by Harloe Rae
The feeling is fleeting, sweeping off with the wind after I consider the repercussions. I’m not built to have meaningful relationships, of any sort. The bloody massacre with Keegan is proof of that—a sure thing that ended in complete failure. I managed to fuck up the greatest one-night stand in the history of fantasies and wet dreams combined. Only I’m capable of such a colossal waste.
Was my behavior justified? Perhaps, but not to that extent. Now that my blood has cooled, I can admit my temper spun out of control. But she pushed my damn buttons too hard. Getting angry and playing the asshole card is my default. Squashing any possibility for more, regardless of the bullshit Keegan limits slapped down, needed to happen. This way, there is zero potential of us hooking up again. She hates me, and I despise how easily and quickly she wrote me off. Win, win.
Any crumbs leading to her would allow me to go sniffing around again. She doesn’t want that. Eventually, once this misguided lust dissipates, I won’t either. It’s best for me to forget about her altogether.
And here I go, spinning my tires bald again.
A car creeps by me, probably wondering why I’ve been straddling my parked bike for ten minutes. No, I’m not a stalker. This is what the unraveling of a man’s mental health looks like. I give them a choppy wave and they drive along.
This situation is dire enough to force me to make the hour-long trek to Gulligan Haven. My mother moved to a cozy suburb of Cheyenne after my dad discovered her infidelity. I dismount my bike and stride up the driveway. The woman waiting beyond these walls is my best, and only, bet to clear my conscience—not that I’ll tell my mom why I’m seeking retribution. Those fine-print details aren’t important.
The door swings open almost immediately after I knock. The woman responsible for raising me stands in the foyer, wearing a paint-splattered dress to match her crooked smile. “I was starting to wonder how long it would take for you to get up here.”
I scrub over my mouth, hiding a grin. “You knew I was here?”
“Only from the moment you pulled up.” Her laugh spreads warmth through my chest.
Of course she did. My mom is nothing if not observant. It probably works in her favor that no one in this cul-de-sac drives a motorcycle. “I was just enjoying the scenery.”
She peeks outside from over my shoulder. “Anything interesting?”
“Your lawn looks good.” I’d noticed the manicured grass during my so-called period of reflection.
The lightest shade of pink dots her cheeks. “A friend handles those chores for me.”
I snort at her choice of label. Friend, my ass. Kellie Carver has always caught more than her fair share of male attention. Unfaithful to her worthless ex-husband or not, my mom is a bombshell. Maybe I should hold some resentment toward her for breaking apart our family, but all festering hostility is reserved for father dearest. I can’t really blame her for escaping him. “Is that all he’s doing?”
My mom parks a hand on her hip. “Are you going to continue questioning me or finally come inside?”
A loose chuckle rumbles out of me as I step over the threshold. A pungent fog of varnish and primer greet me, the mix of strong odors burning my nose. My mom must be kicking off a new project. “Are you in the middle of something?”
“A few oil canvases. Nothing that can’t wait a bit.” Any artistic talent I have is because of this woman.
“Commissioned or for you?”
My mother glances at me while I follow her into the kitchen. “Both, actually. Looking to buy a piece?”
She earns another laugh for that. The walls of my micro loft are already decorated with her pictures. Aside from appreciating her talent, it’s another way to fuck with my father. Whenever he stalks into my apartment, always uninvited, a colorful gallery from his greatest loss meets him. That’s the biggest middle finger if I’ve ever seen one.
“Even if I wanted more, I don’t have the surface space.”
“You are my best customer,” she muses. “Take a seat. Have you had lunch?”
My ass hits a chair before the words are out of her mouth. “I could eat.”
“As always.” There’s humor in her voice as she turns to the fridge. “So, what brings you by?”
I drum my thumbs on the table. “I was out for a ride. Ended up nearby, so I figured why not? The oil in your car is about due for a change, right?”
My mom moves to the counter with an armful of sandwich supplies. “An hour away from home?”
