Bexley
Ruby didn’t waste any time, and before they even cleared the front doors had asked, “So you and Brute? What you got going on there?”
Bexley looked at her, certain her confusion showed on her face. After a moment, she decided the safest route through this potential minefield was a redirection, so she asked, “How do you know him?”
Surprisingly, Ruby was immediately forthcoming, no beating around the bush, no sidestepping the question. “Brute’s a member of my husband’s motorcycle club, the Rebel Wayfarers, has been for probably six years.” Bex thought about seeing the bikes riding up her street, the patches on the back of the leather vest he wore and she nodded. “He’s a good man, one of the best guys I know.” Ruby continued talking, moving them through the parked vehicles towards Bexley’s car. “He’s not had an easy time of things after he got home from overseas, as I’m sure you can imagine.” Right. The scarring. Ruby was talking about that piece of him that held little to no importance in Bex’s eyes. Ruby stepped to stand in front of Bex, swinging to a stop, underscoring her words with this movement. “He’s a good friend of mine, and I won’t stand to see him played.”
She stared at her sometime friend for a minute, and her confusion must have been evident on her face because Ruby burst into laughter, curly red hair bouncing with the force of the hilarity pouring from her mouth. Ruby leaned in, putting a hand on each of Bexley’s shoulders, pulling her close and hugging her. A moment later, the laughter died out, and she heard Ruby say, “That’s my Bex, our Brute’s girl, not an ounce of dreadful in her. You’re nothing but goodness, straight through and through.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Bex whispered, wrapping petite Ruby round with her own arms, holding tight for a minute.
“I know you don’t, and that’s what I mean.” Ruby’s words were perplexing, and Bex frowned, huffing out a little sigh. “But I really do want to know how you met Brute, so now, we’re gonna hit the coffee shop and you’re gonna dish like nobody’s business, darlin’.”
“It’s…” Bexley let her words die off for a second, then picked back up, still not quite sure what she wanted to say, “…um, kinda…complicated.”
“Oh, I’m sure. I’m sure it is.” Ruby laughed, turning to point Bexley towards her car again. “You’re driving. I had Slate bring one of the boys over. They already took my car, so you’re my ride, Bex.”
Brute
He looked down at the text message on the screen of the phone lying on the countertop. Brief, informative, and as she intended, it served as a quiet reminder of his promise. This is Bexley. Nothing more, no quips, no jokes, no smiley faces carved from characters. Just her name, as if she thought he received a thousand texts a day and hers would be lost in the masses. This is Bexley. As if he didn’t already have her programmed into his phone. As if he hadn’t picked it up every day, opening her contact information, staring at the stolen picture assigned to her name. Soft light shining through her bedroom windows streaming across the bed, head nestled into the pillows, hair a wild and beautiful halo, chin turned to one side, facing the camera, lips parted, sleeping sweetly.
Leaning deep, he put his elbows on the countertop, pressing his face into his palms, trailing his fingertips across the planes of his cheeks and forehead, testing the tenderness of the skin. Palpating the tiny points of pain, exploring the buzzing sensitivity, each touch glided gently across the uneven surface. Bulldog had worked a number on him, explaining as he went what he saw happening in Brute’s face. Distortion hiding underneath the living grafts, there were layers upon layers of scar tissue, adhesions formed in unintentional places, twisting the surface. Muscles already damaged by the burns strained beyond what they would sustain, constant tension setting up an inflammation cycle that only worsened things.
Speaking aloud as he explored across the muscles and tendons, the doc said some things new, some things already known. Brute would never be handsome again, not a surprise. If the injury happened today, things might be different, but it hadn’t, and things were the way they were. Nothing stayed inert, suspended in place, waiting for the magic wand to be waved. But Bulldog did think he could lessen the pain, ease the constant pull and sting of the scars.
