Scrap: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance

by Cate C. Wells

  I stiffen a little at the memory. “I was a bitch that night.”

  “Your eyes were so big I could see myself in ’em. So damn pretty.”

  “You’re so full of it.”

  He drops a handful of soft kisses across my cheeks, my nose, sending shivers radiating down my body, skittering from nerve to nerve, and I can’t help it, I have to lean on him a little to keep myself up straight.

  “What did you think? When you saw me that night?” His voice is so close to my ear. I can’t pretend I don’t hear the longing.

  A bitter taste fills my mouth. He wants so bad for me to be what I’m not. Normal. What I was before.

  What did I think? That he was older. Bigger. That I wanted to be anywhere else but there.

  I could tell him the truth. Hurt him. Maybe finally convince him to give this up. Let me go back to getting along. Banish all these confusing feelings and sensations.

  But.

  He’s holding me in this moment, but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I have him in my arms. And maybe I’m not strong, but I can’t drop him.

  “I thought you were so tall.”

  “I am that.” He shifts me back and forth, with me wedged between his long legs, and I can tell that wasn’t quite what he wanted to hear. My heart twinges. “The song’s almost over.”

  “Yeah?” I tune in. The song is fading.

  “Let me take you home, Crista.”

  The implications hit me like a Mack truck. I stiffen so quick I knock Scrap back a step. He doesn’t let go, though.

  “No, baby. Not like that. Let me ride you home. I’ll walk you to your door. Say goodnight. That’s all.”

  “Why?”

  For a minute he seems mad, but then I guess he breathes, and his calm is back. It unknots something in my chest.

  “I want a little longer with your arms around me. That’s all.”

  My insides melt and those bubbles fizz in my belly.

  I think I want that, too. I nod into his chest, and he groans. Then he grabs my hand and leads me off the dance floor. I look for Nevaeh, and she’s already waving at me, blowing a kiss.

  I’m really doing this. A shaking takes root in my core, and I stumble. Scrap tucks me into his side.

  “It’s just a ride, baby. Won’t be the first time.”

  He leads me outside where there’s a row of bikes backed in. His Street Bob is first in line, the same one he used to pick me up from band practice. Someone must’ve given it a new paint job cause it’s matte now, and the chrome is spotless. There’s a new decal on the gas tank, too. A Steel Bones skull and hammer and an X. The number ten.

  For the years he spent in lock up. Because of me. I slam to a halt, and Scrap’s grip pulls our arms taut.

  “What’s wrong, baby?”

  He follows my line of sight and sighs.

  “Yeah. Big George added the decal. He took care of her for me while I was gone. Rode her to keep her in good condition.”

  “I think I want to go back inside.”

  Scrap turns, puts his body between me and the bike. He takes both my hands, but he holds them loose at my side.

  “Talk to me.”

  I blink up at him. I can’t. It’s all too big, too much. I can’t be a girl going for a ride with some guy. I can never be a girl again, and he can never be some guy.

  What happened is always there, thickening the air, waiting to suffocate me.

  Scrap exhales. He drops my hands, runs his fingers through his hair. He stares up at the dark sky for a long moment, frowns, and then he skewers me with his gaze, the gentleness gone, replaced by something I haven’t seen before.

  “You know I would never hurt you.”

  I nod. I do know that.

  “Say it. Say you know I’d never hurt you.”

  I don’t know where he’s going with this, but it’s the least I can give him. “I know you’d never hurt me.”

  “Okay. Keep that in mind.” Then he reaches down, wraps his arms around my thighs, and lifts me up, slinging me over his shoulder. The air goes out of my lungs in an oof.

  It’s so quick, I can’t even scream. One second I’m dangling upside down staring at gravel, the next I’m on the back of his bike.

  “Stay put,” he says.

  I’m so stunned I don’t know what to do, so I sit there while he pulls a half shell from his saddle bag and sets it on my head.

  “Can you buckle it?”

  Can I—

  He takes the straps and tightens them around my chin. Then he drops another kiss on my lips and mounts the bike in front of me, toeing up the kickstand.

  “You can hold on to me or the back bar, but you need to pick one or the other, or I’m gonna pick for you.”