“Barely opened up the throttle.” I study her while she begins slicing a cucumber. “Do you need help?”
My mom tsks at me. “Let me take care of you since no one else does. You’re always driving all over this state alone without a companion.”
“You act as if that’s unusual.”
She makes another sharp noise. “I wish you’d find others to roll with. The road isn’t always a friendly place.”
As the mother of two diehard machinists, she has firsthand knowledge of that. Well, only one of us still is. But Grant taught her that lesson. The familiar sting lashes across my torso. It takes all of my willpower to school my expression. Maybe it’s a good thing she doesn’t have to think about him out on the open road anymore.
Listening to her speech, it’s almost difficult to remember that she’s responsible for our motorcycle craze. During the summers while I was growing up, we spent almost every weekend at the motocross track or a biker event of some kind. Sturgis is still my favorite rally.
We were garage junkies and couldn’t wait to have a ride of our own. I saved every cent in a piggy bank until I could open an actual bank account. It was an ongoing joke that my dad would eventually wise up and crush our dreams. But that never happened. He was always too busy with work, and didn’t care enough anyway. When Grant turned sixteen, he got his license and bought a bike the same afternoon. I still remember the envy that tingled in my gut. Two years later, we were coasting down the highway together.
Those were the best damn months of my life. Nothing that great can last, though. Grant dropped off the broken parts of his once-beloved hog without batting an eyelash. I haven’t had the strength to touch that pile of rusting wreckage since he dropped it. One moment can change several lives.
I wade out of those dark memories and glare at a water stain on the ceiling. My mother’s “friend” needs to improve his game. I’m about to tell her so when she plops a plate in front of me. The juicy aroma of smoked turkey and toasted bread tempts my taste buds. I wait for her to sit down before taking the biggest bite my jaw will allow.
“Good?” She watches while I chew. I’d be creeped out if she wasn’t related to me.
“Mh-hmm, this is great.” I chomp into the middle, nearly groaning when a burst of my mom’s homemade honey mustard hits my tongue.
She grins and bites down on a carrot, crunching happily as if the vegetable is made out of chocolate. “What else are you doing with your life, Ford?”
I furrow my brow at her weird phrasing. “Besides working my ass off? Hiking and hunting. Drinking the occasional beer.” No need to make her worry about something else.
“How about going out with friends?”
Prickles attack the base of my neck and I try not to slouch. Why do I feel like that awkward teenager again? “Don’t need ’em. I have Patch, and my customers.”
“But you do need others. People to depend on when things get rough, and spend time with for fun.”
Am I ashamed to admit that my mom is the only person I can rely on? Not even a little bit. But I can’t make this too easy on her. She’ll use the smallest scraps to piece together the entire story without me realizing it. “I’m fine on my own, Mom.”
She huffs and crosses her arms. “You’re not getting any younger.”
“I’m only twenty-six.”
“How about finding a good woman?”
“Not interested,” I grunt.
“Don’t you want kids someday?”
These questions from
her almost bowl me over. The idea of getting married, or having a committed relationship in general, is enough to shrivel my balls. To add insult to that painful injury, visions of snotty children running amuck sends a chill across my skin. No fucking thanks. Although, not all of my experiences with little tykes are bad. A quiet little girl helping me replace spark plugs comes to mind.
Keegan mentioned that I’m turning Millie against her. The meaning behind that is still a mystery to me. I only spoke to her that one morning when she was lost. Keegan didn’t give us the chance to make plans, not that I want any sort of connection to them. I did invite Millie to visit my shop again, though. Maybe that was a mistake. But it’s been weeks and there’s been no sign of those blonde pigtails. I swallow the lump in my throat. It’s for the best, on all accounts. Even if Millie spoke to me when she rarely talks to others. That doesn’t make me special. Keegan has plenty to bark about in regard to that. An involuntary thrill shoots through me. Damn wildcat.
