She sticks her chin up and sniffs. Can’t blame her. I wasn’t exactly a gentleman earlier.
“No, I’ve got it.”
She looks away and edges the fridge toward the stairs, using that luscious ass to shove it along. Ain’t no way she’s getting’ it up the stairs alone. It probably weighs sixty, seventy pounds.
“Don’t think you do.”
She stops, her breath coming quickly, and she glares at me. “I don’t need your help.”
She thinks a minute. Looks like she’s screwin’ up her courage. “I don’t need help from people like you.” She throws my words back at me.
Yeah, guess I was a real asshole earlier. It wasn’t like me, and I don’t know what good I thought it’d do. But like now, it got me twisted, her trompin’ around alone, that kid in tow, as if half the fuckers around ain’t tweakin’ or lookin’ for a mark and the other half ain’t happy to shut the blinds and ignore whatever big, bad ugly is creepin’ around outside.
“You’re lookin’ for trouble if you try and push that up the stairs alone.”
I go to pick up the fridge, but she leans her palms down hard on the top. “I can do this myself.”
Her voice wavers. She’s tired, and this close, I can see her eyes are bloodshot. She ain’t had an easy day, neither.
“Nope. You cain’t.”
I say it simple, a statement of fact, but I guess no woman likes hearin’ that.
“Get out of my way.”
She’s pissed now. She’s breathin’ so hard, her tits are straining at the buttons on her mom shirt.
I’ve never wanted a button to pop worse.
Her brown eyes flash, and she clenches that jaw, makin’ the least-scary, most-scrunched pissed-off face I’ve ever seen.
I want to laugh, but I ain’t that stupid. “Let me help you.”
“No. I’m supposed to steer clear of your type.”
The thought of her stoppin’ to chat with any of my brothers like she did with me this morning makes my blood run cold again. She’s so fuckin’ ripe. None of them would pass up a chance to try and get his dick wet. Rebel Raiders wouldn’t be very particular as to whether she was willin’.
“Yeah. You are.” I make my face serious. Usually civilians shut up and brothers back off. Not Kayla.
She’s so in her head about whatever made her cry, she don’t notice or care.
“So I’m supposed to not speak to strangers, get this, this…fucking refrigerator up these stairs, get it all taken care of and not let on that it’s, it’s—”
She slams to a stop, realizing her mouth got away from her. She drags in a breath.
“Hard,” I finish for her. She swallows, and I can tell it’s not that she’s out of words, but that she’s afraid that if she says anything else, whatever shit’s eatin’ at her is going to spill out.
I respect the fact she’s not down with that.
I got to be honest. I can’t imagine what’s goin’ on with her. I ain’t never known her kind of hard. But maybe it’s two people sharin’ one shit day, but I’m kinda feelin’ her. Somethin’ in me wants to take over, wants her to let me.
I ain’t never had that kind of instinct. I know brothers who do. Heavy’s one domineering motherfucker, and so’s Forty, but I’ve never been the one.
Except in this moment. Her arms crossed, her sweet face all tight, her eyes narrowed and wary.
“Back up.” I make it an order. “Now.”
This time, she listens.
She paces me while I lug the fridge to the bottom stair, and then we both stare up. Yeah. They’re steep. She looks to me, and my chest swells.
She’s askin’ if I got this.
Of course I got this.
“Get up two stairs and hold under. I’ve got the weight; you just need to guide it. Okay?”
“Okay,” she murmurs. She’s havin’ trouble meetin’ my eye. Her tiny breakdown musta turned her shy.
She backs up the stairs slowly, and we work together, steppin’ at the same time, not talkin’. Once we’re at the top, she eases open the screen door, and I carry the fridge the rest of the way, past the bed with the boy passed out on it, to the kitchenette.
I put it by the outlet since there’s no real place for it to go. She’s got this place packed. It’s organized, but there’s a lot of shit. Tubs of kid’s toys stacked all along one wall, two bikes—a woman’s and a kid’s—mounted on the wall, a futon and television stand. Besides a small table with two chairs, there’s nothin’ else in the way of furniture but the bed.