  He faces front, and I think my muscle memory kicks in. I wrap my arms around his middle. He spins off, pulling onto Route 9.

  Oh, Lord. I remember this.

  I remember being sixteen and riding behind Scrap Allenbach, my heart slamming against my ribs. I was so afraid he’d know how I felt—and him knowing was the worst thing that could ever happen—so I tried to barely hold him and keep my legs wide so that my thighs didn’t touch his. God, my hip sockets would ache by the time we got home. And I’d lean back until my abs shook so I wouldn’t be pressing my boobs against his back.

  It’s the same bike, but I’m a bigger woman now. There’s no way I can’t smoosh against him. My inner thighs cradle his hips. My boobs are crushed against his back. My arms, though, don’t reach nearly so far. He’s bigger now, too.

  He keeps a safe speed through town, and it’s a short drive. We’re pulling up in my drive before I can really wrap my brain around the fact that Scrap Allenbach cave-manned me onto his bike.

  He dismounts, helping me off. I unbuckle the helmet and hand it to him. I expect it to get awkward now. There’ll be hemming and hawing. Maybe I’ll lose my shit and get weirdly aggressive again.

  He stows the helmet and heads up to my place.

  He stops halfway up the stairs. “You comin’?”

  Am I—? I guess I am. I follow him, unlock the door, and hold it open for him. It feels nice to let someone go first. The apartment is quiet. Grinder must be at the clubhouse. He’s left five empties and a half-eaten moon pie on the coffee table.

  Scrap raises an eyebrow. “Party for one?”

  “Grinder.” I roll my eyes. “Do you want, uh, a beer or something?”

  “Sure. Anything you got.”

  I make my way to the kitchen, checking on my way down the hall. The utility closet’s clear. Bedrooms are both clear. Bathroom is clear. Frances is in my bedroom, sleeping on a hoodie that didn’t quite make it into the hamper. He gives me a sleepy blink and goes back to drooling on the carpet.

  “Beer’s usually in the fridge,” Scrap calls from the living room. He’s made himself comfortable on the sofa.

  Smartass.

  I’m not going to feel embarrassed. Plenty of people check the place out when they get home, people with less of a reason to do so than me.

  “Sam Adams okay?” I call from the hall.

  “I’m not particular.”

  I check the kitchen pantry, and then I bring two beers to the living room. I hand him one and sit in Grinder’s easy chair.

  “Am I gonna have to come over there and haul your ass over here again?”

  I snort. “Yeah. What was that earlier? You seriously swung me over your shoulder. You’re lucky you didn’t put your back out.”

  “That was me decidin’ we ain’t waitin’ on your hang ups no more.”

  I kind of sputter. This isn’t like the Scrap I’ve gotten accustomed to since he’s been back, gentle and patient.

  “I need to count to three, baby? Get your ass over here.”

  I don’t know why I do it. Maybe because doing what he asks is easier than dealing with the garbage in my head. I go sit on the sofa, on the end.

  He grabs my feet, pulls them up into his lap, and starts working on the lace
s.

  I gasp. “What are you doing?”

  “Takin’ your ugly man boots off.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re gonna hang out on this sofa and watch a movie, and that ain’t gonna happen if you’re wearing construction worker boots.”

  I notice for the first time that he’s taken his own shoes and socks off. His feet are bare. My stomach goes flippy, and it’s so distractingly weird, him barefoot in my house, that I let him pull off my boots and roll down my socks.

  Oh, please Lord, don’t let my feet be stinky. I didn’t dance that much.

  I tense up even more, although I’m not sure how that’s even humanly possible. Scrap grabs the blanket folded on the back of the sofa and covers me from my waist to my bare feet resting in his lap. Then he grabs the remote.

  “What do you wanna watch?”

  “I have a choice?”

  “The Fast and the Furious it is.”

  “Hey—”

  Scrap reaches under the blanket to tickle the bottom of my foot, and it’s so unexpected, I squeak like one of Frances’ toys.

  He chuckles. “That’s so fuckin’ cute. Do that again.” And he tickles my other foot.

