Not think. “I can know.”
“Perhaps.” She smiled and nodded at the open box of books on the floor. “How’s your weekly Christmas going?”
“It was going great, until the Grinch showed up with Cindy Lou.”
“Well, get back to it. I’m going to get Ramsey’s for lunch. Interested?”
“I can’t. I’m broke.” Payday was in three days; Sage was generally on fumes by then, just like her car, unless she hit her floorboard stash. She’d already hit that twice this pay period, so she had a baggie of half a dozen saltine-and-peanut-butter ‘sandwiches’ in her bag.
“I’m buying. Do me a favor—before you get back to the books, go back to see what Clinton wants.”
“You’re tops, Mrs. Dub.” Sage kissed the librarian on her soft, slightly fuzzy cheek and went back to ask the maintenance guy for his lunch order.
She loved this job.
~oOo~
Every time she’d had the misfortune to be on her way home in the few days since Becker had leapt over the fence and into her life like a guardian biker-angel, Sage had driven past her intersection so she could drive down his block and check if he was home.
Her library shift—the only work she had today—had ended at five, which she was sure was too early for him to be home, so she almost turned and went straight to her house.
The afternoon hours were the safest to be home—Denny was almost always away until dinner time. He didn’t have a job, per se. Sage didn’t bother to wonder how he earned. But he liked to start drinking with his buddies in the afternoon, then score before he came home to eat dinner and loll around all night with her mom, watching television, drinking, smoking, fucking, and doing whatever hit he’d been able to afford.
Since the Shotgun Event, Sage had managed not to come into direct contact with the asshole. Last night, she’d gone into her room through the window and locked her door. This morning, she’d been out first thing again, long before Denny would have been up and around—though she’d had a scare when he’d been passed out in the living room instead of her mother’s bedroom, in nothing but threadbare boxers and a stained beater, snoring like a bulldog, one pasty leg sagged off the sofa, and his skinny red willy flopped out of his gaping fly.
Her life was some kind of white-trash museum exhibit, and that was incontrovertible fact.
As she’d eased the front door open, Denny’s snores had choked off, and she’d thought she’d woken him. But he’d just smacked his lips a few times, shoved his hand into his fly for a scratch, and picked up his bulldog symphony again.
She could go home now, get a shower, something to eat, and then see if Becker was around. If he wasn’t, she’d go to the Bin and hang with Dylan until his shift ended.
Pretty sad that she spent her free time hanging out at her jobs, but that was the bulk of her social life—hanging out where she’d been working all day.
At the last minute, rather than take the turn that would take her to her street, Sage went straight, just to check if his bike was there.
It was. More than that, he was there, right there on the front lawn, bare-chested again, nothing but jeans and boots. He was dumping a lawnmower bag into a plastic trash bin.
He looked up as she pulled to the curb. No smile, no wave. He simply let the bag rest across the trash bin and watched her.
When she turned the key, her poltergeist danced around the engine again. It didn’t always do that, but when it did, it freaked her all the way out.
She got out of the car and slammed the door, and the engine was still running. She kicked the fender. Still running. Finally, the car shook hard, coughed a couple of times, and the whole thing went still.
Becker walked across his newly mown lawn, wiping his hands on a faded blue rag. He tucked it into his back pocket as he arrived on the sidewalk.
“I don’t know why it does that. I’ve got the key right here!” She dangled her keychain. “It’s like it’s possessed! Do you know an exorcist?”
He laughed—bright teeth and sparkling eyes. Swoon. “It’s dieseling, shortcake. Pop the hood for me.”
She went back and opened her door. There was a lever or a knob or some kind of doohickey in here somewhere. Where was it? Down low somewhere, right? She fumbled around until she found a handle thing and gave it a pull. When she looked over the dash, he was pushing the hood up, so that must have been it.
Slamming the door shut, she went up to see what he was looking at.
“Goddamn, girl. Do you even change the oil in this thing?”
“I don’t do it, but I go to the quickie-oil-change place on Harvard sometimes. Been a while, though.”