Bexley, for a second time, appeared so immune to the damage on his face, it was as if it didn’t exist. Simply didn’t make a difference for her. Even surrounded by women who edged back from his path, who sucked in shocked breaths, muttering about what they saw, not bothering to hide their words in quiet, “Oh, my God, did you see his face?” Bexley ignored them and appeared to only see him. As she had in the grocery store, standing amidst boxed dinners, she did not shy away from him, from looking at him…from touching him.
Staring down at his phone where it rested between his elbows, he read the text again. This is Bexley. No demands, no requirements. She hadn’t said, Call me tonight or don’t call. Hadn’t said, Only call me if you want to go out. No restrictions, the only limitation the one in his promise. A boundary he set for himself. I’ll call you tonight.
It was tonight.
He twisted to look at the closed door to his guest bedroom. Natty had retreated there not long after they’d got home, begging off food in favor of resting. One look at her face, and he hadn’t argued. Exhaustion was stretching its own kind of mask across her features, the extreme emotion endured today taking its toll. Looking in the other direction brought the darkened doorway of his bedroom into view. Living room or bedroom? Was this a conversation that needed privacy? They hadn’t required it today, lost in each other within moments of sitting down. Their conversation not purposefully light, nor intentionally heavy, they’d simply shared and took from the other.
Picking up the phone, he stared at it for a moment, focusing on the time. Nearly eight. Late, but not too late. Tomorrow was a workday for her, but even if she had early appointments, he knew they wouldn’t start until about ten o’clock. He could call now, and if they talked for an hour, which he thought would be a stretch, she would still have ample time to rest.
Picking up the phone, he wondered, Why am I so nervous? Without giving himself time to back out, he tapped her name, then the phone icon, listening as it rang once, then a second time, then a third before a young male voice answered, “Snow shoveling done cheap, keep the Dunk in mind this winter.”
This greeting replaced hello, and he heard Bex in the background laughing, that laughter nearing the phone and before he could respond, her voice in his ear, “So sorry, this is Bex. How can I help you?” He couldn’t answer for a moment, a long moment broken by her voice. A voice gone softer, sweeter, quieter when she called his name, “Brute?”
“Yeah.” He barely got it out, so tightly had his throat closed. Laughter in the background, distant now, it sounded as if she’d moved away from Duncan. Privacy? Would she want privacy with him? Her sleeping face flashed through his mind, and he realized she didn’t know how well he might know her. She’d solved the kissing thing fast, but who could forget his face, and her relief when he acknowledged it showed she wanted him to remember, wanted it in the open. But the rest? Did she know?
“I didn’t know if you’d call.” These words were spoken so small and quiet they could have been missed, her voice filled with such trembling fear and anxiety he shot a glance to Natty’s door, wanting to be in two places at once. Needing to reassure two women he loved that he was there for them. He didn’t flinch when his brain supplied that word, having long ago come to that realization of what his feelings for Bexley were built on. Love at first sight, something out of a fairy tale and then she derailed his brain by saying, “I’m so glad you did.” Laying it out there for him, making it clear she wanted to hold onto what they already had after—as far as she knew—only two encounters.
“Bex,” he murmured, and silence fell between them. In person, it would have been fine because he could see her face, read her emotions, her thoughts, but over the line like this, he had only memories to wind through his head. Determi
ned to keep her on the phone, desperately afraid she would close down and hang up, he began talking. “Natty’s asleep. We got home, and she went straight to bed. I haven’t eaten yet, can’t decide what to do for dinner.” Stupid topic, food, but Natty was important, she’d know that. He had to push on, find a thread. “I live in an apartment so the kitchen isn’t big, but the building is pretty new, so at least it’s decent.” He would keep throwing information out there, waiting until she found something she wanted to engage with and then he would set that hook, asking questions, feeding info back to her in an effort to pull more from her. “I like to cook, have a friend who’s a chef and he’s taught me a few things.”
“I like to cook, too,” she tossed this tidbit into the flow, and he latched on.
“You have to tell me what you cook. I’m more Midwest American, but can manage a mean Mexican casserole that doesn’t always fail.”
