Park (Archer's Creek Book 4)

by Gemma Weir

  I don’t really understand his motivation to spend time with me. I mean obviously this isn’t a date, but he called us new friends. I mean, I think being friends with your possibly ex best friend’s, half/estranged brother is okay. Right?

  With a quick wave to Gary as I pass the little desk he’s using as a reception area, I make my way outside and settle down to sit on the porch steps. Only a couple of minutes later I hear the newly familiar roar of a motorcycle and then Park’s bike slows to a stop at the curb. Pulling my bag over my head to rest across my chest I push up from the steps and walk to him.

  Like before, he’s not wearing a helmet, and his rainbow hair is windswept and even more disheveled. Strangely it’s a good look for him. His classically strong jaw and high cheekbones are juxtaposed by his myriad of tattoos, metal rings and bars, and the vibrant colors in his hair. Everything about him screams look-at-me, but from what I know of him so far his personality isn’t loud or gaudy.

  His lips spread into a wide smile the closer I get to him and I can’t help but smile back. I’m pleased to see him. It’s only been a few hours since he left me at the hotel, and I’m not sure I ever expected to see him again, but like before, his presence fills me with calm and warmth. It’s a strange sensation, but just like when he texted me, it’s unexpected, but makes complete sense at the same time.

  Neither of us speaks when I reach him and instead he just glances behind him to the seat of his bike and holds out a hand to help me. I lift my palm to his, intending to take his hand, but before I get a chance, he smirks, pulling it away.

  “I forgot that you’re only a tiny wee Rosebud.” Park says as he scoops me into the air, lowering me gently down onto the seat.

  “Hey, I’m not tiny, I’m vertically challenged,” I say with mock annoyance.

  “Sure you are,” Park says with a wink, before climbing back onto the bike and starting the engine.

  Wrapping my arms around his waist, I rest my cheek against his leather clad back and giggle when the bike surges forward. The ride is exhilarating and again I’m disappointed when we pull into a restaurant and slow to a stop.

  “You’re not a vegetarian or anything are you, ‘cause this place has great steak and barbeque ribs?”

  I shake my head, shuddering in horror at the idea of a world without meat, then sigh as my mouth waters at the thought of a fat steak and a baked potato full of sour cream and butter. “Steak sounds amazing. Taylor doesn’t like to eat food with actual calories, so we tend to go to places with small portions and quinoa.”

  Park laughs and the sound is rich and warm. “Yeah, she always ate way too healthy for my liking.”

  Like the mention of Taylor has killed the conversation, we enter the restaurant in silence. The hostess eyes Park with a mixture of apprehension and appreciation as she leads us to a booth, her roving eyes feasting on him until she’s forced to leave us. “I think you have a fan,” I say, smirking and nodding my head toward the pretty blonde hostess, who is still watching Park over her shoulder.

  Park’s eyes don’t lift from his menu as he scoffs. “She’s not my type.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I look down at my menu. It only takes me a minute to choose, but I keep staring at the words while a tension swirls between us.

  A few awkward moments later a waitress arrives at our table. “Hey there, can I get you guys some drinks?”

  “I’ll have a beer please,” Park says. “And a…” He looks to me.

  “I’ll have a glass of white wine please.”

  “A glass of white wine, thanks,” he says to the waitress.

  With a nod she turns and leaves. Park’s eyes catch mine and seem to take me in, his gaze lingering on my head.

  “You tied back your hair.”

  Lifting my hand, I touch at one of the braids. “Oh yeah, it gets in my way sometimes.”

  “It’s such a beautiful color. It seems a shame to hide it,” he says almost wistfully.

  I open my mouth to speak, but the waitress appears at the side of our table with our drinks on a tray. Placing my wine in front of me, she tucks the tray under her arm and lifts a pad and pen from the apron tied around her waist.

  “Are you ready to order?”

  Park looks to me and I nod. “Can I get the New York Strip, medium, with a baked potato and corn please.”