  “Cut it out.” I dig my heels into his lap, and he raises his hands.

  “Peace, woman. No need to kick me in the balls. We can watch—” He thinks a minute. “What do chicks watch now?”

  It’s a reminder of those missing ten years, and part of me braces, getting ready to feel the weight, but the larger part of me is too enthralled by what’s happening now. I’m hanging out with a man, in my apartment, snuggling on the sofa, about to watch a movie. I’ve seen it on TV a thousand times, but I never thought I’d be doing it.

  So I answer the question. “The Fate of the Furious. We can rent it off Amazon.”

  He laughs and hands me the remote. “That’s my girl.”

  We watch F8, and then we watch Olympus Has Fallen. I keep my feet on his lap and the blanket pulled up to my chin. At some point, he sneaks his hand under the blanket and rests it on my ankle. Then he starts stroking up my calf. My jeans won’t let him go but so high.

  At first, I worry that I missed a spot shaving, and I then I worry that he’ll try to take my jeans off, and I’ll freak out and ruin everything.

  As it gets later and later and my eyes get heavier, I stop worrying. We take turns getting up to pee and fetch more beers. He says he’s hungry, so I microwave some popcorn. When I hand him the bowl, he kisses me. Quick and firm.

  When he finishes the popcorn, he leans over, tilts my chin, and kisses me again. This time he lingers, nibbling, licking at the seam of my lips. I open for him, because he smells like popcorn and spray butter, and Frances is snoring at our feet, and it’s warm but not hot, and everything is okay, and I want to know what he tastes like.

  His tongue slips inside my mouth—Scrap’s tongue is in my mouth—and his stubble is chafing my chin while thousands of shivers zip up and down my spine. Between my legs, a faint aching starts. I feel floaty and punch drunk, but not at all tired, and I think I want to keep doing this.

  On screen, an action sequence heats up, and he leans back to watch. When it’s over, he kisses me again.

  The pattern repeats whenever a chase or a fight ends. The blanket’s almost too warm now, but I feel safer under it. I start sitting up to meet him halfway. Then I wind my arms around his neck. He urges me closer by bracing his forearm around my lower back. I’m folded nearly in half, and it’s an odd angle, but I like it. We’re perpendicular so this can’t go too far.

  Besides, Scrap isn’t pushing too much. I’m the one getting antsy for the slow parts. My whole body feels more and more hot and achy while Scrap seems content to do nothing but nip at my bottom lip and slide his tongue along mine.

  Around three in the morning, Grinder comes home. Frances rouses at the sound of his engine and trots to the door, barking until Grinder stumbles in and gives him one of the treats he keeps on him at all times. It’s real sweet until you have to clean wet treat out of the washing machine because some old, drunk biker didn’t go through his pockets.

  Of course, the kissing stops. Grinder bumps fists with Scrap, scarfs up the half-eaten moon pie and sinks into his easy chair to finish watching The Expendables with us.

  At some point, I drift off to Scrap and Grinder talking about whether Bruce Willis or Sylvester Stallone kicked more ass back in the day. I’m asleep, but it’s a light sleep, and it registers when Grinder shambles off for his bed, and sometime later, when Frances starts whining.

  Scrap moves my legs to get up. “Hey, there. Let’s let our girl sleep.”

  A door opens, and I hear the pad of two and four feet head down the stairs. Much later, when I finally wake up fully, Frances is curled up under the coffee table. Sunlight is streaming through the windows, and I’m alone on the sofa. I guess Scrap left. My heart sort of sinks.

  I swing myself upright, and I breathe through a wave of dizziness. I drank more than usual last night, and I forgot my meds before I fell asleep. Also, I can feel a freak out bubbling beneath the surface, probably waiting for me to have my coffee to kick in. I can’t believe all that happened.

  I went out last night. Dancing. And then Scrap Allenbach came home with me, and we watched movies like we were a couple or something, and he took my shoes off and touched my leg. And we kissed. He kissed me, and I kissed him back, and I put my tongue in his mouth and squirmed all up on him, and it was okay. Better than okay.

  It was nice.