My room at the clubhouse is bigger. And I’ve got a closet. I can’t even see where she keeps her clothes.
I plug the fridge in, and then I walk out with a soft tread.
The kid’s half under a quilt, his foot hangin’ off the side of the bed. Damn, he’s small.
I kind of expect her to shut the door after me, but she follows me out to the landing. She’s got her arms crossed, and her face is still shut down.
“Thanks,” she says, grudging.
And I don’t know what gets into me—I really fuckin’ don’t—but I lower myself down till I’m sitting at the edge of landing, my bare feet danglin’ down. I pat the ledge next to me.
She sighs, makes me wait a long minute, and then she sinks down, leanin’ forward so her forehead presses into the iron railing.
We both look out to the river where the moon’s reflected all smooth and white except for every so often when a frog or a dragonfly sets off tiny ripples.
Pops is still out at the end of the pier, but he’s got his rod wedged in the spokes of his chair, and he’s clearly nodded off. I’m gonna have to remember to wheel him back inside before I head out for the night. He ain’t that good with the three-point turns even when wide awake and sober.
“That your dad?” She nods towards him.
“Ayup.”
“That why your pants are rolled up?”
I look down. I’d forgotten I’d rolled my jeans past my knees to dip my feet in the river. I got nothin’ else but a white tee on, and my hair’s down. I must look like one happy hippy.
“We was fishin’.”
She sighs again, and it’s such a sad little sound.
“Jimmy really wants to go fishing. I have to buy him a rod.”
“Don’t bother. Pops’ll lend him one of my old ones. Probably a dozen of ’em out in the shed.”
“Really?” She turns to me, searchin’ for somethin’. Ulterior motives, I guess.
“Sure. Pops always got worms in the fridge out back.”
Her eyebrows go up. “You’ve got a fridge out back?”
“Rednecks, ain’t we?”
She laughs, but I don’t like the sound. It’s bitter. Tired.
“What?”
She shakes her head. “It’s just funny. I have to bend over backwards for a mini-fridge. You’ve got one out back for worms. Really feels like there’s a metaphor there.”
“A what?”
“A…nevermind.”
“You know a lot of big words, don’t you?” I eye her up. Especially dressed like a Stepford wife, she don’t look like the women I’m used to. “You a college girl, Peaches?”
She snorts. Huh. Sensitive subject.
“Nope. I dropped out. Got my GED.”
“Juvenile delinquent?”
Her lips twitch up, a hint of a smile, and it goes straight to my dick.
Her face ain’t nothin’ to Harper’s, plain most would probably say, but damn, I can’t stop watching it. Every feeling flits across clear as day, and it’s like I’m a Peeping Tom, seein’ shit I shouldn’t, but I can’t tear my eyes away.
A little lip lift ain’t enough; I want to see her laugh.
“I’m not one of those types of people.” She sniffs and looks down her nose at me, teasing now. “Not like some.”
“You’re still young. You got time,” I tease back, and I get another one of those lip lifts. Damn, but my girl is tired. I can tell. If she weren
’t so beat down, she’d have told me to get gone already.
I slip my flask from my pocket, take a swig, and pass it to her.
She eyes it a minute, and then she takes it, sniffs. “What is it?”
“Whiskey.”
I watch her debate, and I can tell the moment she says fuck it. She takes a small sip and grimaces. And then she sticks her tongue out, airing it. Her pretty, pink tongue with the pointed tip.
Oh, damn, but I want to suck on that tongue. I want to watch that tongue lick up and down my dick, dip into the tip, lap up the bead of pre-cum.
I groan. Out loud.
“What?” She frowns at me. “I’m not used to hard liquor.”
“Take another sip. Goes down smoother the second time.”
Not gonna lie. I want to see that tongue again.
She takes another little sip, and this time, she only grimaces. And then the thought occurs to me. “Shit. You even legal?”
“You mean legal drinking age?” Her eyes light up a touch, and she takes another sip.
“Yeah. You twenty-one?”