  I can feel Park’s eyes on me and when I look back to him, he smirks. “I’ll have the same please,” he says, not moving his gaze away from me.

  “Okay then, thank you. Let me know if you need anything else.” The waitress says before turning and walking away.

  “What?” I ask when Park continues to smirk at me. “Did you think I was lying when I said I liked real food?”

  His smirk becomes a full smile. “It’s just nice to be out with a normal person.”

  “The people you usually go to dinner with aren’t normal?”

  “Not the women, no.”

  “Maybe you should start picking better dinner companions from now on,” I say teasingly.

  His eyes lock with mine and his pale eyes seem to twinkle. “I think you might be right.”

  Is he flirting with me? Heat builds in my stomach and a single butterfly flutters to life. Mentally punching myself in the gut, the butterfly collapses in a heap. I cannot flirt with Taylor’s brother, and I seriously doubt he’s flirting with me.

  He must have asked me to dinner to talk about her; that’s the only thing that makes sense. “She’ll be fine,” I say.

  Park’s brows furrow and he looks at me with confusion etched across his brow. “Who?”

  “Taylor. She’ll be fine.”

  “Oh,” he says, leaning back in his seat, the muscles in his shoulders clenching with tension.

  “I don’t know what happened with you guys. It’s really none of my business. But she’s tough, she’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Taylor,” Park says, cutting me off before I have a chance to speak again.

  “Oh, well then what do you want to talk about?” I ask.

  “You. Let’s talk about you.”

  I don’t know what the hell I thought I was doing asking her out for dinner. Fuck, I can’t really explain why I called myself from her cell, or why I texted her in the first place. The moment I think about her, I smile. It’s weird. Apart from the twenty questions this morning where I found out some basic things about her, I barely know her. But I want to.

  Rosebud appears to be the most unassuming, drama free woman I’ve ever met, and just like the day I met Nikki, I feel like Rosebud and I were meant to find one another. I don’t think I’m lusting after her; right now, I don’t want to rip down her jeans and fuck her over the table. But I want to spend time with her. When I texted her and she’d been vague about where she was, I panicked. The idea that she might have left curled into my gut and made me feel nauseous.

  My pesky cynical brain says that maybe this is all about Taylor, but I don’t think it is. Rosebud keeps trying to steer the conversation back to her, but I don’t want to talk about Taylor. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized that I don’t want a relationship with her. She’s my sister, but we’ll never be normal siblings. I don’t desire her or love her anymore, but there’s too much fucked-up shit between us. I mean, hell, she tried to seduce me knowing that we’re related. I’ll never be able to get past that.

  “You. Let’s talk about you,” I say when she tries to steer the conversation back to Taylor again.

  “Me?” She says, the hint of surprise in her voice absolutely adorable.

  “Yes, Rosebud, you. I’d like for us to be friends; not because of Taylor, just because of you. So, let’s get to know each other better.”

  Resting her elbows on the table, she lays her chin in her hand and tilts her head to the side assessing me. “You already know stuff about me. Let’s talk about you.”

  With a conciliatory nod, I gesture with my hand. “Ask away then, my little rosebud. Wh
at do you want to know?”

  She smirks, then pauses for a minute as she thinks. “Hmmm, you never actually told me what you do for a living.”

  “I’m a tattoo artist. The club has a shop not far from here that I run.”

  “I should have guessed. Anyone with that much ink must be really passionate about tattoo art,” she replies, her eyes running along the colorful images on my arm.

  “I love that you called it art. As far as I’m concerned that’s what it is; permanent art that you can adorn your body with. I got my first tattoo when I was eighteen. It was a St Brigid’s cross. My dad went crazy, but I knew even after that first time I’d get more. To some, my tattoos might be crass or offensive, but every single line on my body has a meaning or a memory. This is my story inked into my very skin.”

