Gypsy Soul: A Bad Boy Protector Romance (Lost Boys Book 3)

by Janice M. Whiteaker

  Gypsy Soul, Book 3 of the Lost Boys MC series

  Copyright 2019 by Janice M. Whiteaker.

  www.janicemwhiteaker.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First printing, 2019

  Cover design by Robin Harper at Wicked by Design.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Epilogue

  Also By Janice M. Whiteaker

  too much

  [too much]

  : an intolerable, impossible, or exhausting situation or experience

  “the effort proved too much for her”

  1

  I BLINK HARD, working both eyes open as I round the corner, headed for the coffee maker holding the decaffeinated gloriousness I can almost already taste.

  I stop short.

  All my hopes for a morning of normalcy go up in smoke at the sight of Gypsy standing in front of my refrigerator.

  In his damn underwear.

  Again.

  I’m losing my fucking mind. He’s going to make me absolutely lose my fucking mind. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” The question comes out on a deep drawl, low and tempting.

  And I’m not answering. It’s a trick.

  It always is with him. The only option I have is to throw out a question of my own. “Why are you already awake?”

  Gypsy steps back, letting the door to my fridge swing closed, eliminating the only barrier between my eyes and most of his body.

  But I keep my gaze locked firmly on his face. Not that it’s any safer to look at.

  Why couldn’t he be ugly? Maybe a little less—

  Everything.

  Hell, at this point I’d just settle for someone who didn’t send my brain into the gutter every damn second of the day.

  “Someone’s got to keep you safe, Beanie.” His tone is too warm. Too soft.

  Men aren’t usually soft with me.

  Probably because I’m never soft with them.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?” Gypsy moves from the fridge to the stove, a carton of eggs in one hand.

  “I should be, but someone is in my way.”

  He’s been here almost a month.

  One month of Gypsy walking around my house wearing fewer and fewer clothes.

  One month of Gypsy showering in my bathroom, each time spending longer and longer under the hot spray, water cascading over the hard planes of his body, steam fogging the air around him.

  Leaving me on the other side of the door envisioning just what he’s up to in there.

  I can imagine. And I do. Obviously.

  Which is a ridiculous waste of my time.

  Because this is temporary. Soon this whole thing with King will be worked out, and Gypsy will be gone from my life.

  And it’s taking everything I have to make myself feel temporary about Gypsy.

  “Fuck.” I march around him, putting my back to the man wreaking havoc on my life and my sense of self.

  I’m not this kind of girl. Never have been. I always go for what I want and take no prisoners, letting the chips fall where they may.

  But Gypsy makes me all sorts of things I’m not.

  High-strung.

  Irritable.

  Bossy.

  Frustrated.

  No. That’s a lie. I’m all those things.

  He just makes me worse.

  I grab the coffee pot off the warmer, pulling it a little too hard and a little too fast, sending the screaming hot liquid bouncing from the hole in the center of the lid, splashing out right onto my hand. “Fuck.” I plunk the glass decanter onto the counter and shake the scalding brew off.

  Gypsy moves fast, grabbing my wrist with one hand and pulling it under the faucet. He twists on the tap and cold water pours over the blotchy red spot spreading across the base of my thumb to the back of my hand. He doesn’t say a word, which is good because his sudden nearness has my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth.

  His body is too close, the warmth of his skin soaking into mine through the thin fabric of my pajamas.

  It’s the closest he’s been to me outside of the ride I took on his bike after he and his friends retrieved me and my friends from a brand new club in town. Then and the night I started a fight with him at Hawk’s house. But I was too scared and then too mad to enjoy either of those experiences.

  I shouldn’t be enjoying this either. It will only lead to something I’m sadly familiar with.

  Disappointment.

  I pull my hand from his, stepping away from the tempting warmth of his body. “Thank you.”

  I don’t look at him. I can’t.

  He silently turns off the faucet and the feel of his eyes on me is as tangible as an actual touch.

  The thought of an actual touch from Gypsy, one with a more intimate purpose, is enough to make me almost fumble pouring my coffee a second time. I have to force myself to focus on the task instead of the man still close at my side.

  “How many eggs do you want, Beanie?”

  I heave out a breath. “Please stop calling me that.”

  “I don’t think so.” Gypsy flips open the lid on the container of eggs he pulled out. “Two?”

  “You don’t have to make me breakfast.” I would prefer he not, actually. I don’t like this strange domesticity Gypsy brought with him when he crashed into my life and my apartment. Don’t like how easy it would be to get used to.

  To miss when it’s gone.

  “Going to anyway.” He pulls out a pan and sets it on the cook top. “Two or three?”

  “God, you’re frustrating.” I push past him, ignoring his question for the second time as I carry my coffee back to the only part of my apartment that hasn’t been tainted with Gypsy’s presence.