Oh, she finds this amusing. She tips the flask, playing like she’s taking a deep swig but not really, and then she pops her lips. “Yes sir, I am, Mr. Charge. I’ve been twenty-one for two whole months.”
I groan, taking the flask back since she seems disinclined to pass it. She grins at me, teasing, and it’s so tentative, so unpracticed. This ain’t like Harper or one of the sweetbutts, playing a game they got down cold. Peaches don’t know what she’s doing; it’s so fuckin’ clear. I wonder if this girl has ever flirted before.
It’s heady shit. More than the whiskey.
I want to urge her on, watch her find her feet.
“I like it when you call me that.” I pitch my voice lower. See if she follows.
She replies all breathy, “What…Mister Charge?”
“Umm humm.” I lean down, and she tilts her head up until we’re inches apart. I’ve got her eyes glued to mine. I’m going to taste her; I have to fuckin’ taste her, but I can’t break myself out of this moment. Her breath is coming out in soft pants, her brown eyes are swirlin’ with wonder, and that smell of vanilla turns every sharp edge in the world fuzzy.
“Okay, then, Mister Charge.”
I watch her lips form the words, and I can’t stop myself. Don’t even know why I’d ever wanted to.
“You gonna do what I say, Peaches?” I reach for her ponytail and wrap it around my hand. Damn, even her hair is soft and fine.
“Yes, Mister Charge.” Her voice is playful, flirting, but her eyes are hungry.
I pull her in, done waitin’, and take that pretty mouth. And hot damn, but she is sweet. She draws in a sharp breath, and one of her hands lands on my chest by instinct. She clutches the cotton, and lets out the softest whimper of surprise. I lap at the seam of her lips, try to get her to open up. She don’t know what she’s doin’ though so she keeps them lips closed, but she sways closer, holdin’ onto me with tight hands.
My dick is so hard I can feel the zipper diggin’ in. My body’s yellin’ at me to lay her back, take off that ugly shirt, find a place between her legs, and I struggle to think of why I shouldn’t. She wants this, and I want it, and I had reasons not to, but I can’t begin to remember what they—
The screen door creeks open, and a sleepy voice calls, “Mama?”
She leaps up so quick I can’t get my hand out of her hair in time, and she ends up yanking it loose, a little yowl escaping. Shit. That’s gotta smart.
“Hey, baby. What’s up?”
The kid pokes his head out the door. “Who’s out there with you?”
I swear if this don’t feel just like the time in high school when my girlfriend’s dad busted us in the back of my ride.
“It’s Charge,” I call out, shiftin’ to hide my lap. “Hey, bud.”
“Hi,” he shuffles out, yawning. “Can I have some water, Mama?”
“Of course, baby.” She tousles his hair and turns him back into the apartment. I stand so she can get past me.
“Thanks for your help,” she says, breathless, as she shuffles her boy back inside. Her chin’s down; she’s not meeting my eyes. Every inch of her exposed skin is flushed bright red. The moment’s gone.
And it’s a good thing.
Right?
I mean what the fuck was I thinking?
I adjust my aching cock in my jeans. That’s what I was thinking.
I get Pops and wheel him inside, reminding myself of all the reasons Kayla’s a terrible idea. She’s a civilian, and she’s a kid with a kid. I live at the clubhouse out of boxes, and she lives next door to my Pops.
I shit where I eat with Harper, and now I’m livin’ the fallout. I don’t need to do that again.
It’s just too complicated.
Besides, what am I gonna do with a single mom? My ride don’t have no sidecar.
Peaches is ripe, but she ain’t the only pussy out there. I need to steer clear, work this shit out with a warm and willing bitch who knows the score.
I’m clearly fucked up from Harper. And whatever else I am, I ain’t the asshole who takes advantage of some innocent piece of ass to make himself feel big.
When I ride out, I make sure Pops’ meds are set out for the week, and I put chicken and potatoes in the slow cooker so he’ll have leftovers for a few days. I need to sort my shit, and it ain’t gonna happen if I’m hidin’ out at my Pops’ place, creepin’ on the girl next door.
She’ll be fine.
She’s a big girl.
Twenty-one and two whole months.
Fuck.
