by Zoey Parker
Gary eyed him for a moment and then nodded. “Okay. One note.”
Bastard grabbed for a napkin, borrowing Gary’s pen to scribble down a quick message: You look beautiful. Amazing job tonight. I want to talk more. Because I’m making everything right, Peach. And then he wrote his number at the bottom before signing it, folding it up and handing it off.
“That’s it.” He put his hands up at his shoulders, gesturing his submission. “I’ll even leave to show you how serious I am.”
Gary nodded. “Okay. Got it. I’ll deliver it myself.”
“Thanks, Gare.” Bastard squeeze his shoulder and downed the rest of his beer. He scanned the bar before he headed for the door, just to make sure Kit wasn’t around or waiting for him. Not like he could expect something like that anytime soon.
He pushed out into the night air, the taste of beer on his tongue, optimism swirling through him despite it all. All he could do now was wait.
And having something—someone—to wait for felt a lot better than he’d expected.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kit stared at the crumpled napkin laying on her kitchen countertop. A single bulb overhead illuminated the chicken scratch, and the emptiness of her new apartment amplified the throbbing indecision in her.
Just seeing the intensity on Bastard’s face during her set that night was enough to drive her back into his arms. Thank god he didn’t try coming to her dressing room again. She would have crumpled at his feet, desperate for him.
You shouldn’t call him. Not yet.
It was a verdict that left the door open. Because if this was what his approach was—seeking her out, making an effort, making things right—then maybe she could find room for him in her life. Maybe he would deserve another inch inside the doorway.
Or maybe you should just leave the biker to his questionable lifestyle and move on.
But was it that easy? She sighed, heading for the queen-sized bed in the corner of her studio apartment. The place was tiny but cozy, and once she saved up enough for all the decorations she had planned, it would really be her sacred chill space. And then, once baby came…their perfect little nest. For mother and child.
She was scared to get her hopes up about Bastard. It was so easy to do. It was practically her MO: believe a man, get hurt, forgive, rinse and repeat. Bastard already went through this wash cycle twice, and now there was a baby in the mix. If she was ever going to start laying down the law and thinking with her head instead of her heart, it needed to be now.
Even still, she couldn’t deny the claws of desire, the way they gouged deep scratches in her resolve. She wanted Bastard, despite it all. And now that she had his baby growing inside her, it was even more tempting to begin constructing the fairytale. To fall into the trap of well maybe now he’ll be different.
But no. She wouldn’t go down that route until he started proving himself.
She tugged off her sweatshirt and leggings, tossing them into the self-appointed dirty pile corner of her barely-furnished apartment. That weekend, Andi would come over to drop off some extra appliances and things she’d gotten from other friends for free. In the meantime, basically all Kit had was a bed, a shower curtain, and enough ready to eat food to last her a week.
And though her life was sparse right now, it felt amazing. In a situation like hers, she knew she could either be hard on herself or see the silver lining. Sure, she was pregnant unexpectedly, in a new city, and just scraping by…but at the same time, she had freedom. She was in the city of dreams. And she was making a living doing what she loved.
On her way to the bathroom Kit flipped through her social media. Each day she got new followers on her Instagram account, and it seemed more people were noticing her video clips now that she’d gotten savvy about tagging and sharing them. She made it a point to post a little video of her singing daily, usually while she walked to work or headed to the park for a morning run. Based on the comments she got, people were digging her style. And even that little nod of attention from the faceless masses felt a lot like success in LA.
Just keep it up. You’ll get there. She drew a hot shower, waiting until the bathroom was steamed up before dipping a toe in. As soon as the hot water hit her shoulders, her mind wandered to Bastard. Imagining the way his gaze would glint off her right now; what he might do with his hands if he were to come into the shower behind her. She rolled her lips inward, imagining his rough hands on her hips, pinning her against him. Could practically feel the heat of his groin pressed up against her ass, the rock-hard length of him pushing between the lips of her pussy.
She whimpered, letting her hand drift between her legs as she imagined him slipping inside her, over and over again, hearing his grunts of satisfaction in her mind while she rubbed herself to a trembling climax. When she came, she moaned his name. It was her place. She could do bad things alone and no one had to know.
Because that’s where Bastard should stay for now: her fantasies.
She finished up her shower, knees weak from the powerful climax, and wandered through her apartment naked, enjoying the private display. She missed having her own place. Shacking up with Andi had been a lifesaver, but now that she was starting to get the hang of LA, it was better that she have her own landing pad. A place to belt her lungs out, stay up late writing lyrics, a real, cozy home for herself.
Kit sighed, crawling into bed, relishing the smooth, cool sheets against her skin as she snuggled between them. Part of her was surprised Bastard hadn’t followed her home. The other part was extremely glad for it.
Let him play by your rules for a minute. You’re done playing by guys’ rules.