My mother drums her nails on the table. “Choosing to ignore me? Why ever might that be, Ford?”
I reel in the whipping sails of my thoughts. This is not the place to be recalling Keegan or Millie or anything slightly positive in regards to the female population. If my mom catches me smiling, I’m done for. I lean down to dig into my toolbox and toss her a wrench. “Are you giving Grant this lecture?”
She frowns, the expression dimming the sparkle in her eyes. Unlike me, my brother blames her for every wrongdoing since his accident. Talking about him is about as pleasant as swallowing staples, but it beats the birds and bees chat. “No, he’s a different story.”
“And why is that?”
“Your brother made it clear the bachelor life is for him.”
I grunt at that bullshit excuse. “That’s real rich.”
She smooths a palm down her stained outfit. “Isn’t it? He takes after a certain someone in that regard.”
“And many others,” I mutter.
My mother reaches for my hand. “Be better than him.”
She doesn’t have to specify further. I’m well aware of who she’s referring to. “I’m nothing like him.”
Her smile droops at the corners. “You’re not, that’s true. I think that’s what upsets him most.”
“If only Grant would see the truth.” I force down the ball of fire rising in my gut. “He’s the better one. Older and wiser. More likely to get hitched and spawn a bunch of hellions.”
My mom averts her gaze. “I highly doubt that. He’s changed so much that I barely recognize him. All he cares about is work.”
I scrub over my forehead. “Wasn’t that the first thing on my list?”
She waves me off. “You’re different, always have been. It’s just going to take the right woman and you’ll be a goner.”
A strangled noise rips out of me before I can conceal it. I leap up and make a mad dash for the fridge and swipe a beer. “Not a chance. Ever.”
She quirks a pencil-thin brow at me. “Why the snippy attitude? Is my son finally dealing with lady trouble? That would explain the random stop to see me.”
I choke on my sip of the foamy brew. Damn, she truly is perceptive. I should’ve known. “Hardly,” I mutter.
My mom flattens her lips, still studying me far too closely. “Yeah, that’s not your style. Something wrong at the shop?”
“Why does there have to be a problem? Can’t I just check in on my mom?” And make random sounds that resemble a struggle. Nothing to see here—move along.
“You can, but you don’t.” She taps her chin.
“Have to change your oil,” I remind her.
She scoffs nice and loud. “Don’t bullshit me. I can see right through you, kiddo.”
I guzzle another swig of beer. “Just having a rough week.”
“Money issues? Are you gambling? I warned you about that.”
I groan. “No, mother. It’s not important. She’s not interested and neither am I.”
Her gasp toes the line with a fatal blow to my resolve. I can almost feel my walls crumbling from the impact. “So, it is a woman. Who is she?”
A slew of curses slam into me and my loose lips. Dammit, there’s no easy way out of this trap I set for myself. “No one. I didn’t mean anything by that. There’s nothing more to say.”
My mom looks far too pleased with herself. The sly grin curling the edges of her mouth make my knees bounce. “You don’t have to tell me more, son. Mother’s intuition. I’ll be here when you’re ready. In the meantime, I can give you some advice. My current beau is very talented—”
I clap my hands over my ears like a scandalized child. “Please don’t.”
Her laugh is over the top. “You are many things, but a prude isn’t one of them.”
I’m certain my eyes are blown wide. “I don’t want to hear about my mom’s private affairs.”
A palm flutters to her chest. “Oh, Ford. You make me sound so classy. I like that. But listen, if you take the time to really get—”
And that’s my cue to get the fuck out of this nightmare. I stand, almost toppling the chair over in my haste. “Nope, nah, not doing this.”
“Wimp,” she mutters.
I bend and place a quick kiss on the crown of her head. “Call me whatever you want. I’m outta here.”
“I expect more details and soon.” Her giggle follows me to the door.
“Good luck with that. There’s no woman and never will be.”
“Oh, Ford. Don’t bother lying to me. I’m certain you’ve already met her.”