Laughter in her voice as she said, “Duncan, that’s my nephew, my brother Brice’s boy, he’s flat out determined to eat pigs in a blanket every night for the rest of his life, so I can do those in my sleep.” He chuckled, and she paused, then went on, a little breathless. “I do a lot of sweets, and at Christmas? Watch out. I’m all about making candies and chocolate dipped anything.” He knew that about her, had seen her carrying jars and tubs of homemade treats to her car, delivering them house-by-house to her friends. Hadn’t tasted. Not yet.
“I like sweets,” he offered and heard a catch in her breathing so he pushed it, “and that sounded like a promise of holiday snacks to me.”
“We don’t have to wait for Christmas.” Soft and slow, the desire to please him dripped from the words tripping off her tongue. “Can be for Christmas or for every day.” He’d made a sideways appeal, and she gave him back the even stronger desire to deliver on that request if he would only promise he was staying. When she started talking, he could almost see her head tipped back, staring at the ceiling as she mentally ran an inventory of her kitchen. “I need cocoa, the bitter powdered kind, not for warming up after a snow, not that it’s snowing now, but cocoa makes the dipping chocolate so much better. I can go to the store tomorrow—”
“I’ll go with you.” He interrupted her, wanting to have that with her. Wanting to kill the disappointment that rushed through him every time he pulled up in front of that building, the bitter part of the memory of that single kiss sending him to different stores for months before he could let the sweetness of it stay, setting aside the frustration as best he could.
“Okay.” Her acceptance of his offer as immediate as anything he could have ever wished for, hoped for…dreamed. That eagerness pushed him on, flogging him forwards even as he might have tried to halt his response, bridle his tongue to control it, to keep his dreams underneath a glass case. Kept like a treasure, visible, but just out of reach, a clear separation maintained between what was and what might be.
“I’ll pick you up?” Her two-toned response telegraphed a nervous, closed-mouthed nod, and he smiled. “Okay. Duncan staying over?” Another humming answer tipped the corners of his mouth upwards again. “I’ll come early, we can drop him at your brother’s on the way?” Silence met that question, and he froze, physically locking in place as the sure knowledge that he had pushed too far beat at him.
Then her, “That would be perfect,” allowed his muscles to unclench, gave him space to breathe, gave him room to respond.
“See you at seven?”
This was as much a prayer as a question, and she answered both when she said, “Don’t hang up. Don’t go. Unless you need to, you told me you hadn’t eaten yet, I’m sorry—”
“Bex,” he interrupted, “I can stay on the phone as long as you’d like.”
Soft, gentle, breathed, “Oh, good.” Not afraid for him to know how much that meant to her.
“Did you make pigs in a blanket for Duncan tonight?” Conversational gambit, bringing her back to comfortable, he set the tone for the next hour as the give and take of water-testing flowed between them. At one point, she gave a tiny, ladylike grunt and he grinned, asking, “What in the world are you doing?”
“Climbing up so I can sit on the countertop,” she tossed back with humor in her voice. “I’m on my feet a lot. I do hair for a living—” And they moved to more personal information sharing. Balancing what he already knew against what she told him, he was pleased she didn’t hold much back, giving him an honesty and openness he didn’t know he needed from her until that moment.
She was funny, so she gave him more, too, filling in the pieces he had often wondered, but never had a chance to know. Like the conversations he’d seen her have with people in her chair. Clients who would say something, feed her a line that caused her head to tip back, open-mouthed laughter rushing out of her. A silent movie from where he’d straddled his parked bike, but beautiful to watch. “—and he asked for a shave. Twelve-year-old kid, asked for a shave. I told him I’d have to charge him a finder’s fee in order to shave him.”
That dragged loud laughter from him, laughter that slowly died off in a good way, stilled by even more pleasure when she whispered, “God, you have the best laugh.” Then she broke the news to him that she had connected every dot that lay between them, trailing them around corners and through the shadows, her words striking fear deep in his belly. News looking for a home, unsure if it would be welcome or not. “I only ever heard you chuckle before. I loved that, loved the sound. This—” She paused for breath, the sound of her deep inhalation triggering one of his own, a sympathetic bracing. “—is so much better, Brute.”
