by Cathryn Cade
“Oh, yeah I do,” he said smugly. “Looked up the recipe and put that shit on my grocery list. It’s in the top cupboard.”
Lesa shook her head, and smiled back at him. “You know what my dad used to say to us when we were devious? ‘It’s a damn good thing you’re so cute.’”
He hooked his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her in for a kiss. “Spasibo, mischka moye.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
February 7th
Pete woke up, and lay still, his eyes cracked just enough to register the daylight peeking in through the blinds. What had awakened him?
Dima barked again, and he knifed up to slide off the bed, grabbing his jeans as he headed to the safe in his closet. He pulled out his Ruger, and ran downstairs holding pants in one hand, gun in the other.
“Good girl,” he praised the big dog, who stood with ears perked toward the road.
Pete walked to squint out into the day. Shit, the sun was blinding coming in off the snow.
Ah, there was the source of Dima’s unrest, a familiar blue truck with a snow-plow on the front. His neighbor would be in the driver’s seat. The big truck came steadily along his road, a berm of snow rising to one side. As it neared, Pete heard what the dog had heard moments before, the rumble of the motor.
“All right,” Pete said to the dog, stepping into his jeans. “We’re gettin’ plowed out, girl. This is good news. You gotta wait till he gets here to go out, though. Don’t want you running out in front of him.”
He hustled back upstairs to get dressed the rest of the way, and put his gun away.
“What’s Dima barking at?” Lesa asked sleepily from the bed.
“Snow plow,” Pete called back, grabbing his Romeos and stepping into them. “I’m goin’ out to talk. It’s only eight, if you wanna sleep longer.”
She yawned audibly, and her tousled head appeared over the edge of the blankets. “No, I’m awake. Ow, my head.”
He stopped to eye her as he pulled on his cut over his blue-plaid shirt. “Hangover?”
They’d had chocolate cookies and Wet Fly bourbon for supper, and it had tasted damn good. So had she, when he set her up on his dining table and ate her out as thanks for baking.
But his own head was a little hollow this morning, so hers was probably a lot worse. The Vankos were notoriously hard-headed.
“So bad,” she agreed plaintively. “My own fault, though.”
Couldn’t argue with that. He winced at her wan face, and headed downstairs to greet his neighbor and hand him some greenbacks. It was an arrangement that suited them both.
By the time they headed into town, Lesa was looking much better, her hair all fixed and her eyes brighter.
Pete felt great. He’d had a good breakfast, which she’d cooked, he was wearing clean jeans and his favorite winter shirt, which she’d washed, and his dick was happy because she’d let him fuck her leaning over the bathroom sink, all warm and fragrant from her shower.
He nosed his truck along the plowed road, ball cap pulled down against the morning sun, and shades on, Lesa riding shotgun in her puffy coat, and turquoise mittens and scarf.
He could get used to having her by his side. She was funny, even when she was pissed off at him, which was frequently. Couldn’t blame him for riling her up when it was so easy. And she fuckin’ turned him on when she glared at him all feisty. Also when she bent over, or hefted her bar tray, for fuck’s sake.
Maybe they could make this last for a while. Just till one or both of them were tired of it. By the time the weather warmed up, they would likely have cooled down. He’d never made it longer than a few weeks with a woman, and spring was months away.
So they had time to enjoy each other. For some reason, this made him feel even better. Fuck, he’d better watch it or he’d be drawing little hearts and shit on his brewery log.
“I need to get my car into the shop,” she said, as they stopped at the county road. “Shoot, wish I would have thought of it today. I could’ve followed you in.”
“Nah, I’ll have JJ bring a tow rig out,” he said. “Streak said your tranny’s about shot. It quits on you out here, we’d have to leave it, and this road’s a little short on room to pull over with all the snow.”
She sighed. “That’s true. Darn, that will cost more, won’t it?”
No, because he’d foot the bill himself to get her out of that rolling wreck. “Club discount,” he said, slowing as they approached a slow-moving county rig shoving a big drift back another few feet.
“Are you sure?” she asked him as they drove on, with a wave to the plow driver. “I don’t want to take advantage of your relationship with local businesses.”
