Scotch: Unraveled (Brimstone Lords MC Book 4)

by Sarah Zolton Arthur

  Yes, this biker decides he’s going to read to his babies at night. Read to his babies at night? Ovaries go boom!

  Once we finish with Baby Central, we load the girls back in the truck, heft all the large boxes from the roller cart we’ve rolled to stop by the bed of his truck, into said bed and I climb in the cab with the girls while he takes the cart back up to the store. There’s a light breeze out, but it’s an otherwise sunshiny, happy day.

  It’s a beautiful Saturday. We’re both in a good mood and even Macie is gurgling and smiling instead of the crying she’s prone to. That’s why I convince him to stop at the closest home store.

  Oh boy, don’t get me started on the home store. Rory really should’ve considered this one longer before we walked in, using the brand-new double stroller we bought at the last store. It’s not like it’s my fault the man disregarded the fact that I was an art minor in college. And okay, so I might get a little carried away when we hit the paint aisle. But baby nursery. Do I need to say more?

  Apparently, I do.

  “Christ, woman,” he grumbles, clearly exasperated, and he huffs in annoyance as he throws out a hand to the cart. “Are ya planning on buying out the whole fucking store?” I mean, he’s not wrong. We have five gallons of paint—cotton candy pink, lavender, sky blue, grass green and sunshine yellow. Then at least seven pints with various accent colors.

  “Not the whole store,” I hedge, picking up a couple more small cans of paint. “But the gallons are the primary colors and the pints are the accents. You need accents or what are we doing this for?”

  Right then, Mollie gives us a delightful squeal and grabs for Rory’s finger resting close to her carrier. He looks down at his girl, sighs instead of huffing, and says, “Do what you need to do.”

  I swear my body goes into total organ failure as my heart melts and my ovaries simultaneously detonate for the second time in one day, falling to the bottom of my womb in a million tiny fragments of desire for the sexiest Scotsman in the state of Kentucky.

  From there, the rest of the day goes easy. We move to a section of the store selling curtains and bedding. Women stop us to talk sweetly at the girls. Babies always garner attention, but with twin babies, it’s like they’re celebrities. Even men, especially the old guys with fifty thousand grandkids stop us to make faces at the girls. And the girls give back, giggling, squeaking and babbling.

  More than once we’re told we have a beautiful family. I wish more than anything that we do. But in reality, I know that we don’t. He does. I’m just a willing participant taking what I can get of them while I can get it. It makes me sad, but I won’t let it get me down. Not when we’re having this much fun.

  Though, even fun has its limits. And even good girls go bad as Mollie does when we hear a squirting sound coming from her posterior and this caustic smell permeates the air. Rory looks at me like he expects me to take her.

  I hold out the diaper bag to him and half laugh, half say, “It appears your daughter needs a change.”

  He rips the bag from my hand, slinging it over his shoulder in order to pick Mollie up. Holding her under her armpits with his arms outstretched, her little legs dangling, griping under his breath at her and at me as he stomps off toward the bathroom.

  “They have a family restroom here,” I call after him.

  In response, Rory holds Mollie up high enough for me to see him flip me the bird, and I throw my head back laughing.

  The man is getting better at the whole changing thing because he’s back with us, Mollie in different clothing than she went in with, after only ten minutes. “I had to trash the pants and onesie,” he informs me. “There was a gooey racing stripe up her back.”

  Oh yeah, he’s getting to me.

  I take the girls back out to the Truck to get them situated in their carriers while he pays for the paint, curtains and bedding. Then, in another surprise move, Rory stops at a discount store, runs inside, then comes back out carrying a blanket.

  “What’s this for?” I ask, pointing at the blue microfiber.

  “You’ll see,” he says. And it’s true, I definitely do see when he stops at a local deli to grab us sandwiches, chips, pickles and sodas to go. We eat them at a park on the blanket he spread out for us to sit on, letting the girls stretch out until we pick them up to feed them as we listen to a free concert.

  A biker took us on a picnic.