Then she took it further, her mother-may-I steps covering broad sections of ground when she said, her voice gentle and soft, “I can’t wait to see it.” A quivering inrush of air, fear trembling on the breath that sustained her, then another. She was waiting, and he couldn’t let her down, couldn’t leave her out there on that ledge alone. Not his Bexley. Not my girl.
“I got no doubt you’ll experience it in person tomorrow. I can’t be sure until I see you, but think I could safely promise a chuckle. You’re fuckin’ funny, woman.” Reassurances that he was looking forward to their trip, looking forward to seeing her, being with her, sitting next to her. “I like listening to you laugh, too.” Voicing his prayer, he was asking for her to be comfortable and easy with him. Not that she’d ever been otherwise, but his hope stumbled there, waiting.
His girl handled his fears with as much care as he took with hers, easing the landing when she said, “I seem to laugh a lot with you. My face hurt today from laughing so hard.” She didn’t stutter, didn’t hesitate, never turned a second guess to her words about her face, didn’t mentally compare it to his, wondering if her words were callous or unkind. “I like to laugh. Belly laughs are the best.” And with that, they had moved onwards, not looking back at what other people would see as a barrier to the kind of flow real communication demanded.
“Tell me your favorite thing to do.” This was a question without a known answer, one of the few he’d posed so far tonight. So many options she might choose flickered through his head, moments captured as images, similar to how his brother Hoss explained his painting process. Snapshots, he called them, and Brute could see that. A flipbook of memories suited him better, and he glided past baseballs and park playdays, gardening and fashion shopping, wondering if her work would play a part.
“Ever, or right now?” In asking for the parameters of the demand, she attempted to ensure she gave him what he was looking for, she just had to sort out what that was first. Until she posed the question, he didn’t know it mattered, but found upon consideration it did because he hadn’t been part of her life before, not that she knew at least, so asking ever would remove the possibility he would rank a mention.
“Right now.” Why did I whisper that? He wondered at the quivering in his belly, shaking his head as he turned his gaze downward. Waiting. Impatiently waiting for at least a second before she giggled. Tinkling music in his ear, trills of pleasure on the ai
r, light and carefree.
“My favorite thing to do right now? Does it have to be something I’ve done?” An interesting shift in the question’s definition, but saying it had been done would limit her answer even more than he’d considered before.
“Anything you want, Bex. Tell me what’s your favorite…anything. Past, present, future. If it matters to you, it’ll matter to me.” If he had a chance, he’d put that promise into action, handing her seconds and moments to build that future with her. Keeping her present for himself, too, circling her round with nothing but Brute.
He got a soft hum, low and sexy. Smooth at the same time it vibrated with a raw want so carnal he went from half erect, a state he stayed in when thinking of Bex, to blood-filled and engorged, ready to fuck hard. Like a preteen staring at titty magazines in the basement, his hand cupped his cock through his jeans, fingers teasing the shaft as his breathing rolled rough and fast. Then she whispered to him, as soft as her hum…no, this was softer, gentler. “I’d like to do you.”
Tiny and fragile, she handed him her desires, and he took them in, ate them down, and gave it all back to her. “God, Bexley. The things you say. It’s a good thing there’re blocks and streets and walls between us, or I’d be in your bed so fast I’d beat you there.” A stroke and the muscles in his arm bunched, blood pounding through his veins. “You want to do me, sweetheart?” Voice low, it filled with an edge he tried to hide. “You want to tell me what you want?”
Her words were gentle, but the blows landed as hard as the head of a hammer, beating into him. “I didn’t know if you’d be interested.” How could she not know? He’d made it clear as he could, clear as he knew, offering his time and attention. Then he listened as the real reason for her fears surfaced, the fault line in her confidence, his eyes darting to look at the still-closed door to his guest room. “You have to know why I was at group today. And some guys think—”
A Kiss to Keep You (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 14) Page 7