by Jessica Ames
The doorbell rings again, reminding me why I woke in the first place. “There’s someone at the door,” I state unnecessarily because he can obviously hear that.
“I know.”
“Should I get it?”
He starts to push up, but I stop him because he does not look steady on his feet at all.
“I’ll go.”
He begins to protest but I’m up and out of the room before he can stop me. When I unlatch the door, I’m greeted by a man who is unfamiliar, apart from the leather vest he’s wearing.
He blinks, surprise registering on his face before his lips tug into the cockiest grin I’ve ever seen. “You’re not Dean.”
No shit…
“No, he’s inside. Do you want me to get him?” The man is tall, although nowhere near as bulky as Dean, and his short hair is spiked up.
“Yeah, love, I want you to get him.” His eyes glide across my face, the grin getting bigger.
“Cut it out, fucker.”
Dean’s voice behind me has me spinning to see him standing in the living room doorway.
“Cut what out?” His eyes are wide with innocence—innocence I don’t buy at all. Neither does Dean.
“You know what.”
The man grins, then sobers. “You look like shit, pal. You feeling that bad?”
Dean stares at him a beat, then says, “Who sent you?”
“I sent me.” Dean’s contracted brow has the man’s mouth twitching before he says, “Slade was worried about you.”
“Clara was worried, you mean,” Dean corrects and he must be right in that assumption because the other man shrugs.
“Does it matter?” the guy asks, leaning against the front door jamb; he hasn’t tried to enter the house yet.
I keep silent, letting the conversation play out.
“Well, you can tell them I’m fine.”
The guy’s eyes come to me. “I can see that. I’m Weed, by the way—since this ignorant fuck isn’t going to introduce us.”
“Your name is Weed?” My confusion must show on my face because he laughs, but it’s Dean who answers my question.
“It’s a road name—a nickname. The brothers in the Club gave it to him when he got his full kutte.”
Full-what-now?
“What the heck is a kutte?” This phrase means nothing to me.
Weed plucks at the leather vest he’s wearing. “This is a kutte, sweetheart.”
“Oh,” I say. I didn’t realise those things had a name.
“It’s kind of like a uniform,” Weed pipes up, earning a scowl from Dean.
“How in the fuck did you ever get patched in?”
I don’t know what this means either, but Weed clearly does because he grins wider as he shifts his shoulders. “Probably my winning personality.”
“Doubtful,” Dean fires back, and I can’t help but smile at their antics—even if I don’t understand half the things they’re talking about.
“Like you’re a barrel of laughs.”
In answer, Dean starts coughing and my good sense kicks in. “Okay, you need to sit back down,” I say, attempting to steer him back into the living room.
He goes, but I suspect this is only because he wants to and not because of my insistence.
I get him back to the sofa and help him sit before covering him back up with the blanket. The entire time I’m fussing over him, I feel Dean’s eyes on me, but I don’t look up.
“Christ, man, you really do look like shit,” Weed tells him.
I have to agree. Dean looks terrible. His skin is waxy and pale and that cough… it’s wet and rasping.
“At least I’ve got an excuse. What’s yours?”
“Don’t need an excuse for this perfection,” Weed beams.
He’s cocky—a man too full of his own swagger—but I find him kind of endearing and a little amusing. At least I do until his attention comes back to me.
“So,” he adds, “I gave you my name. Only fair I get yours, sunshine.”
Dean growls from the sofa, “Don’t make me get up and kick the shit out of you.”
“It’s Olivia.” I don’t know why I give him my full name when I didn’t do that with Dean. He calls me Liv.
“And how do you know Dean, Olivia?”
“I live across the street.”
His brows shoot up. “Isn’t that handy?”
Dean shoots him a glare that could melt the polar ice caps. Sensing trouble lurking, I say, “I was just going to put the kettle on for Dean—Weed, would you like a coffee?”
He says “yes” at the same time Dean says “no”.
“I’ll boil the kettle while you two decide between you how many drinks I’m making.”
I head into the kitchen as a hushed argument starts between them and I fill the kettle with water. As it’s just finished boiling, Weed steps into the room and says, “Don’t worry about making me one, sunshine, I’m heading out. It was good to meet you.”
“You too,” I tell him, even though meeting him had been short and sweet.
I hear the front door snicking closed as I finish making Dean’s drink.
He glances up from the sofa as I come towards him, mug in hand.
“I’m sorry about him,” he says as I place the coffee in front of him on the low table. “He’s harmless, even though he’s an idiot.”
“He seemed nice,” I tell him, because he did. Even though he was clearly winding Dean up it didn’t strike me as malicious, but rather the teasing of a younger sibling.
“Nice is not the word I’d use,” he says, grunting.
“Well, it’s nice that he came to check on you.”
He grunts again but doesn’t say anything else.
“Do you want something to eat?” I ask, brushing my fingers through my hair in an attempt to make myself look presentable. “I had a nosey in your fridge and I’m sure I can rustle something up with what’s in there, or I can phone for takeaway, if you’d rather.”
“Liv, you don’t need to look after me.”