I stumble over the rug, narrowly missing a full-on faceplant. Once again, her suspicions are spot on. How the hell do I prove her wrong when she’s exactly right?
Healing Hug #13: When a shoulder to lean on isn’t quite enough.
I ease off the brake so my car can crawl forward a few inches in the drop-off line. These unstructured bouts of time used to be a blessing—a slice of quiet before the chaos is every parent’s dream. But now, as I sit and wait to reach the unloading zone, my idle mind ambles into enemy territory.
There aren’t enough days in a week to move past the destruction known as Crawford Doxe. Each second that ticks by is a curse I can’t escape. My body has become a traitor, demanding actions I refuse to take. Regret has been consuming me, swirling in my belly on a constant basis. But more potent than that is the burning desire for a repeat performance. The latter is what takes all of my energy to stave off.
My good intentions don’t stand a chance against the cravings for Crawford’s wicked smirk and sinful moves. Why does he have to be so incredible in the sack? And stupid-hot? The type of good looks that make women lose touch with reality, their integrity, and common sense. Yeah, he’s beyond a menace. What’s worse than a blob of putty melting in his palm? Whatever it is, that’s me. And I need to stop obsessing over this.
“Mama?”
The twinkling tune knocks me out of my intrusive musings. Crap, I’m busted. These wandering thoughts need to quit. I adjust the rearview mirror to get a full glimpse of Millie. “Yeah, sweetie?”
“You’re frowning again.” She’s wearing one of her own.
I shove the rest of the murky distractions away, pasting on the widest grin and feeling guilty I’ve worried her. “I’m always sad for you to leave me.”
My daughter wrinkles her nose. “There’s something else bothering you.”
No secret there. Double crap. She isn’t aware of my additional interactions with Crawford, obviously, and that’s how this secret scandal shall remain. It would probably break her heart to discover the not-so-shiny knight could hurt her mama’s feelings. I refuse to be the one who reveals his true nature. That doesn’t mean I need to encourage the obsession, though. I’m banking on Crawford fading into the distant past soon enough.
To be fair, finding out her mother is responsible for half of the blame won’t bode well either. When she asked about my night out, I glossed over the hours spent away from her. She pestered me
a bit, mostly about a certain mechanic, but let the topic drop when I kept my lips sealed. I’ll be adding that evening to the list of debauchery she’ll never be aware of. Distraction is the key to my well-meaning ploy. The rapidly approaching summer break is a great trick, too.
“Do your teachers have anything fun planned for the final week?” I discreetly cross my fingers that another nature walk isn’t on the list. Losing my daughter in the woods should be enough to veto that field trip in the foreseeable future.
“There’s a talent show tomorrow,” Millie whispers.
I let my jaw hang loose. “What? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because.”
“Did you try out? Is there something I need to sign? Do you need a costume?” I tick off the questions with my fingers.
“No, Mom.” Her tone bangs against the back of my seat, vibrating the cushion.
I wince. “Whoa, Miss Priss. What’s the deal?”
“Being on stage in front of everyone is my worst nightmare.” Sometimes she sounds ten years beyond her seven. My sweet little girl.
“Okay, Mills. That’s just fine. Are you okay?”
Her gaze is pointed out the window. “I’ll be better once school is out.”
“Is someone bothering you?”
She traces an imaginary pattern on the glass. “Just the usual.”
Her muted voice scratches at the softest, most delicate parts of me. The anxiety and stress she is feeling stacks on my shoulders in wide bricks. I don’t want to prod too hard when the topic has been discussed at length. My daughter isn’t a social butterfly, and that’s perfectly fine. “You’ll tell me if it’s something serious?”
“Uh-huh, sure. Are you working with Josey today?”
I let her off the hook. If anything extreme is going on, I’m counting on her teacher to tell me. “Yup, sure am. I’m meeting her at Steeped once you scurry that cute little bootie inside.”