And that was the truth. In LA, Kit wasn’t going to waste her time chasing after men who weren’t worth it…worth her. If Bastard wanted to cruise back into her life and pull the hero card, then he was going to have to put on his cape and show her what he was made of.
***
The next day, Kit awoke late, rousing slowly and stretching for what felt like a half hour in her comfy, luxuriously soft bed. If there was one thing she didn’t skimp on in life, it was bedtime comfort. She slipped out of bed, the cool air of her apartment making her skin prickle. Yawning, she stumbled toward the bathroom, propping her chin on her hand while she peed.
I wonder what Bastard is doing.
She sighed, scolding herself for the thought, but wandered right into the kitchen to stare at that napkin. She had his number now. She controlled the pawns. This was her game.
Leave it. She turned away, heading back to the bed. She didn’t have to be into work for hours, and the whole day was hers. Just as she climbed into the bed, she heard an odd scraping noise. She froze, tilting her head toward the door.
New place. New noises. You’re probably just jittery. When the noise didn’t repeat itself she slipped between the sheets, her eyes on the door. It had to be after noon; it was probably the muted noises of neighbors making lunch or something.
She laid in bed for a while, alternately daydreaming and listening to the noises coming from the apartments around her, trying to acquaint herself with the rhythms of her new place. Every once in a while, she felt the stark stomach drop like when she’d gone back to her apartment in Olympia to find the note taped to her door. The thought crossed her mind more times than she liked to admit: what if he finds me here?
Dipper didn’t have much new information on that front, and said that the guy had stopped coming to the bar once Kit stopped playing. So basically it was a dead end. He was out there, somewhere, possibly still obsessed with her, and possibly not. She couldn’t even remember what he looked like anymore, she saw so many faces each night at the bar. What if he showed up here in LA and she didn’t even realize it?
She buried herself under her down comforter, like it might help quell the anxious thoughts. It was true, being on her own in LA was more dangerous than back in Olympia, where she’d grown up and knew the streets like the back of her hand. What if another crazed fan found her here? Then
what? Keep hitching rides with bikers until she hit Mexico, or the east coast?
The thought made her giggle. Bastard had been the last biker she’d ever hitch a ride with. Getting knocked up by one marked the end of her dalliances with bikers.
Kit took her time getting ready for the day, eating cereal while she browsed articles on her phone, warming up her voice while she picked an outfit for that night’s show. Gary swung by her apartment around five, per usual, to give her a ride to work. It was part of their arrangement, until she could afford a car, which meant she usually got a rideshare back to her apartment after her shows each night.
Car…insurance…furniture…and soon, baby appointments…She tried not to let the weight of all the financial obligations weigh her down, or snuff her creative flame. She would make it through somehow. She had to.
By the time her backing band was tuning for the show, the roar of voices from the bar reached her dressing room. She could gauge how full the bar was based on the level of reverb down the cement hallway, and tonight seemed like it would be packed. As Kit finished her makeup, she kept one eye on the door through the mirror, half expecting Bastard to show up demanding to know why she hadn’t called after having his number for a day. Or maybe she was just wanting him to show up.
But he didn’t come. And again, she was glad for it. You still have the upper hand.
After warm ups and the typical pre-show pacing in her dressing room, showtime arrived. She glided toward the back of the stage, her beaded dress swooshing lightly against her legs until it stopped mid-thigh. Tonight’s ensemble was 1920’s mixed with modern goth, navy and black beads glinting and rustling against sheer fabric, her lipstick black and lips voluptuous.
When she emerged onto the stage, Bastard was the first thing she saw. He was tucked into the corner near the front of the stage, his gaze burning on her the second she stepped out, while the band played around her. Cheers swelled in the bar, drowning out everything, but she couldn’t look away from Bastard, not even for a second. She assumed her familiar stance at the microphone stand, hating herself for being so drawn to him.
She wrapped a hand around the microphone, finally dragging her gaze off of him, focusing on the floor beneath her. The drummer tapped out her cue, and then she launched into the first song.
Singing pushed her into another world. It was her surefire way to disconnect, to detach, to lose herself in a healing void where nothing could touch her.
But between songs, her gaze traveled back to that fiery green gaze in the corner, the dark stubble on his jaw, those rough hands clenched as though anticipating touching her. It felt like they spoke volumes in the flits of seconds between songs, in the brief moments she’d allow herself to get lost in him.
And maybe that was enough. That was all she needed from him: to look at him, to sate that deep, primal need for him. To know that he cared enough to come back, even if he kept to the shadows. To just feel his nearness.
Her set blew by in a whirl of applause and bluesy, rocking tunes. It was one of her best shows yet, and plenty of phones were aimed right at her for the full hour of singing. Someday, all of it would lead to her big break. She just had to keep faith.
