would be chipper after one of her best friends ruined her life. But I’m trying. And it doesn’t help that the kid next door is trying to drive me mad with all of the noise he’s making.
Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself as I added the onions and a leaf or two from the sickly looking basil plant growing in my window. It wasn’t much, but with a little salt and pepper, it would be good enough.
The eggs were nearly done when there was a quiet knock at the door. I almost didn’t hear it over all the racket going on next door. I thought to ignore it, but then the knocking came a little louder and more insistent. I pulled a box in front of the stove (since it technically wasn’t allowed here) so it couldn’t be seen from the doorway.
“Who is it?” I asked, pressing my ear to the door.
“Dean!” the little kid from next door yelled. “Can I come in, please?”
Frowning, I unlocked the door and opened it, frowning down at the little kid. “No, you cannot come in. Your dad told me not to talk to you.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “What do you want, Dean?”
His little nose perked up, sampling the air like a puppy. “What smells so good?”
“Eggs,” I answered shortly. This is exactly what Dean’s father told me not to do. “You need to go back to your apartment before your father kills me.”
“But I’m really hungry.” Dean’s eyes got a little bigger and he seemed to shrink in on
himself a little. What a manipulator this brat turned out to be.
I shook my head. “Your father made it pretty clear that I wasn’t allowed to speak to you or even look at you. He told me he’d break my neck.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “My dad’s not going to kill you. Please? I’m super-duper hungry.”
“Did you not eat today?” I remembered how hungrily he’d grabbed for my bag of chips the day before. Did the scary man not feed him properly?
“My dad left me a sandwich, but it’s already gone.” The little boy rocked back on his heels, swinging his body back and forth in a steady rhythm.
Definitely ADHD. Must be why he isn’t in school. They’d force him to hold still for hours, which would probably kill him. Poor darling.
“I’ll only let you in and feed you if you turn down that TV and keep the volume down while I’m trying to sleep. Deal?” This was going to get me in serious trouble; I could feel it.
