by Mandie Tepe
“How could you not feel that?”
“Adrenaline, I guess.”
“How many stitches?”
“They didn’t count, they just closed it down and dirty because they had trouble getting the bleeding to stop. That’s why the scar is so gnarly and I wear my hair shaggy the way I do.”
He wouldn’t have believed it, but her eyes got even wider. “Did you have a skull fracture?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “More of a crack, really. It was no big deal.”
“How many times did you come back from missions injured?”
“I don’t know. I never kept track, but mostly the injuries were minor. This was one of the bigger ones.”
She bit her lip. “I saw that movie about Marcus Luttrell. It made me realize what you guys did . . . still do . . . is really intense.”
He shrugged that shoulder again, but didn’t respond.
Jimi took a deep breath and reached up to rub her finger over the scar. “Guess you weren’t very lucky that day,” she murmured.
“Are you kidding? I was lucky as hell. I ran out of there on my own two feet, although my ears were ringing pretty bad,” he grinned.
“Speaking of lucky, how come that’s your Facebook name?”
“Lucky is my SEAL nickname. The guys I went through BUD/S with thought Chance was too . . . well, chancy. Because Chance can go either way,” he laughed. “So, I was always called Lucky.”
“You don’t go by that now?”
“My SEAL buddies and friends from back in San Diego still use it. I was just never Lucky here. Here I’ve always been Chance.”
“Which do you prefer?” she asked.
“I don’t have a preference.” He reached out to play with her hair. “Let’s talk about your name.”
“Let’s not,” she sighed.
“You don’t like it? I think it’s super cool.”
“It’s alright, I guess.” She turned again so they were facing one another. “I scrolled your Facebook profile and went pretty deep,” she grinned.
“Uh oh. Find anything embarrassing?”
“Some of the photos were interesting. You have very eclectic taste in women,” she stated.
“Women?” He watched her warily. “I don’t post photos of me with women in general.”
“Then they must do the posting,” she suggested.
He stretched to reach across her and grabbed his phone off the coffee table. Once he had his Facebook app open he began swiping though the photos.
“See?” Jimi pointed to a picture he was about to scroll past. “That girl there is very interesting. She was kitted out in full-on rock’n’roll street-style and the two of them were playing pool together.
“She’s an acquaintance. We were at some mutual friends’ cook out.”
As they went through more photos—some showing women who were edgy, some elegant, some wholesome, and some athletic—he claimed they were all friends or women who belonged to some of his buddies.
Jimi didn’t know if she believed it or not, but she eventually stopped teasing him about them, ending with, “They’re all just so different.”
Chance took the phone out of her hands, closed the app and tossed the phone back onto the table. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “Wanna know what they all have in common?” he murmured.
She was afraid for him to tell her, but she asked, “What?” anyway.
“None of them have anything on you,” he whispered.
And he gave her a real kiss. A great kiss. Finally.
CHAPTER 8
Chance and Jimi shared plenty more of those kisses over the course of that week while they made every effort to spend time together.
On Tuesday he cooked dinner for her after she got off work. When she returned home from church activities on Wednesday night, he showed up at her door with the signature caramel apples a local candy shop was famous for. Jimi had set aside Thursday evening for packing up her wares for the rally, so he dropped by to help her with that . . . and just to be with her.
While they continued sharing stories and getting to know one another, Chance was starting to believe that it would be awhile before he began to tire of her. He hadn’t allowed himself to enter even short-lived relationships often, but that’s what usually made him shut them down pretty quickly . . . boredom or some behavior his women exhibited that wore on him. He saw no sign of that with Jimi so far. Because he enjoyed her so much, he hoped he never would.
On Friday morning he was sitting in his living room with a cup of coffee and the TV tuned into one of the morning news shows when he heard her door shut across the hall. His first instinct was to jump up and run after her so he could bask in a few moments of Jimi-time before she drove off for work. He forced himself to stay seated, though. Her presence in his life had gotten to mean too much to him too fast. It was probably a good thing that she would be gone for the weekend, even though he was dreading her not being around.
He spent the morning trying to keep busy. He did a load of laundry, changed the batteries in Willy’s smoke detectors, and had a nice long visit with one of his more entertaining ex-SEAL buddies when Charley called him to catch up.
Charley traveled a lot for business and he would call, using Chance—or Lucky as his friend still referred to him—to kill the time during airport layovers. During their talk, it came to his attention that he was sharing a good many Jimi did this/Jimi said that stories when his buddy started giving him crap over it. Yeah, he was in trouble.
While he had been on the phone he’d gotten a voice mail message from the CPD’s Lieutenant Bobby Walsh who he had spoken to earlier in the week. He invited Chance to come in and talk with some other representatives at the station about a possible job opportunity. Since some of the things Walsh had shared with him on Monday piqued his interest, he called back immediately and set up an appointment for the following Monday afternoon.
Later, pulling into the parking lot after meeting his brother for lunch (well, River had breakfast), he noticed four Harleys—one of which he recognized as Axel’s—parked there. A beat up white pickup rolled in behind him—Nova behind the wheel. There were four leather-clad bikers standing on the sidewalk with Jimi.