And maybe that’s all she needed to do with Bastard, too.
Just see where it led her…and keep the faith.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bastard pulled himself out of bed around four a.m. after thinking his alarm was part of a dream. His body was leaden and dull, actively protesting the early rising after having stayed up so late to see Kit’s show. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world though, even though it was yet another night without talking to her, without touching her.
Just being able to watch her in her element was worth the bleary start to his day. He yawned, stumbling to the bathroom. He’d need an extra huge coffee if he expected to make it to Mexico that afternoon, though the crisp morning air was sure to help wake him up too.
He splashed water on his face, his mind wandering as it always did now to Kit. She consumed him. Wondering what she was doing, if she was feeling okay, whether or not she’d made any big decisions that might affect…whatever this was.
She didn’t know it yet, but she wasn’t gonna shake him so easily. The moment he decided to show up to her dressing room, he’d known Kit was for him. And once she found out she was pregnant, he’d known it was forever.
It didn’t scare him, either. Not like he thought it might. Because what he hadn’t realized back then was that it wasn’t just about him anymore. Even if it was scary, it didn’t matter. Life had to be lived.
Bastard splashed water on his face, a shiver racing up his spine. Kit had a protector, whether she wanted him or not. And he’d be making sure his girl and his unborn baby were safe.
He hurried through the quiet clubhouse, ready to feel the cool air on his cheeks and get some miles behind him on this trip. Truth was, he didn’t want to head to Mexico right now. He wanted to stick around LA and keep an eye on Kit. But this run had a high payout, and if he needed anything right now, it was money to convince Kit that he could be stable. That he could help provide for her and this kid, at least on the front end while she looked for a doctor and shit like that.
Outside, the early morning air was bruise purple and almost churning into dawn. He headed around to the back of the clubhouse to the garage, where his international chariot awaited: Mick’s Plumbing, the trusty van that had smuggled immeasurable amounts of contraband between countries. Bastard tended to cross only on days that he knew a specific border agent was working. The relationship ensured things flowed more smoothly, made for fewer hiccups and less time spent scanning the vehicle.
The van rumbled to life, breaking the eerie stillness of the dawn. He looked behind him, into the outfitted van, full of equipment and harnesses and all manner of plumber paraphernalia that was routinely never used. Off to the side, three black duffel bags were tucked between toolboxes. That’s where the money was.
He double checked the glovebox for the regular documents—the passport with his fake identity as Mick Rowland, vehicle registration, paperwork showing the registration of the business, and even the invoice for this purported plumbing trip for those extra curious border agents. He’d made this trip so many times that he could rattle off the numbers of Mick’s passport, something he couldn’t even do for his actual passport.
Bastard waited until he was out of the early morning LA traffic and coming up on Huntington Beach before he pulled over to gas up and grab his coffee. And even though it didn’t make sense, he checked his phone compulsively to see if Kit had called or texted. Even though surely she was asleep; even though he had a snowball’s chance in hell that she would reach out to him so soon.
The trip south down the coastline was pleasant enough. Once daybreak hit, Bastard remembered what he loved about this part of the country. Husky red hues ripped across the sky, illuminating streaks of clouds in the growing light. The ocean off to the west looked deceptively calm and alluring in the morning rays. He smiled out at the water. This was one of his favorite times of day to catch.
If only Kit were here to see this with you.
The smile faded from his face. Their carefree days down the Oregon coast still haunted him, feeling like a fantasy more than his past. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel so free and open with someone. And maybe it was because he had never met the right someone before.
Come on, Peach. Call me. I just want to hear your voice.
The thought replayed in his head like a mantra all the way to the border, or maybe more like a desperate plea. He wanted to tell her where he was going, that he was about to make money to support them, that she didn’t have to worry about being a single mom. He would reassure her as much as she needed; remind her that he wasn’t going anywhere. And then he’d confess all the things he’d been imagining about the two of them, the fantasies ranging from sweet to lurid, from the back of his bike to against the wall of her dressing room after a gig.
Besides, there was something deep inside that liked the idea of waiting for her. Only for her. It might drive him crazy, it might even kick off a dry spell…but if he was in, he was going all in. Their night at the clubhouse was perfect jackoff material. Feeling her silky pussy come crashing down around him was like coming home in a way he hadn’t known was possible. He only wanted her; wanted that. His hand could only satisfy him for so long. But he didn’t want anyone else either.
Just his Peach.
The border station was more backed up than he’d expected. He crept through the line at a glacial pace, and by the time he made it up to the agent he was all but waved through. On the other side of the border, the air hit him dryer and freer, the late morning imbued with a sense of triumph that he couldn’t entirely explain. As his pace slowed nearing Tijuana, the vowels of Spanish began to reach him, the smell of corn tortillas, the hustle and bustle of a foreign country that was so close yet so different.