He shot her a sidelong look. Was she for real?
“Baby, you won’t be takin’ advantage. The brothers and families give our business exclusively to JJ’s Auto, which means his shop is gonna stay busy, and keep his family employed. So, he gives us a break. Nobody’s takin’ advantage.”
Although he didn’t plan to tell her about the extra discount JJ gave him and Stick personally, because they’d handled his daughter’s abusive ex-boyfriend, encouraging the dude to relocate to anywhere else in the country besides Washington or Idaho, and to forget her name and contact information. Since the steroid-laden muscle-head had been breathing through a busted nose and swollen lip and possibly some cracked ribs at the time, he’d just nodded, but they felt certain he’d gotten the message.
And they hadn’t done anymore to him than he’d done to JJ’s daughter, so neither Vanko suffered any guilt. Well, okay, Stick had kicked him the balls as a goodbye, but he deserved that too. Next time he wanted to rough up a woman, he’d think twice, wondering who she might be connected to.
Which was the way it should be.
And his milaya would get one helluva good price on her car repairs.
* * *
The next few days were some of the best in Lesa’s memory. She and Pete were getting along so well, it was as if a giant rubber band had snapped, and torn away the tension between them. Yeah, it was the sex, but they were getting along in other ways too. They talked about the Hangar—the website, service flow, the menu, new beers to try.
About why living in a small town was best, although it was nice to have Spokane nearby.
About why he loved to ride his motorcycle and she loved to bake.
About their favorite music—although this ended with her scowling when he put ZZ Top’s ‘Pearl Necklace’ on the sound system and then wouldn’t explain why he and Streak thought it was so funny.
When Lesa looked it up on her phone—people explained everything on the internet—she gasped, and then walked behind the bar, and smacked Pete on the ass for a change, causing him to spill the beer he was pulling.
“Hey, what the fuck?” he demanded, frowning down at her.
She smacked him again. “I know what that song means now, you biker jerk, that’s what.”
He burst out laughing, and set down the bar towel with which he was wiping his hands to give her a hug. “But moye,” he said into her ear. “You looked so pretty with my cum on your tits. One of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.”
Behind them, Streak groaned as he moved by, hands full of beer glasses. “TMI, boss.”
Lesa buried her burning face against Pete’s chest. “Oh, God, just kill me now.”
Pete was still laughing, although he dropped a kiss on her hair before letting her go. “Aw, the prospect’s just jealous, moye. And so'd every man in here be, if they knew.”
“Well do me a big favor and don’t tell them,” she snapped.
“Let me do it again, and I won’t.”
Despite such displays of raunchy, biker humor, Lesa did her best to keep it professional at the Hangar. But it was hard, because Pete smiled at her now instead of frowning—well, most of the time. And even his smart-ass remarks seemed funnier, as did his habit of patting her on the ass when he passed.
She was smiling more too, and lau
ghing more. Her steps were joyful, and even the heavy beer trays seemed lighter.
Sylvie may not have been the first to notice the change in atmosphere—that was Streak, thanks to Pete’s big mouth—but the redhead was the first to ask Lesa openly about it.
She stopped beside the service station, hand on her hip. Since it was one o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, she had time to do this. Their only customers yet were some of the Flyers shooting pool and drinking Pete’s beer, and a pair of ice fishermen having lunch.
“All right,” Sylvie said in a voice that meant business. “What is really going on with you and Pete? You two are all chummy, and it’s not just because you’re obviously boinking each other, or I’m the ghost of Whitney Houston.”
Lesa blinked. “Whitney Houston?” What did the pop diva have to do with anything?
Sylvie gestured impatiently. “I was listening to her on the way to work. My Charger has a bitchin’ sound system. Now answer my damn question.”
Lesa gave her a side-long look. “Uh … I can’t.”
“You can’t or you won’t?” Sylvie tsked in disgust. “This is like that big, fat lie about you stealing, isn't it? Yeah, I am smart enough to figure out you wouldn't still be here if you were stealing from the Flyers. Anyways, that’s it. I’m calling in the cavalry.”
“What? Wait.” But the redhead was already gone. Oh, well, at least she was speaking to Lesa again, that was nice.