I really don’t and I have no idea why I am, only that I can’t leave him alone when he’s like this.
He does look a little brighter but it’s clear he’s still feeling unwell.
“Well, I’m here now, so I might as well feed and water you before I head home myself.”
“Liv?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
I’m pretty sure my face heats at his words. “I can hardly leave you suffering with no one to take care of you.”
“Yeah, and the fact you came over like this means a lot.”
I have no idea what to say to him or how to deal with the awkwardness growing between us, although truthfully, I think I’m the only one feeling weird. Dean looks perfectly at ease beneath his sickly pallor.
“It’s the least I could do. You’ve helped me so much over the past few weeks—what with stepping in when Monroe attacked me and now with the lessons…”
“Darlin’, I just did what anyone would have done.”
But I’m not so sure about that. Bystander effect is real, and it unfortunately happens. Dean jumped in without a second thought, and that… that means something.
“I’d best make you something to eat,” I mumble in a faint voice, and take off into the kitchen before he can argue.
I need to feed him and leave because being here, in his space, is muddling my brain. All I can think about is Holly’s words: she said Dean likes me; I refuse to believe it because Dean liking me takes us to a place I can’t go or even think about going.
I’m not ready for a relationship; I may never be in that position, but Dean is not like I expected. He’s hard, but kind and loyal. It could be an act, of course it could, but I don’t think he’s the kind of man to put on a front. I get the feeling with Dean what you see is most definitely what you get, and the problem is what you get is something I like… a little too much.
Chapter Twelve
“Livvy, honey, can y
ou get me a coffee?”
I grit my teeth.
Livvy?
This is something my boss started calling me last week. I have no idea where it came from, considering I introduced myself as Olivia to everyone when I started at Pearson’s six-and-a-half months ago, and for six-and-a-half months everyone has been calling me that. Then, out of the blue, Bob called me Livvy on the way out of a meeting. What’s worse is it seems to be going around the office; Rich in accounts yelled ‘Livvy bear’ across the main office floor this morning.
I hate it.
It makes me feel five-years-old.
“Coming right up, Bob,” I mutter under my breath as I push out of my chair.
Bob isn’t a bad guy, even despite calling me ‘Livvy’. He’s in his fifties, with more hair on his face than his head, and a paunch that he’s struggling to contain in his suit. He drinks more coffee than is humanly safe, eats hardboiled sweets by the pound and quite often brings in cakes for the entire office. Since he has been so good to me, I push aside my annoyance with Bob as I head to the kitchen.
As I enter the small kitchenette, I feel my phone vibrate against my hip and pull it out of my skirt pocket.
UNKNOWN: Thanks for taking care of me last night.
I stare at the screen and I can’t help but smile. Considering the only person I was taking care of last night was Dean, my master sleuthing skills lead me to deduce the message is from him.
ME: You were an (almost) easy patient. How are you feeling?
I stare at the words, delete ‘almost’, and hit send. Then I save his number to my phone.
I left shortly after feeding him, but I gave him my mobile number and told him to call if he needed anything during the night. He didn’t text or call so I assumed he was fine, but I’m happy to hear from him so I know for sure.
I put my phone down on the counter and grab a mug off the mug tree. If Bob doesn’t get his coffee soon he’ll be unbearable. As I’m spooning in the coffee granules my phone vibrates again.
DEAN: I’m still feeling rotten, but you saved me from an evening with Weed as my nurse. For that I’ll be eternally grateful.
I get the impression Weed would be the worst nurse on the planet—not to mention the most annoying. My fingers skim over the screen as I type back.
ME: Glad to be of service. If you’re still feeling poorly do you need me to come over tonight?
DEAN: Yes.
I stare at my phone. Short and to the point. It also leaves no room for interpretation. I try not to read anything into his response; he’s unwell. He needs someone to look after him. That’s all. Holly’s crazy if she thinks he’s sitting at home wanting me. He hasn’t done a single thing to make me think he’s interested in me that way and until he does I’ve decided I’m not going to worry about it. I’m not the kind of person to think about the ‘what-if’s’ and I’m not about to start.
I’m in control.
ME: What time?
DEAN: Whenever you want. I’m not going anywhere.
ME: See you tonight then.
I grab the coffee mug off the counter, make sure the kettle is switched off at the wall (HR’s latest safety policy) and head back towards my boss’ office.
Bob’s office is a small room with an internal window that looks out over the main floor. I knock on his door, even though it is open and wait for his head to rise from the stack of papers he’s looking over.
When his gaze comes up to meet mine he beams.
“Thank you, Livvy. Just put it on the side there.” He clears a small space on his desk for me to put down the mug, while I grit my teeth.
Livvy… urgh.
I manage to put his mug down without knocking anything over. This is a feat in itself because his desk is a disaster.
Bob is good at his job, at least, that is what my colleagues tell me. Truthfully, I know nothing about sales or what they’re selling. My job involves answering the phones, preparing client files and keeping Bob hydrated.
“You’re welcome.” I force a smile. “Can I get you anything else, Bob?”