  Sooner than I’d like, the concert is over and we make the hour and a half drive back home. Rory drops me off at my apartment. I’m sad for them to go, but it’s the right thing to do.

  Sunday morning I throw on a pair of old, ripped jeans and an older, even more ripped T-shirt, then head up to the compound because Rory and I have a nursery to paint. The project consumes most of the day. He orders us baked macaroni and cheese with breadsticks to go from an Italian restaurant one town over, sending a prospect named Butch to grab it for us. That’s the life, not having to run out to perform tedious errands if you don’t feel like it because there’s a guy willing to do anything you ask of him in order to earn the same patch you wear.

  No wonder he likes the club life so well.

  Rory had amended my original design at the home store yesterday, hence the need for so many accent colors. But now Mollie and Macie are the residents of not a fairy garden nursery, but a Lord’s biker fairy garden nursery. It took me a whole lot of internet searching and even more cursing under my breath, but I finally found Harley-esqe images I could paint. Badass fairies ride Harleys.

  On one whole wall, the longest, uninterrupted-by-windows-or-closet wall we painted the brightest yellow sun, and a blue sky filled with fluffy clouds. Tall grass opened to an enchanted garden where the fairies popped wheelies and rocketed through the flowers.

  The curtains are white with fairies floating and flying. The bedding has fairies, too, including the crib padding which looks like grass and the comforter looks like grass and sky. As I stand in the doorway admiring our work, I can’t imagine any baby having a better nursery.

  Mollie and Macie seem to like it, as they fell asleep right away when we placed them in their new beds. Rory moves in behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, and rests his chin on my shoulder. “Yar amazing, woman… Don’t know how ya did it, but ya sure as hell did.”

  I so want to kiss him. I shouldn’t kiss him, but I turn my head to plant my lips against his anyway. Not smart, Frankie. Not smart at all.

  ***

  Two weeks. I’ve now had two weeks of that beguiling man’s kisses and nothing else. Some of them have gotten a little steamy, I set the president on that Sunday nursery painting day, but he always—always—ends up breaking it off before we go too far and I’m not a hundred percent sure I want him to. I’m also not a hundred percent sure I don’t want him to. Basically, I’m a mess.

  When he puts his hands on me—oh, lord. I have to fan myself. No man has ever touched me the way Rory does and I mean that in every sense of the word. But my favorite part is watching him interact with those girls. Big, bad biker Rory MacGregor, a.k.a. Scotch, has officially been wrapped around two tiny little pinkies. My heart might explode from the cuteness, not that I’ll ever tell him that.

  It’s six o’clock, quitting time, and I’m about to do what I’ve done every night since he got out of jail. I’m going to pack up his girls and drive them up the mountain to the compound so the four of us can have dinner together.

  I pick Mollie up first to pull her little Harley girl sweatshirt over her head and secure a little matching knit beanie over her almost completely bald head. She coos and smiles as I scrunch my nose and make little kissy faces at her. Mollie has such a calm demeanor. It’s no wonder Rory tends to go for her first. Macie likes to make her presence known, so when she obviously feels like I’ve spent enough time with her sister, she tells me in no uncertain terms and begins to cry her baby crocodile tears.

  “Hey, sweetheart. You’re okay,” I coo at her as I pick her up to cuddle and give top-of-the-head k
isses. We bounce and she quiets. Then I pull her sweatshirt over her head and top her with her beanie, too.

  When I leave the daycare’s parking lot, I turn out onto the main road on my way to get dinner when I notice a police cruiser turn onto the street and follow me closely. I’m not speeding or anything, so I turn on the radio and sing along to the music for the girls. I click the blinker and turn into the restaurant’s parking.

  It’s not too cold out, only chilly, and I’m not going to be inside very long, but I don’t know what to do. I can’t carry two carriers and pizza and a bag with other food in it. Decision made, I leave the girls in the car with the doors locked, but use my remote start to keep it comfortable for them. I run in to pay and Benny tells me how much longer my wait will be. Instead of waiting inside, I go back out to the car with the girls.