CHAPTER 7
KAYLA
“No sign of the hot biker?” Sue pants.
“Nope.” I pop a cotton ball between each toe, holding the phone with my shoulder as I keep an eye on Jimmy. Just like he has been every free minute since we moved in, he’s hanging out with Pops. This morning, they’re sorting through fishing poles in front of his shed. I’m also keeping an ear open for the washing machine buzzer.
What can I say? I’m a mom. I’m one hell of a multi-tasker.
“How long’s it been?” Sue asks on an exhale. She always calls me from the gym. She’s a multi-tasker, too. She has a paid internship at one of the biggest tech companies in Philly, her freelance work, at least two boy toys at any given time, and an obsession with cardio.
“Almost two weeks.”
“Oooo, he’s really scared.”
I snort. “Because I’m so intimidating.”
“Tell me how it went down again,” Sue prods. I can hear her feet pounding the treadmill.
I sigh. I should have never told her about that night with the fridge. I had no idea she was so invested in me finally kissing a guy. Or doing other stuff.
Sue’s not interested in men for more than fun, so we don’t do typical girl talk very often. Ever since I mentioned Charge, though, she’s been all Sex and the City.
“So he carries his heavy package up your stairs, and then,” she prompts.
“It was my heavy package. And then we sat on the landing and shared a drink.”
“Did you gaze deeply into each other’s eyes?”
Did we?
We kind of did.
“Yeah. It was awkward.”
“Why awkward?”
It’s hard to explain. I guess mostly because I’m not used to that kind of attention. Definitely not from such a beautiful man. Such a grown, badass man. Who throws mixed signals like he’s pitching wrong-handed, getting all up in my space one minute and disappearing the next.
It’s the exact kind of bossy male bullshit Sue won’t tolerate. She’d be pissed at me for even thinking about him if she knew.
I say, “I’m not exactly used to it.”
“To what? Flirting?”
“Yeah. That and…everything else. It’s a non-issue though.”
“He hate kids?”
Sue says that like she’d say, “He kick puppies?” which is totall
y ironic. Sue hates kids. She has no interest in ever having one, calls them rug rats and ankle biters, but when I got pregnant, she developed one huge Jimmy-sized exception. Half of Jimmy’s toys are paid for out of the money Sue makes on her freelance coding work.
“I don’t know if he hates them, but he bails whenever he sees mine.”
“See? He’s scared.”
“Of Jimmy?”
“Of responsibility.”
I roll my eyes while I start brushing pink polish on my toes. “Isn’t that a little tired? The man-child who’s scared of responsibility?”
“I don’t know. Being a little scared seems smart to me. A kid’s a big deal.”
Don’t I know it. A few guys have asked me out over the years, and I’m always up front that I have a kid. I’m always nervous about telling, though. It can be bad. One guy asked me whether I’d kept it tight.
I don’t really know what a good thing would look like—let alone how to get a good thing going—so I focus on work and Jimmy. Most days I don’t have any time to wonder what it would be like. To be with a man.
There’s a little longing in me, though. I’m human.
“Sue, do you think I’ll ever do it with a guy?” I can be wistful with Sue. Nothing’s off limits between us.
I hear a beep. She’s paused the treadmill. “Oh, of course, Kayla-cakes. You’re going to do it with a guy and go out on dates and bring a guy home to meet the Jimmy and tell a guy you love him and hear him say it back.”
“How do you know?” My voice is a whisper. I usually don’t let myself think about the future. My dreams. But ever since she moved to Gracy’s Corner in the fifth grade, Sue has had a way of making me feel like my life could be different. Better. She’s the one who helped me get Jimmy back. I’m damn lucky a girl as smart as her decided I was her best friend.
“Because there’s nothing wrong with you, Kayla. And in ten years, everyone’s going to have kids. You’re not going to be the weird one out. But you’re still gonna have a bangin’ ass.”
“Ten years?” She’s got a point, but it’s still depressing.
“Or tomorrow. Or next week. I’m not a fortune teller, Kayla.”
“No, you’re a systems engineer.”
Charge: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 7