  I breathe in the air as soon as I step into my bedroom, hoping to clear the scent of tobacco and leather that permeates every other inch of my place.

  I don’t want to like that it does.

  I don’t want to like any of this.

  So I won’t.

  I drink down as much of my coffee as I can manage without burning away half my esophagus, then grab my robe and run to the shower, the only other place I have to myself this morning. Gypsy’s a night showerer since his work is hot and dirty, so I have exclusive use of the facility before work.

  It also means every night when Gypsy comes to get me at work he’s not just handsome and tattooed and sexy, he’s also a little dirty. A little sweaty. More rugged.

  More male.

  And if he gets any more male I might explode.

  The shower smells like him, and as soon as I get in it feels like he’s there, wrapping around me.

  I scrub my skin till it hurts, trying to rub away the feel of him almost against me.

  I rush to finish, trying to hurry out of the room that leaves me fighting images of
his naked body standing in the exact same spot.

  One hand sliding over his wet skin, soaping it up.

  Maybe more.

  I tear open the shower curtain, knocking off a few of the hooks holding it to the metal rod and sending them sailing, each hitting the wall with a surprising thump before clanging to the tile floor.

  I need to get a grip.

  “Beanie? You okay in there?”

  No. I’m not fucking okay.

  Every damn day I’m staring down the worst kind of temptation, fighting not to make the same mistake I always do.

  And it’s his fault.

  “I’m fine. Go away.” I shove my arms into my robe and tie it on. Gypsy is still outside the door when I open it. I shoulder past him and go back to my room, closing the door on his narrowing hazel eyes.

  I’ve got to get out of here. Away from him. Away from his smell and his body and his ‘I’m here to keep you safe’ bullshit.

  Nothing about Gypsy is safe.

  And I have to remember that.

  I get dressed as fast as I can and work my curly hair into a braid before putting on half my normal dose of make-up. I usually take my time, making sure the wings of my liner are perfectly symmetrical. That whole they’re sisters not twins thing is not okay with me.

  Those bitches are identical in my world.

  But that’s as far as I’m taking it this morning. No fun shadow blends. No careful contouring, hoping to make the most of every feature the good Lord gave me.

  Not today.

  I’ve got to get the hell away from the man tempting me in a way no one before him ever has.

  But I’m not making a fool of myself anymore.

  Especially not in front of the first group of real friends I’ve ever had.

  I shove my feet into a pair of pumps, push back my shoulders, and prepare for another day of hating Gypsy. It’s the only option I have.

  It’s either hate him or risk falling all over him.

  I take a deep breath, fix my face, and open the door.

  “Ready for breakfast?”

  I slam the door shut again.

  “Fuck.” I rest my forehead against the cool surface. I can’t do this.

  He’s making it impossible.

  “Beanie.” Gypsy’s voice is smooth as silk on the other side of the door. “Your eggs are getting cold.”

  I’ve never not chased a man.

  Never.

  But I won’t chase Gypsy. No matter how much I want to.

  I just can’t.

  “Felicity.”

  The way my name rolls off his tongue almost makes me cave. I can imagine him saying it on a groan.

  Can imagine him saying it while I do wonderfully terrible things to him.

  “I’m not hungry.” It’s a lie. A self-preserving one, but a lie nonetheless. I can’t sit across the table from him.

  Can’t let myself pretend this is something it’s not.

  It never is and I’m tired.

  Tired of running and ending up in the same place.

  Alone.

  And that’s where I’ll be when King is back where he belongs.

  I steel myself to the impending sight of Gypsy in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs that cling to every bit of him.

  All. Of. It.

  But when I open the door this time, Gypsy is gone, and the twinge of sadness I feel over it is one more reminder of the kind of woman I am and have always been.

  All in. All the time. To a fault.

  Not anymore. My heart can’t take it.

  I tip my chin up and stride to the kitchen, refilling my travel cup without seeing so much as a peek of Gypsy. I check my work bag, making sure my computer and the work I brought home last night are packed up and ready for today’s meetings.

  Still no sign of Gypsy.

  I check my watch, wondering if maybe he’s decided driving me to work every morning is more of a chore than it’s worth.

  It wouldn’t be the first time a man’s decided I’m not worth his time.

  Fine.

  It’s fine.

  I hook my purse over one arm and grab my computer bag. My keys are in hand when Gypsy’s voice at my back glues my feet in place.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  His voice is so deep, almost liquid in the way the words flow from his lips, pooling in parts of me that are supposed to be pretending Gypsy doesn’t exist.

  “To work.” I don’t turn around. Facing him head on is becoming more dangerous every day.

  Because I’m getting delirious, reading into things that mean nothing.

  Seeing what’s not there.

  Wishing for something that will never happen.