“Obviously.” He pulled the rag from his pocket and used it to grab something in the middle. Giving it a sharp tug, he yanked it free and turned it up. His hiss suggested that whatever he was looking at was bad. Some kind of rusty thingamabob attached to a skinny rubber tube thingy.
She leaned closer, rising onto her toes, trying to see. It was hot under here. “What is that?”
“It’s a spark plug. Or it was once. A long, long time ago. When was the last time you got it tuned up?”
“Do they do that when you get an oil change?”
He laughed. Sage’s eyes wandered from his excellent large hands, up his gorgeous tattooed arms sleek with sweat, across his contoured chest, also gleaming wetly, finally to his wonderful face, where she found him smiling right at her. A whole flock of butterflies took off in her belly and landed between her legs.
“No, shortcake, ‘they’ do not. They should’ve told you you needed one, though. Are you saying you’ve never tuned it up?”
She shook her head and then added, “Sorry. I don’t know cars.” Why she was apologizing to him, she couldn’t say.
For a beat, two beats, five, they stared at each other. Sage tried to read his thoughts through his eyes, tried to understand if she should say or do or be something, if he was waiting for her. Then he blinked and put the spark plug back where he’d found it.
He straightened up, ducking out from under the hood. When she straightened, too, he closed the hood with a tinny crash. “Okay. You got some time?”
Butterfly party going on in Sector Nine! Was he going to invite her in again—and maybe walk in a different direction when he kissed her? “Yeah, sure. My schedule is clear for the night.”
“Come on, then. I’ll go in and grab the keys to my truck.” He turned and headed back up his lawn.
Sage trotted after him. “Where’re we going?”
“The auto-parts store. Looks like I’m doing a tune-up tonight.”
As dates went it wasn’t exactly—oh who the fuck cared. It was perfect. But wait—he’d said his truck keys. But there was that big sexy Harley right there, all black and chrome, with that fire-breathing bull airbrushed on the tank. She’d never been on a motorcycle before. And oh—riding behind him, wrapping her arms around him and holding on? Yes, please!
“Can we take your bike?”
He stopped and turned around. “This isn’t a date. I’m just helping you out.”
That was what he thought. But she’d play along for a bit. “Okay. Can we take your bike while you help me out?”
His chuckle was the best sound ever. “Stubborn little shit.”
She grinned and walked over to that great big bike. Knowing better than to touch it without permission, she shoved her hands into her pockets and rocked on her Docs. “Pleeease?”
“Fuck. Why is it so hard to say no to you? Alright.”
He grabbed the lawnmower bag and put it back where it belonged, then pushed the mower to his back yard. Sage waited while he went through the gate. It took him a few minutes, and she started to worry he was, like, hiding back there. But then the wooden gate opened again on its creaky hinges, and he was back. He had on a faded orange t-shirt with cracked black letters across the chest that spelled BULLS. He was also wearing his kutte.
As he came close, she saw a patch on the right side that w
as much brighter white than the other patches. It was obviously new—all the threads and edges were tight and smooth.
PRESIDENT, it said.
He wasn’t just a biker. He wasn’t just an outlaw. He wasn’t just a Brazen Bull. He was president of the notorious outlaw biker gang, The Brazen Bulls.
That probably scared most girls. It probably would have made Bentleigh’s Supermommy shit her Victoria’s Secret panties.
But Sage wasn’t like most girls. Not because she was better, or cooler, or special in any way. But she’d grown up in a white-trash museum exhibit. Instead of a Supermommy who took her to the library and did her hair cute and maybe even cut her sandwiches into little hearts, she’d grown up watching her mom get fucked and beaten and degraded and robbed by any guy who’d stick around long enough so she didn’t feel alone. She’d grown up dodging those same guys, learning early how to make sure they didn’t notice her, didn’t think about her, didn’t bother her or bother about her. She’d grown up around dealers and junkies and jerks and losers, all of whom carried some kind of weapon, and used it freely.