  Her fingers reach out and brush lightly across the bright yellow smiley face inked on my wrist. “What’s the meaning behind this one?”

  With a laugh, I tap at the image. “This is from the night Echo and I went on a road trip and rode our bikes into Mexico. We ended up partying for an entire night with a stoner guy who was convinced he was Bob Marley reincarnated.”

  “So why the smiley face?” she asks, her lips spread into a warm, amused smile.

  “Everything the guy had on was covered in smiley face stickers. Like everything: his shirt, his pants, even his shoes, and he kept singing ‘don’t worry, be happy’ in this terrible Jamaican accent. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much in my entire life. I got the smiley face the day we came back, and whenever I look at it, it always makes me smile.”

  Her entire face lights up when she laughs, changing her features. She’s beautiful anyway, but the happiness that’s radiating from her right now makes her even more gorgeous.

  My eyes rake over her. She’s tiny: only five foot three or maybe five foot four at a push. Her mane of red hair is tied back into braids and my fingers itch to pull the hair ties and free it. Everything about her is glorious and lush. She’s curvy and sexy, but not in an obvious way. In fact, apart from her hair, everything about Rosebud is understated. Her skin is porcelain and creamy, freckles are sprinkled across her nose and cheeks, and I don’t think she’s wearing any makeup. She obviously doesn’t need it.

  The tank top she’s wearing is a floaty material and I can clearly see the outline of her full tits, and fuck they look amazing. I know I shouldn’t be looking, but I got an eyeful of her ass before we sat down and fuck, it’s big and peachy and hell if she were mine I’d sink my teeth into it while I finger fucked her from behind and love every fucking minute.

  “What made you decide to become a biker?” she asks, her expression open and curious, her chin still rested in her hands.

  My cock twitches in my pants but I carefully adjust myself and ignore it. We’re going to be friends and my cock shouldn’t be hard for my friend. “After I left home, I went back to Ireland. I spent a few months bumming around at my grandparents’ house, but when summer ended, they expected me to come back to the States and start college. I didn’t really know what else to do, so I got a flight home and turned up to UCLA on the first day of school.”

  “You went to UCLA?” Rosebud gasps.

  “No. I couldn’t do it. Taylor and I were supposed to go together.” I pause, not wanting to talk about that. “So I traded in my car, picked up a vintage bike and left. I moved from place to place for a few months, picking up casual jobs here and there just driving across the country. I was bussing tables at a rest stop when I met Clive. He was covered head to toe in tats. We got to chatting one day and he told me all about his shop and how they needed someone to answer the phones and book appointments. The next day I turned up there and applied for the job.”

  “So how did you go from answering phones to actually tattooing?”

  “I’ve always doodled when I’m bored and drawn pictures and stuff. One day Clive spotted me doing it and told me to draw a tree, so I did. He pointed out a few things, showed me how to shade it and make it look real. The next day he told me to draw a dog and he did the same, showed me how to make it better. He did that every day for six months; then one day he gave me a leather bound sketchbook and told me that he wanted me to be his apprentice. Took me two years to fully train to be a tattoo artist and even then, I wasn’t anywhere near as good as him.” Sighing, I rub at the back of my neck with my hand. “He died before he could see me get any better. Just dropped dead of a heart attack one day.”

  Rosebud reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. “I’m so sorry.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. I still miss him, even after all these years. “After the funeral, his daughter shut the shop, so I did the tattoo convention scene for a while. I ended up in Texas and tattooing a huge fucking biker called Pike. He was a Sinner. We talked about the club, the family, his life, and I knew right then and there that we’d met for a reason. I basically followed him to the club and refused to leave until they let me prospect. I’ve been here ever since.”

  She laughs, her hand not leaving mine. “Fate.”

  “Fate,” I agree.

  “So this is home?” She asks, lifting her hand from mine and propping her chin up on it again.