Pico and Joe had gotten more friendly again, too, come to think of it. Lesa blinked. Sheesh, had she been focused on Pete so much she hadn’t even noticed the ice thawing between her and her co-workers? He must have said something to them. That was sweet.
A pang of uneasiness moved through her, like a cold draft on her skin. What was she doing? She was letting herself trust him all over again. Was that stupid on her part? He was so focused on controlling this place, and making a success of it. Even though they were having sex, if he saw it as expedient, would he just roll right over her again?
Maybe … maybe she needed to step back, and move back into the rental house, put a little distance between her and Pete. The place was still empty, Streak had mentioned it.
“What’s Sylvie yappin’ about?” Pete asked at her elbow, his deep voice making her jump. He leaned close, his hands caging her into the counter, his breath warm on her nape, as she had her hair up in a loose French twist with tendrils escaping.
“Sylvie? She knows something,” Lesa murmured, continuing to wrap silverware in napkins. “We’re getting along too well.”
He snickered. “Yeah, that’s a change all right. You need to quit flirting and batting your lashes at me.”
She huffed. “I do not bat my lashes.”
“Yeah you do. And it’s sexy as fuck, so quit that shit. I can’t be waitin’ on customers with a hard-on all the time. Either that or meet me in the office twice per shift or so, so I can take care of both of us.”
Lesa elbowed him. “We are not meeting in the office, Pete Vanko. Everyone would know what we were doing.” Even if it made her pussy wet, imagining everyone in the place knowing she was satisfying him back there.
“Well, then maybe the guys would quit hittin’ on you. And I could get some relief.”
She clenched her thighs together, nearly whimpering with need. “Pete, go on. You’re—you’re bothering me.”
He slapped her ass. “Gettin’ you all hot and bothered, you mean.”
Yes, he was, darn him. Because she might not trust him completely, but she could no more resist him than she could climb up onto the sign outside and use the neon airplane to fly away.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
sure enough, they didn’t make it out of the Hangar that night before having sex. They did it on Pete’s desk, with Lesa first bent over, hanging onto the edge, and then lying on her back right in the middle, all of Pete’s papers and assorted mess swept to one side while he hammered into her until they both came, hard and long.
They shared a whiskey—although she let him drink most of it, because she did not need another hangover in the morning—with her on Pete’s lap in his big office chair.
Then they drove home through the moonlit winter night to his country house, and curled up together to sleep.
February 8th
On Wednesday, Lesa’s car was towed into JJ’s Auto, to be gone over thoroughly. JJ himself promised to call her before starting any repairs, but even with the promised discount, she still worried about the cost. She didn’t know a lot about cars, but enough to know hers was in bad shape.
Also that day, Sylvie walked into work with a cat-in-the-cream smirk on her face. “What?” Lesa asked.
“Nothin’, just listening to a trumpeter in my head,” the redhead said strangely. “Remember those old westerns on TV, where the US Cavalry rides in to save the settlers, and the handsome young soldier plays ‘Too-to-to-too! Charge!”
“Yeah, I remember." She'd watched those old black-and-white reruns with her grandpa when she was a little kid. "What does that have to do with anything? You’re a nut.” They were near a USAF base, but there sure wasn’t any cavalry around.
Sylvie just smiled.
At two o’clock, between the local lunch crowd and the early beer drinkers, three familiar women walked into the Hangar. Two blonds and a redhead, they all radiated biker chick style and happiness.
One of them, Lesa knew—Sara, Stick Vanko’s old lady. The other two, a shorter, sweet-faced dark blond and the tall, gorgeous redhead, she recognized as Sara’s friends, the trio she’d snidely labeled ‘Pete’s harem’. Not that he’d done anything to disabuse her on that particular evening. He’d totally rubbed her face in the knowledge that he went through women nearly as fast as he did underwear—when he bothered to wear it, that is.
The three sat in Lesa’s section, and greeted her with friendly smiles. “Sit down with us,” Sara invited. She waved at Pete, who was behind the bar. “Pete won’t mind.”
Lesa cast a look at Pete, who jerked his chin for her to sit, so she did, feeling a bit like the new kid at school.