  On any normal day, I’d stay and chat. It smells deliciously of baking crust and oregano, but the babies have to be my priority. Once the ten minutes have passed, I keep the car running with remote start like before and run inside to grab our food. I’m not even inside for two minutes and when I walk back out, Deputy Rodrick, the one who’d arrested Rory, has his hands cupped around his eyes, bent forward, while he tries to look inside my backseat through the tinted windows.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, and he startles, but I need him to move so I can get into my car to place the hot pizza box on the front seat.

  He stands straight, turning to me. “Not real responsible leaving them babies alone in a running automobile.” But he puts an extra dose of Kentucky twang to the word, making it sound like “auto-MO-beel.”

  “I couldn’t carry them both in, but I left the car running to keep them warm. Remote start. Can’t shift without pressing the brake, but you press the brake, the engine cuts.”

  “Still,” he says threateningly. “I’d hate to have to get CPS involved.”

  “I assure you, deputy, they were never in harm’s way.” I refuse to let him know how much his presence rattles me. The man drew his weapon at me and the girls the last time we were around him, and he’s threatening me? For running into a pizza joint? He steps back when I move in front of him to open the door, using the fob to unlock it. I set the box and bag down on the front seat, then scramble around to the driver’s side. “But thank you for your concern,” I finish before sliding in and shutting, then locking my doors.

  He places a hand to the top of my car, leaving it there, to let me know he’s the one in control. I can’t back out of the space without risking driving over his foot or something, which means I’m stuck here for an extra few minutes until he decides to head back to his cruiser.

  Rory wouldn’t lose his girls for my actions; he’d at most be told I wouldn’t be allowed to care for them any longer. The issue would be mine, well, my career. I work at a daycare with children and am about to be promoted to director when our current director retires. A visit from CPS could ruin me.

  The jackass waits for me to withdraw from my parking spot and follows close behind again. This time, I am nervous, making double sure to use my blinker when I turn out onto the street and come to complete full stops at lights and signs. He continues to follow me to the edge of town and even up the mountain, only speeding past me when I turn onto the Lords’ lot at the compound.

  I’m shaking by the time I turn off the engine in front of Rory’s place. Because of the extra time waisted having to deal with that dipshit deputy, he beat me home. When he walks outside to greet us, I settle myself. A dinner with Rory and the girls is the perfect way to forget my encounter.

  He opens my door first to bend in and kiss me. I sigh. It can’t be helped. I challenge any woman to be kissed by this man and not sigh. “How’d I beat ya home?” he asks.

  I point to the passenger side. “Stopped at Benny’s for dinner.”

  His eyes widen at the sight of the Benny’s pizza box. “Yar the perfect woman, do ya know that?” Then he drops one more kiss to my forehead and backs out of the way so I can get out. We each grab one of the girls. He takes the pizza and I take the diaper bag and the Benny’s bag, then we head inside.

  He gives each girl separate daddy time, loving on them while I wash my hands and throw together the salad. “They were good today?” he asks, Macie in his arms.

  “Angels, like always.” I move to set the table while he sets Macie back in her carrier in order to prepare their bottles. “Need help?” I ask him. Two hands are better than one when feeding twins. “Everything’s set here.”

  “Sure.” He pats the seat on the old sofa right next to him. I walk around the table and snatch up Mollie. He hands me off a bottle, then scoops back up Macie and we each take to feeding a girl. “How was your day?” he asks. “You look tired. They still giving you shite about the expansion plans?”

  “Yeah. Big time.” As I’m about to take over as director of the center, our current director has me collaborating on all the non-child related business to make the transition easier, which means double the work for me. “And the state has changed some of their regulations, including how much they’ll cover low-income childcare, which affects more than a third of our families. My brain is about to melt from all the paperwork. So if you come to call one day and all I’m able to do is drool and stare blankly at the wall, you’ll know why.”