  “Yep, I fucking love this town. It’s nothing like my old life. None of the pretentious bullshit that you get with rich people. Archer’s Creek is an insignificant blip to everyone apart from those of us that live here, to us it’s a little slice of heaven.”

  “Heaven,” she says, amusement clear in her tone.

  The waitress appears at the table with our food and the smell of steak and butter assaults my senses. We stay silent as our plates are placed in front of us, then when the waitress leaves and we’re left alone with the mounds of luscious looking food just waiting to be devoured, I look from my plate up to her. Catching her eye, I smile, then waggle my eyebrows playfully. “See, heaven.”

  She laughs, cutting into her steak then forking a piece into her mouth. Her laugh turns into a moan of pleasure and my dick twitches again at the delicious sound. My mind wars with the thought that I shouldn’t be lusting over her. Maybe it’s just a gut reaction to a beautiful woman, moaning like she would if my fingers were deep inside her and my tongue was lapping at her clit, or maybe it’s just her that’s turning me on, but either way I need to shut it down.

  “Stop!” I silently reprimand myself. Rosebud isn’t just some woman in a club, or a whore looking for a dick to bounce on. I barely know her, but I can already tell that she’s more worthy than most of the women I meet. The way she smiles, the expressive way her eyes convey every emotion she feels; she’s special and I won’t demean her by fantasizing about the sounds she’d make in the heat of passion.

  I can’t explain it, but I know that I need her in my life. She’s one of the most serene, peaceful people I’ve ever met, and being around her settles me. Apart from Nikki, I haven’t had a female friend since Taylor, but I get the feeling that when Rosebud becomes your friend, she gives wholeheartedly of herself and to receive anything from her would be a gift.

  “We’re going to be friends,” I blurt out.

  Rosebud lifts her face, her eyes wide, her lips twitching with amusement at my declaration. “Okay,” she says dragging the single word out.

  “Good,” I say simply, not wanted or needing to discuss it further. No matter what happens, now that I know she exists, I need to be around her.

  We eat in silence for a few moments, then she lowers her silverware to her plate and lifts her wine glass, sipping delicately at the liquid. “Why don’t you want to talk about Taylor?”

  Sighing tiredly, I look at her for a moment. “Because I don’t really have anything to say and because I want to get to know my new friend better.”

  She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Can we talk about her for a few minutes, then we can play twenty questions again?”

  My stomach drops like it’s filled with stones, but I still nod. Hopefully she can ask these que
stions and that will be it, neither of us will ever need to talk about Taylor again.

  “Are you okay?”

  Her question takes me by surprise. I’d expected her to ask about my feelings for Taylor or how I’d found out about her paternity, but her asking if I’m okay completely disconcerts me. “What?” I reply stupidly.

  “I asked if you were okay? All of this stuff with Taylor must be messing with your head.”

  Rubbing at my temple, I avoid her questioning eyes, looking beyond her to the ranch themed decorations adorning the walls. Neither of us speaks and when I finally look back to her, I find her waiting patiently for me.

  “No, I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay since I found out that my dad was a cheating bastard a fucking decade ago, but I will be. Knowing that she knows, that she’s always known, has severed some fucked-up guilt I’ve been carrying around for far too long and it’s time to put it all behind me.”

  Rosebud nods, her eyes sympathetic. “I’m sorry,” she says softly.

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “Because, I doubt she’ll apologize. Because she’s my friend and she hurt you. Because I helped her track you down.”

  The breath I’m taking turns to ice. “Did you know who I was?” I ask. When I’d told her this morning that Taylor was my sister, she’d seemed genuinely shocked, but I’ve met women who are actresses before.

  “No, I didn’t,” she says and the openness of her voice and the guileless way her eyes are staring at me make me believe her.

  “How did the two of you meet?” I ask, needing to break the intensity of the moment and lighten the mood.

  “Is this one of your twenty questions?” she asks, her tone much lighter than only moments before.

  Following her lead, I smirk at her, making my voice playful. “Nope, this is just conversation.”