So President Becker didn’t scare her at all. He was the safest thing in her life.
He mounted that bike as big as a horse, and walked it around so it faced the street. Then he put out his arm, holding it stiffly so she could use it to steady herself as she climbed on behind him.
Wearing wraparound Oakleys with dark, iridescent lenses that obscured his eyes, he looked over his shoulder. “You ever ridden before?”
She shook her head. Something was happening inside her, while she was straddled over this seat, her inner thighs pressed to his hips, her hands on his sides. It wasn’t desire—though that was storming through her, too—it was deeper than that, and it knotted up her tongue so she couldn’t speak. She almost felt like she might cry.
“It’s about trust. Trust me to keep you safe. Just go with it and let your body follow mine. You jump and flinch and jerk around back there, and you’ll get us both hurt. Got it?”
Trust him to keep her safe. Check. Done. Again, though, her mouth wouldn’t work, so she only nodded.
He fished in his kutte and pulled out another pair of Oakleys, these with strangely tinted, yellowish lenses. “Put these on, and keep your mouth shut or you’ll be eatin’ bugs for supper.”
Sage slid the glasses on. They were far too big, but she balanced them on her ears and thought they’d stay put if she didn’t flail around too much, which she wasn’t supposed to do anyway.
Becker fired up the engine—oh shit, she felt it in the seat! He grabbed her hands and drew her arms around his waist. When she was holding on tight, he pulled away.
Before they’d even made the stop sign at the end of the block, Sage thought she might actually be in love.
CHAPTER FIVE
Becker screwed the new air filter in place, gathered up his tools and the rags they’d lain on, and dropped the hood. Tune-up and oil change done. Sage’s geriatric Dodge might have a little life left in it.
Twilight had fallen and settled into the ground. He’d been working mostly by feel for the last half hour; the pair of floodlights bolted to his garage did a fair job of throwing light on the driveway, but they made long shadows, too, and under the car as he’d been, all he’d had was a hint that light existed. But he’d been a mechanic for a long time, and a hint of light was enough.
Sage had spent the bulk of the evening leaning under the hood, watching him, trying to keep a conversation going, but Becker didn’t chitchat while he worked. He’d tried to compromise by explaining what he was doing, teaching her some things, but she’d lost interest quickly. So mostly, he’d worked and she’d watched, both in silence.
As he was starting the oil change, she’d said she needed to use the bathroom, and she hadn’t come back out. Metallica’s best album, Master of Puppets, had been rattling the windows for the past twenty minutes. Cheeky little shit.
Becker imagined her alone in there, bopping around to ‘Battery,’ wandering through his rooms, nosing around in his things. He didn’t mind overmuch; there wasn’t anything really to see. Except for a couple of loaded handguns, anything she, or he, could get in trouble if she found was locked up tight, or hidden well, or both. He assumed she was smart enough not to really play around with a loaded gun.
Still, though, she’d been alone in his house for more than half an hour. What was she doing in there, redecorating?
Going through his open garage, he put his tools away in the workshop, then went back to the driveway and got into the Dodge to start it up—there, that was how an engine should sound. He backed it off the ramps and parked it on the street again. When the ramps were in their place in the garage, he closed the overhead and went to see what mischief his own personal imp had been making in his house.
Stepping into his living room was a full sensory assault: besides the blaring music, every light in his whole house seemed to be on. Becker preferred the lights low, and he actually squinted against the glare of all three lamps and the five-bulb ceiling fan light that he never turned on. The dining room hanging light was on, too, and the hallway lights, and the kitchen. Probably everything else, too. Looked like she absolutely had done a full search.
In addition to sight and sound, smell was getting a workout: he smelled sautéed beef and tomatoes and oregano, and hot pepper. She was cooking. In his house. Irritation flowered in his head, and he strode through the living room, the dining room, to the kitchen.
He stopped in the doorway. The scent was especially vivid here at the source, and Becker’s stomach elbowed him and pointed out that he hadn’t eaten since he’d grabbed a jelly doughnut at the station this morning before he’d come home to crash after his all-nighter.