  Rory pops out a laugh that I don’t expect, startling Macie, who’d started to doze off in his arms. She begins to fuss and he props her up against his shoulder to pat her back. She lets go a giant baby burp and spits up a little. He cleans her up and moves her back to finish eating. When both girls are asleep, we carry them to their room, execute a double diaper change and lay them in their beds. Each girl gets a kiss on the head from each of us, then Rory and I head back out to eat our dinner.

  Before he sits down, he pours himself a scotch over ice and then mixes me up a 7 and 7, bringing them both to the table. He kisses my temple and slides onto his seat kitty-corner from me. “How’s work going for you?” I ask around a mouthful of cheesy, pizza goodness.

  “Better now that we got that big shipping order taken care of.” Rory mostly works with the man they call ‘Chaos.’ His real name is Gage, but only his woman is allowed to call him that. It’s a biker respect thing, I guess. All I know is that I’m the only one who ever calls Rory ‘Rory.’ “Things should start to sl—” His phone rings midsentence and he pulls it from his pocket to answer. “It’s Duke,” he says. “Gotta take this.” Then he stands, presses the answer button, and walks down the hallway.

  “Guess things won’t start to slow,” I mumble as I continue to eat alone.

  About ten minutes pass before he slips back to the table with me. I’m pretty much finished with my meal and I’m tired. “Sorry about that,” he says, and he does sound sorry.

  “No worries. But I’m tired, so I’m gonna head home, I think.” I stand to clear my plate and his face falls.

  “Not yet,” he says, tugging me forward by the finger he’s hooked into my jeans pocket. I fall onto his lap and Rory bends in, pressing his lips to mine. He keeps it slow and torturously lingering until he moves his mouth, pressing kisses up my chin until he reaches my ear. “I have to talk with ya.”

  “Talk,” I answer dreamily because his kisses have always brought out that response in me.

  “That was Duke on the phone. I have to go out of town—club business, so don’t ask.”

  Yeah, I learned that quickly enough. There are parts of the club the women are privy to and then there’s whatever this is that we aren’t. Especially not me, since I’m not an old lady or anything. I’m not exactly sure what my role is right now.

  I wait for him to continue.

  “Frankie, will ya take care of the girls while I’m gone?”

  Uh… “What?”

  “They’ve spent more time with ya than anyone else and I trust ya with their lives. Please. I’ll try to get one of the women to watch ’em, but it’d work out better if ya did it instead. They can go to the daycare with ya
in the mornings and come home with ya like they do now.”

  There’s my answer. Now I know my role: babysitter. I bite down on my bottom lip while I consider it. It’s a little disappointing that he’d use kisses to butter me up and I’ve got my hands full at work right now. Do I really have time for the girls, too? If they were mine, I’d have to deal with both. They aren’t mine, however. Yet I kind of feel like they are. He’s right; I spend more time with them than he does. I know their cries when they’re hungry or need a diaper change. I know how long to give Mollie cuddles before Macie starts to get squirmy for her cuddles.

  The fact remains that I’m the most logical choice. No one else would watch these girls the way I would, like they’re mine. I look at Rory and sigh. “Okay, let’s get them packed up before I head home.”

  “No. I need ya to stay here, Frankie.”

  “That’s not happening. I have an apartment big enough to accommodate the girls for a few nights.”

  “It could be up to a couple of weeks, lass, and I need to know yar safe. Sleeping here, I can be free to get done what needs doing knowing yar all safe behind the gates of the compound.”

  Two weeks? That’s a whole lot of commitment and responsibility to take on for a friend. Or more than a friend, that’s a thought for a different, less hectic day. Speaking of friends, I owe Brighton a phone call tonight. Spending so much time with the MacGregor clan, she’s bound think I’ve disappeared and call in a missing person report.

  Still, who else would I trust to take the girls for that stretch of time? The answer remains no one. But sleeping here for two weeks?

  “I’ll watch the girls, but I like my bed, Rory. It’s the biggest, softest king in the world. No offense, but I don’t know how you sleep on that pullout every night.”