He’d known she had planned to take off work early, but didn’t expect to see her until mid-afternoon. She must have gotten her tasks completed earlier than expected.
Chance wandered over, his attention on Nova expertly backing into a parking spot so the tailgate would be flush with the sidewalk.
As he got even with the truck she hopped out and greeted him with a huge flirty smile. “Hiya, Chance!” She stepped up, wrapped her arms tight around his muscled tatted arm, and gave him a peck on the cheek. It stunned him, but he smiled down at her and squeezed her waist where his hand had landed.
“Yo!” a deep voice growled.
Chance looked up to see there were three pairs of brown eyes blasting him. The fourth pair only laughed in amusement at the situation. He’d thought Jimi got her eyes from her mother and, though it appeared that the entire clan shared brown eyes, hers were closer in color to her father’s families’—more dark chocolate than milk.
Nova kept hold of Chance’s arm and walked them closer to the others. “Chill, baby. This is Jimi’s Chance. Chance . . . that’s my ol’ man—Jock.” She pointed to a fairly short but wiry badass with blonde/gray hair. “And that’s his brother—Zip . . . and nephew—Runner. ‘Course you know Zip’s other boy—Axel.”
Chance was still reeling a bit from her referencing him as belonging to Jimi. Apparently Jimi was too because her face had gone pale before flooding with bright pink. He enjoyed that reaction, so he’d ponder whether he was indeed Jimi’s or not later.
Putting out his hand, he greeted her father. “Mr. Alexander.”
Her pops grunted. “Jock.”
After he had shaken hands all around, Chance stepped over to Jimi and kissed her cheek—barely brushing the corner of her mouth. “Peach
es,” he murmured, ignoring the speculative looks he was getting.
It appeared Jimi had enough dilly-dallying. “Come on . . . let’s get loaded up and on the road,” she said. “I wanna get there with enough daylight to set up for tonight.”
The five men and two women trooped inside and up the stairs to Jimi’s apartment. Jock and Zip broke off and approached Roscoe sitting outside his apartment. They performed some elaborate old school handshake and bantered for a few moments before joining the others inside. There were so many of them to help they were able to take all of the plastic bins and Jimi’s overnight bag in one trip.
After her bins were loaded into the truck bed among the others’ camping gear and her booth table that her parents had brought from where she kept it stored in their backyard shed, they strapped everything down under tarps with bungee cords. When that was done, she tossed her bag into the cab.
Her father watched her do this and his mouth twisted. “I wish you’d just camp with your fam’ly instead of staying in that hotel, little girl.”
“Well . . . my days in the wild west are over, Pops. No more disgusting shower houses with moldy concrete floors, porta-potties and food that tastes like propane from being cooked on camp stoves.”
“Hey!” Zip protested. “I got good smoked ribs enough for ever’body in there,” he gestured to the truck.
Jimi leaned into her uncle and he snaked an arm around her. “I know, Uncle Zip. And I plan to take advantage of that. But, come on . . . you’ve tasted the ol’ ladies’ breakfasts.”
To Chance’s surprise, Nova didn’t take offense at her statement.
Jock shot his daughter a look. “Say what you will about it bein’ the wild west, Jimi girl, but you’d be safer out there with us to watch over you than at some cheap motel.”
She let go of Zip and stepped over to hug her father. “I’ll be fine, Pops. You taught me how to take care of myself.”
He growled and squeezed her. “You’re gonna convoy with us down there—right?”
“Sure. You all go ahead. I want to talk to Chance for a minute and I’ll catch up.”
Nova snorted. “Yeah, Jock. She wants to talk to Chance for a minute,” she repeated sarcastically.
Axel turned on a boot and shot over his shoulder as he walked away. “Yep,” he said nonchalantly, “Jimi’s been doing a lotta talking with Chance this week.”
“Get bent,” Jimi snarked at her cousin while he and his brother guffawed.
Runner had fallen into step with Axel. “You gonna let her get away with that kinda language?” he directed to Jock ironically.
Jock ignored all of this and stood scowling at Chance.
Nova had already climbed up and settled onto the back dual bucket seat on her husband’s Harley. “C’mon, baby. Let’s ride.”
Chance didn’t know—but Jimi did—that “let’s ride” were the magic words that Nova used to get Jock to do almost anything she wanted him to do.
Chance and Jimi stood and watched the four bikes roll out, each of the riders—including Jock—flicking their hands out in badass biker farewell.
Now that they were alone, he looked down into her pretty face. “What was it you wan—”
She cut off his question by planting a kiss on his mouth. Chance smiled through it thinking that he guessed Jock had something to be concerned about after all. This thought did not keep him from diving right in and enjoying the several minutes they spent making out.
As she pulled away, she called out an assurance that she would call and let him know she got there safely. He knew she was essentially traveling with her very protective male relatives and their MC, but he still wanted to hear from her.