He leans back in his chair, his pen going to his mouth as his gaze darts over my face. “You really are an angel. Thank you for my coffee; I’m fine for everything else.”
I make a speedy exit back to my desk. I have a ton of work to get through this afternoon, but concentrating is going to be a feat because all I can think about is Dean Lawler and the fact I’m seeing him after work.
At the end of the working day, I head to the local pizzeria, pick up two pizzas, hoping I chose the right toppings, and drive home. When I pull into my street, I can see the lights are on in Dean’s house, so I park on my drive and cross the road. I pass Dean’s parked bike and knock on his door.
My brain turns to goo as the front door is opened because silhouetted in the door frame is a half-naked Dean Lawler, and he takes my breath away.
Sweet Jesus...
He’s standing in front of me, looking like a god. He’s stunning, sculpted from perfection and I’m resolutely and absolutely enthralled by him. And it’s easy to see why. Between the artwork and the bunched muscles, I’m a goner. This is only heightened by his bare feet and his low-slung jeans.
He’s not built like a body-builder—not by any stretch—but his chest muscles are defined. It’s the frame of a man who labours and has moulded his frame from working, rather than from conscious choice. Dean doesn’t strike me as a man who wiles away the hours in the gym or running or anything like that—although I could be wrong in my assumptions.
My eyes scan the tattoos that span up his arms and across his pectorals. There is a mix of designs, each as intricate as the next and I’m itching to study them, but I force my gaze up to his face and swallow. Hard.
I might be anti-relationship, but I’m not blind. Dean Lawler is gorgeous and my body reacts of its own volition.
“Liv.” He says my name, his lips pulling into a half-smile. “You okay?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m perfect.” I snap out of my gawking and blush furiously at being caught. “I uh… brought pizza.” I thrust the boxes at him, giving him no choice but to take them.
For a moment, he doesn’t speak. He just stares at the boxes in his hands. Then, pale eyes rise and meet mine and my heart feels as if it stutters in my chest. Is he… upset? Angry? Happy?
I can’t read his expression and that scares me. What is he thinking?
Then he says, “Let’s eat before these get cold.”
He turns and moves back up the hallway. I hesitate a split second before I turn and follow him.
The house is still tidy after my cleaning frenzy last night although there are a few coffee cups on the low table. The blanket I slung around him is pooled on the cushions, despite the noticeable chill in the air.
Dean places the boxes on the table and heads into the kitchen. He returns with small plates and kitchen roll.
“You’re still fevered?” I ask, seeing he has the windows and the back door open.
“Yeah. I’m fucking freezing one minute and then hotter than hell the next. I’ll shut the windows.”
“No, leave them. You need to break this fever.”
“Well, tell me if you get too cold. Sit,” he orders and I move to the sofa and perch on it, watching while he opens the pizza boxes. I feel nervous, and I’m finding it seriously difficult to concentrate with him sitting here half-naked—even if it is for medical purposes.
He hands me a plate. “Dig in.”
He waits while I get my slices and then goes in for his own.
“Liv, what you did last night… it really meant a lot. And then bringing food tonight as well.”
I pause mid-bite. “Oh. It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing. It was…” His hand goes to the back of his neck as he tries to form his thoughts into words. “Outside the Club, I’ve never had a woman try to take care of me.”
“Well, I could hardly leave you fevered and starving over here, could I?” Besides, he h
as done more for me in the past month than I can ever hope to repay. “Consider it thanks for everything you’ve done for me.”
“I didn’t do that shit so you’d feel beholden to me, Liv.”
The irritation in his voice has my head snapping towards him. “I know. I didn’t mean to insinuate—”
“I did it because it was the right thing to do.”
Okay… clearly, I’ve hit a nerve here.
“I know why you did it,” I say softly, placing my pizza slice back on the plate so I can focus on him. “You did it because you’re a good man with a good heart.”
He snorts. “I’m not a good man, darlin’. Not by a long shot.”
“Well, I judge people as I find them and what I’ve seen so far has all been good.” Too good to be true.
He stares at me. “What if I wasn’t all good? Would you still be sitting here?”
I roll my eyes at him. “I know the Club isn’t exactly clean. I do read the papers.”
He scowls at this revelation. “Yeah, well, you also shouldn’t believe everything the media print either.”
“You’re saying they’re lying when they say the Club’s involved in drug running and assaults and even… murder?” The challenge in my tone doesn’t go unnoticed by him and I think I maybe should have reined myself in a little. It’s none of my business what he’s involved in.
I expect him to throw back a retort at my accusation but instead his hand goes to his bearded chin. “I’m saying sometimes a story is exaggerated to sell papers.”
“That’s not a denial, Dean.”
“I’m not going to lie to you, darlin’. I’ll never lie to you.”
Those words ring true but they also hit me right in the gut.
He slides his plate onto the coffee table. “I’m not going to apologise for who I am or what I do. It’s not in me to do that, but that shit they print isn’t always the facts. They like to make out it’s like the Wild-fucking-West over here.”
“You mean it’s not?”
He laughs. “Fuck no. For the most part, we drink and ride. We host a fuck ton of parties and we just live our lives. That’s it.”