The smaller blond smiled at her, eyes wide with glee. “I’m Lindi, this is Kit, you’ve met Sara. Sooo, you’re dating Pete?”
“Um …” Lesa stalled. She was living with Pete, sleeping in Pete’s bed, fucking Pete in every position they had time and place for, but dating—not so much. Although their time at his house during the snowstorm had felt sort of like extended dates.
“She’s checking out,” the redhead said, amused. “I recognize that fuzzy-eyed look—thinking about all the sexy-times they get up to.”
“You should recognize it,” Sara said. “You wear it almost constantly.”
“Right, like you don’t, as Stick’s old lady."
“Ladies,” said Sylvie, appearing beside them, smiling. “What are you drinking?”
“I’ll have a Coke,” Sara said. “I’m driving.”
“Chardonnay,” Lindi said.
“Whiskey and Coke,” Kit said.
Sylvie looked to Lesa. “I’ll have a whiskey, straight up,” Lesa said.
“No, you won’t, moye,” Pete said over her head. “You can have a whiskey-and-Coke, light on the whiskey. You got a shift to work.”
“Hi, Pete,” the three other women at the table chorused, smiling up at him as Sylvie hurried off to get their drinks.
Pete put his warm, calloused hand on the back of Lesa’s neck and stroked his thumb up, then down her neck. “Sara. Kit. Lindi,” he said. “Not even gonna ask what you’re doing here.”
“Well, I would hope not,” Kit said ingenuously. “Seeing’s how you do run a public house.”
“Enjoy your drinks,” he said dryly. “And be nice.”
He gave Lesa’s nape a last squeeze and let go, walking away. The three women sighed appreciatively.
“He is just so cute,” Sara said. “Like a younger, cuddlier version of Ivan.”
Lesa coughed on nothing, and pressed her fingers to her lips. She woul
d not describe Stick Vanko as cuddly. Sexy, yeah. Cuddly, heck to the no.
Lindi and Kit laughed. “He totes is."
They all looked to Lesa. “So, how do you like it here?” Lindi asked her.
“It’s … fine,” she said. “Um, why are you … I mean, you’re being very nice, but …”
Sara, who sat beside her, reached to pat Lesa’s arm. “It’s okay, hon. Our intentions are completely—” she exchanged a mischievous look with her friends. “Completely biased, dishonest and prejudiced.”
“Right,” Kit said, leaning across the table. “But on your side. We’re here to help you catch Pete Vanko.”
Lesa gasped. They were punking her. She wanted to look around for video cameras.
Lindi gave Lesa a commiserating look and patted her hand. “We don’t mean any harm, really. It’s just that the Flyers are kind of one big nosy family. We all had to survive it in our romances, you will too.”
Romance? They were so punking her. Lesa put one foot out of the booth, ready to bolt. “Um, thanks, but no. You see, Pete and I—we’re not—”
“Here ya go,” Sylvie said. She kicked Lesa’s foot back under the table and set down their drinks before them.
Lesa picked hers up and took a long sip. Darn, mostly Coke.
“We’ve totally freaked her out,” Lindi said sadly.
“Yeah, go easy on her,” Sylvie said. “She’s skittish, on account of some crazy shit that’s been going down around here. Which I will hear the real story on,” she added, giving Lesa a narrow-eyed look. Then she moved away.
“Yeah, we heard at the club about the money being embezzled,” Kit said quietly, so only they could hear. “But right away, I figured Marta. She was pissed at Pete.”
“And besides that,” Sara put in. “She’s a skank. She tried to steer me away from Ivan before she even knew me.”
“Not surprising,” Lesa blurted. “You’re gorgeous and classy, and she’s a bitch. She would have seen you as competition.”
“She’s a stupid bitch,” Sara agreed. “Ivan and Pete treated her really well, gave her a job after her brothers got her mixed up in their theft ring and thrown in jail. They gave her money, a place to stay, a job. And what did she do? Betrayed them! I’d like to slap her silly. But, she’s gone back into whatever burrow they hide in when they’re not out looking for trouble, so I guess I won’t get the chance.”