None of them noticed the gang of kids out by the dumpster watching the whole time.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
By the time Jimi pulled into the Crosswinds Apartments parking lot mid-Sunday afternoon, she was past ready to be home. When she saw Chance’s car parked there, she felt the adrenaline jolt through her system. Sighing, she resigned herself to the fact that she was in deep.
Grabbing her bag off the seat beside her, she slid out of the truck and moved to the tailgate. After releasing the bungees and the tarp, she pulled the first of the plastic storage bins out and carried those, along with her overnight bag, into the vestibule of the building. She left her things there and trouped back out to get two more bins—one stacked on top of the other—and carried them in to leave in the entryway with the others. As she turned to head back out, she heard steps come jogging down the stairs and looked over her shoulder to see River descending them.
“Hey, Jimi,” he greeted in his deep melodic voice.
“Hey, River,” she answered.
He looked over the growing pile of her belongings. “Got any more to carry in?”
“Yes,” she admitted, turning toward the front door.
“Let me help you,” he offered.
“It’s just one more load.”
“I’ll get it and help you get this all upstairs.”
“Thanks, River,” she said gratefully. “Just the two blue bins. The rest stays in the truck for my parents to take with them.”
“Got it.”
She pulled the straps of her bag over her shoulder and picked up the stacked boxes she’d just brought in and moved up the stairs. Luckily she’d sold so much that the bins were much lighter than they’d been when they’d first loaded up before her trip. By the time she had her door unlocked and got through it, she heard River tromping up the stairs behind her with the two bins he’d carried in stacked on top of the two she left in the entryway. The boxes towered over his head, but he was able to peer around them to see where he was going.
Apparently all of the activity had caught Chance’s notice and he opened his door to see what was up. He followed his brother into her apartment and watched him set the boxes down.
“Hey, peaches,” Chance said, “you should have called when you hit the city limits. I would’ve met you in the parking lot and helped you unload.”
“I could have handled it,” she said, “but your brother came by and offered to help, so I took him up on it.” She stepped around the boxes and tipped up on her toes to give him a quick kiss hello.
River smirked. “You want me to move these boxes somewhere else?” At the shake of her head, he added, “Then I’m outta here.” He fist bumped his brother and moved through the door.
Chance called out, “Have a good show tonight,” before closing the door behind him. He moved close to give—and receive—a few more satisfying kisses from his new girl. Once they broke apart, he asked, “So, how was it?”
“Good,” she murmured. “I sold lots of stuff.”
“I can see that,” he commented. He bent to lift one end of a nearby box off the floor. “The bins came home much lighter. Where do you want these?”
“Back in the weaving room. I can get them, though.”
“I got ‘em,” he protested.
He carried in the four-deep stacked boxes while she took the other two and they pushed them against one end of the storage shelves. She popped one of them open and pulled out a bundle of small flat pieces of pottery tied with a rustic raffia ribbon. Each of the four pieces was glazed with a different combination of richly swirled earth tones.
She handed the bundle to Chance. “Here you go. I saved the last set for you,” she said.
He examined them and realized that they were some of the beer coasters she had told him about. “These are great,” he exclaimed. He couldn’t see them completely because of the ribbon wrapped around them, but they appeared to have Celtic patterns pressed into the tops and cork attached to the bottoms. There was a price tag label on the bottom one. “I’ll pay you for them when I get my wallet,” he informed her.
“Frig,” she muttered before pulling them out of his hand. She peeled the twenty-dollar price label off and thrust it back into his hands. “No, you won’t pay for t
hem. I’m gifting them to you.”
“No, y—” he began.
“So!” Jimi interrupted brightly. “How was your weekend?” She grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the room and into the living room where she pushed him onto the sofa and dropped down beside him.
He laughed. “My weekend was fine.”
“What did you do?”
They had talked on the phone for a few minutes when she first arrived in the Ozarks and got her booth set up. But then the partying biker hoards had descended and she had to get off the phone. Jimi hadn’t had a chance to talk to him after that since her nights went late and her mornings started early. Then all she could think of was to get packed up and home so she could see him face-to-face.
She grinned at him. “Or maybe I shouldn’t ask what you did.”
He shook his head, not really sure if she was referring to his I’d-have-to-kill-you shtick or if she was implying he’d been up to no good and had caroused all weekend. “Well, we talked on Friday night, so you know after I went to St. Brigid’s spaghetti supper with the Riccis, I did nothing but sit home and watch the Cardinals. Saturday I worked out and took a long run on the river path before going with Roscoe to a thing at the VFW that evening. He and his buddies are pushing me to join.”
“You think you might?”
He shrugged. “I’m considering it. They do good work.”
Jimi nodded. “And today?”
“Slept late, had brunch with Willy—she went all out with frozen hash browns and scrambled Egg Beaters—then River came by to watch the beginning of the game,” he informed her before pulling her closer. “Mostly what I did was wait for you to come home.”
“Aww . . .” She grinned. “You’re a sweet talker. Who knew?”
“No, really,” he insisted. “I missed you.” He dropped another kiss on her lips, but stopped himself from getting lost in it. “See any old friends?”