  “There’s only one way you get to work, Felicity, and that’s with me.” He’s right behind me, close enough the heat of his words warms the curve of my ear.

  All I’d have to do is lean back a single inch and my body would be pressed against his. I would finally know the feel of his strength. His power.

  A month ago I would have done it. Hell, a month ago I would have already had him in my bed.

  And then been too pushy.

  Too fast.

  Too much.

  “You don’t go anywhere without me, Beanie. I’m your shadow, remember?”

  I shut my eyes as he leans closer, the solid wall of his chest barely resting against my back.

  It doesn’t mean anything.

  It never does.

  “Fine.” I step away even though all I want to do is be close to him.

  Pretend he wants to be close to me.

  Gypsy chuckles low in his chest.

  I spin to face him. Frustrated and sad and honestly a little angry that he thinks this is funny. “What?”

  Gypsy is on me in an instant, his body lining up against mine.

  Panic stabs my gut.

  He’s too close.

  Too strong.

  Too tempting.

  One long finger comes to trace the line of my jaw. “Why do you pretend to hate me, Beanie?”

  “I’m not pretending.”

  It sounds true.

  It’s not.

  But Gypsy can’t know that. No one can.

  I wish I didn’t.

  “You are.” His hazel eyes move over my face. “Maybe you should stop. See what happens.”

  That’s the problem. I know exactly what will happen.

  It’s not good.

  Gypsy’s finger continues its torturous trail. I’m almost positive if I could see my reflection there would be a line of flushed skin showing the path of his touch.

  I shouldn’t be letting this happen.

  But I can’t seem to make myself stop it.

  Gypsy’s eyes follow his finger, their freshwater hue deepening with each passing second. The pad of his finger slides over my collarbone, barely dipping under the high-neckline of my tailored dress. “You need to eat, Felicity.” His gaze lifts to mine. “I packed your breakfast so you can take it with you.”

  “Thank you.” I don’t mean to say it. I’m not supposed to be nice to him.

  I’m supposed to hate him. It’s the only way I will make it through this.

  “You’re welcome.” Gypsy pulls in a deep breath. “Let’s get you to work.” He steps away, stealing his touch and his presence.

  Because they don’t belong to me.

  They never will.

  He hands me a container and grabs the keys to his car before opening the door to my townhouse, resting one hand on my back as he leads me outside.

  Gypsy doesn’t normally touch me. Not at all.

  It’s been the one saving grace of this whole thing. At least he wasn’t touching me.

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand it if he was.

  I was right.

  I start to walk faster, feeling a little like I should run as far as I can get.

  Hide.

  From Gypsy. From the woman I’ve always been.

  I can’t b
e her anymore.

  I hurry to the passenger side of his El Camino and fall into the seat, stacking my bags on my lap, clutching the container of still-warm eggs he made me.

  Gypsy watches me from the sidewalk in front of the car; standing there long enough I shift in my seat.

  Finally he gets in, letting out a long sigh as he starts the engine.

  I almost ask what’s wrong.

  Then I remember I don’t care.

  Because I hate him.

  I press my lips together, forcing myself to keep quiet as I stare out the windshield.

  Gypsy is silent too. No one says a word as we make the ten minute drive to my office.

  As soon as the car stops I reach for the door. I need to get away from him.

  His hand wraps around my upper arm, strong and solid. “Stop it.”

  Gypsy’s tone is sharp enough to turn my head his way. “What?”

  “I said stop it. I’m done playing this game with you, Felicity.”

  I’ve never heard him so serious. So—

  Almost angry. Gypsy is never angry.

  It makes me tell him the truth. “It’s not a game.”

  I’m not playing. For the first time in my life I’m not. It never works.

  His hand doesn’t move from my arm and his eyes don’t leave my face. We sit and stare at each other for more than a few heartbeats.

  “I’ll be here at five to get you.” He shifts away, the full force of his gaze finally moving from me. The hand that was on my body grips the steering wheel tight enough the leather creeks under the pressure.

  “Fine.” I grab my things and shove open the door. One foot is on the ground when Gypsy’s voice stops me.

  “Tonight we’re going to straighten a few things out, Felicity. I mean it. I’m done.”

  I don’t turn around. Don’t even acknowledge that I heard his low words.

  Instead, I close the door, straighten my shoulders, and walk directly inside the office where I’ve worked since graduating college. No looking back.

  “Who’s that guy dropping you off lately?” Bob, one of the senior accountants stares out the front door, coffee cup in hand.

  “No one.” I keep walking even though all I want to do is turn around.

  See if Gypsy’s still there, or if he drove away the second I was in the building, grateful his job is done for the morning.

  That’s what I am to him. A job. Reading any more into it would be stupid.

  And I’m done being stupid.