Sage was at his range, her hair bound up in a sloppy kind of bun-ponytail combo. Headbanging lightly to the beat of the music, she used one of his wooden spoons to stir something in a pot. A skillet on the range was full of browned ground beef, and his big stock pot bubbled with boiling macaroni.
Everything about the scene should have pissed him off—she’d made herself entirely at home in his house, without his permission. She was cooking his food in his kitchen in his house like she belonged there, and all he’d given her permission to do was come in to take a piss. She’d gone through his albums and put one on his turntable.
He should be storming in there, grabbing her around the waist and tossing her out on her cute little ass.
Instead, he leaned on the jamb and watched.
What was it about this little chick? Why was it so goddamn hard to say no to her? Why was he so interested?
More than interest. He wanted her. Caving to her desire to ride bitch with him had been the second extremely bad mistake he’d made with this girl. First the kiss, then feeling her on his bike, her lithe, inked arms around his waist, her laughter in his ear.
Half his head had a list of reasons that spending any real time with a girl this young, legal or not, was a tremendously bad idea. The other half had a list of rebuttals to every one of those reasons. His body didn’t give a good goddamn about reason. It just wanted.
Leaning here, watching her while she didn’t know he was there, his body shouted its case. Look at her—that dark hair, that long neck she’d exposed, with black tendrils of ink rising out of her shirt. So pretty and surprising.
She wasn’t wearing a bra. Becker knew she’d had one on earlier; he’d seen the impression of its shape under her t-shirt. But now, as her body kept Metallica’s beat, there was no question that she’d taken it off since she’d come into his house. Her tits—little but present, round and tight, like plums—bounced alluringly.
Goddamn.
Letting the spoon rest in the pot she’d been stirring, Sage turned off the back burner and hoisted up the pasta pot, using a towel as a potholder. She turned and poured the contents into his sink—he assumed his colander was in there—and stepped back, waving steam from her face.
She’d made a mess of his kit
chen—the empty meat tray and wrapper, the macaroni box, the spices, the cans that had held diced tomatoes and beans and sauce were all strewn across his limited counter space. On his plastic cutting board rested his grater and a little mound of cheddar cheese, and stray shreds scattered over the counter like confetti. Most of his cupboard doors were open, and a couple of drawers, too.
Before she picked up the drained pasta, Becker said, “What’s going on here?”
If he’d startled her, she didn’t show it at all. Instead, she spun in place and beamed brightly at him. “This house is awesome. Did you fix it up yourself?”
“Yeah.” He’d worked for more than a year, redoing every room, taking most of them down to the studs and rebuilding almost from scratch. He hadn’t gone with trendy, designer materials, but he hadn’t cheaped out, either. The money had been there to do it right.
The money was there to live in a fancier neighborhood, in a bigger, fancier house, like Delaney, or Ox, but places like that weren’t comfortable to him. The people who populated those neighborhoods weren’t his people. This was where he belonged.
“Well, it’s beautiful. Our house is a total dump.”
“Thank you. What are you doing?”
“It’s almost nine. I was hungry and I thought you probably were, too. Plus, I wanted to thank you for fixing my car.”
“By ransacking my kitchen and eating my food?”
Her spotlight smile dimmed, and Becker saw, with considerable surprise, that that comment had hurt her. Of all the things he’d said and done to try to get her to step back—admittedly he’d not said or done nearly enough—that little remark, said teasingly, without irritation, had caught her painfully.
“I ... don’t have to eat it. I can just go.”
It was just supper, right? He wasn’t making a commitment, wasn’t letting his dick make the decisions. He was just having supper with a neighbor. He’d done her a nice turn; she was trying to show her gratitude.
And why had he given up his whole free evening to work on her car? Why wasn’t he absolutely furious that a near stranger had made herself at home in his private space? Why hadn’t he grabbed her and tossed her out? Why didn’t he want her to go?
Lead (The Brazen Bulls MC, #8) Page 6