  And then there’s a noise from the kitchen, and it’s not a Grinder noise. I spring to my feet and reach for my knife, but it’s on my night stand, and I’m in the living room, and I should run, but Frances is sleeping under the coffee table, and if I bend over to get him, I’ll be vulnerable, I can’t bend over, and I can’t leave him, and—

  Scrap emerges from the kitchen, shirtless, and leans in the doorway.

  “Good. You’re up. Where are the coffee filters?”

  Up? My heart is in my throat, and I’m on the verge of a panic attack, about to throw a sixty-pound hound dog over my shoulder and flee.

  Oh, God. And my hair is a mess. My jeans have worked themselves around almost backwards. The ass is drooping and the front is wedged up my crotch.

  “What are you still doing here?”

  “Tryin’ to make coffee at the moment.” He raises my can of Folgers.

  He’s not wearing a shirt. His pants hang low, and I can see how his muscles point in a V and a light trail of hair disappears into his—

  “Filters?” He’s smirking. He saw where I was looking. I am going to die now.

  “In the cabinet over the toaster.” I flop down onto the sofa and pull the blanket back on top of me. Frances snores.

  Why is Scrap still here?

  The clock reads ten in the morning. I slept in. I never sleep this late.

  There are sounds coming from the kitchen, drawers opening. Is he making breakfast? Unless he wants cereal, he’s out of luck.

  I stay glued to the couch for a long time before curiosity drives me to see what he’s doing. Eventually, I creep down the hall and peek in, trying to smooth my hair as I go.

  He’s got a carton of eggs and what’s left of a gallon of milk on the counter. When he sees me, he lifts up the milk.

  “This expired last week.”

  He holds up the eggs. “These expired last month.”

  “Expiration dates are more of a suggestion. I read an exposé about them online.”

  He raises an eyebrow. His bare chest is really distracting. When he turns to dump the milk in the sink, I catch sight of his back. Holy shit. That’s distracting, too. All sorts of muscles pop up when he twists at the waist to grab the eggs.

  I force myself to look away, and I go pull a box of Cheerios out of a cabinet. “You want some?”

  “Dry? No, thanks.”

  I pour myself a bowl and start eating. It’s easier than coming up with something to say.


  Scrap turns his attention to brewing the coffee.

  “We need to go grocery shopping.”

  We do? I so don’t understand what’s happening here.

  “Deb buys my groceries when she goes to the bulk store up near Pyle.”

  “She not been in a while?”

  I shrug. She texts me to ask what I need before she goes. Sometimes I’m too in my head to text back in time.

  “After we get a shower, we’ll go to Save Right. I want to get steaks. You got a grill out back?”

  I— Uh. We get a shower?

  “Yeah. Mom and Dad have one. Um. Scrap? Um—”

  Scrap ignores me, pouring two cups, and then takes a stool, sliding a mug to me. He takes a sip and groans, and the sound somehow gets past my nerves and confusion and swirls up the bubbles in my belly.

  “That’s good.”

  “It’s Folgers.”

  “It’s fuckin’ heaven. Now what were you sayin’?”

  I can’t find my words any better now, so after a moment or two of my stuttering, Scrap says, “You wanna talk about us? What’s goin’ on?”

  “Um. I guess so?” It’s not like I want to talk about where this is going or something. It’s not like that. I want to know why he’s still in my house.

  He sets down his cup, draws in a deep breath, and meets my eye.

  “I been without you for ten years and nearly a month now. I ain’t gonna be without you no longer. You don’t want that, tell me now. I’ll go. I’ll stay gone. But I ain’t pussy footin’ around you no more like everyone else. You ain’t china. You ain’t gonna break.”

  His blue eyes are glued to mine.

  “So do you want me to go, or do you wanna get cleaned up and go to the store. Get some filets. Maybe some watermelon and corn on the cob?”

  His voice is even, but his body is bracing for impact, his arms set on the edge of the breakfast bar.

  I don’t have to think as long as I would have thought. “I want watermelon and corn on the cob.”

  His shoulders relax, and both corners of his lips quirk up.

  “I know this ain’t gonna be easy or quick. I want you to know I’m a patient man.”

  “I just don’t understand. Why? Why me?”