Strength & Courage (The Night Horde SoCal Book 1)

by Fanetti, Susan

  “You hurt?” She shook her head. He didn’t like that she wasn’t talking. “Sid. I need to hear you.”

  He felt her take a deep breath. “I’m good. Just…shaken.”

  “You and me both,” he chuckled. “You are something else.” He pulled his arms from the clenching grip of her legs and wrapped them around her.

  She made a sound like a purr, and they sat together, holding each other, until they both found their equilibrium.

  Their physical equilibrium, at least. Muse had a strange, sinking feeling that his head was still out of true where this girl was concerned. And that could really be a problem. But with his cock still inside her and her wonderful body still around him, he couldn’t find the energy to care about problems.

  ~oOo~

  “Well, the rice is glompy. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll make some more.”

  Muse stepped in behind Sid, reached around, and pulled the wooden spoon out of her hand. He set it on the counter next to her rice maker. “Don’t need rice. It’s stew, right? You got any bread?” He nipped at her shoulder. She’d pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail, and he wrapped his hand loosely around it and sucked on her neck.

  She sighed and leaned back against his bare chest. “You sure?”

  “Hon, I’m just looking to refuel here. I don’t need a gourmet meal.”

  “That’s good, because I was never offering gourmet.” Rocking her hips back, she made him take a step away, then walked over to a cupboard. He watched her body move as she rose up on her tiptoes. He didn’t offer to help her reach—the view was too fucking good.

  When they’d finally decided to get up out of her bed, it was nearly midnight. They had fucked twice more, and he had eaten his fill of her, making her come over his tongue again and again, her juices sweet and salty, those gorgeous thighs clamped over his ears. She was stronger than she looked, and he loved the way her muscles flexed and stretched against him.

  Now, she was wearing only that pink beater and a pair of white cotton panties—the kind like tiny shorts, letting the bottom swells of her ass peek out. Damn, maybe he wasn’t as hungry as he’d thought. He shoved a hand into his partially-open jeans and dragged his stiff cock into a more tolerable position.

  With two stoneware bowls, one yellow and one orange, in her hands, she closed the cupboard and came back to the pot on the stove. “Okay. Why don’t you get us drinks—I’ll have another glass of wine. If you want something besides Jack with dinner, help yourself to whatever. And there’s bread in that box over there”—she nodded toward an old-fashioned metal breadbox—“I’ll ladle us up some curry.” She laughed. “Not quite the meal I had in mind.”

  Pouring her wine, Muse stopped and looked over at her. “You don’t have to impress me, hon.”

  “No, it’s not that. But thanks. It’s just…I don’t know. It was nice to make a meal for somebody.”

  She brought the bowls over with spoons and forks, and they sat at her little round table—Muse was careful this time to sit on the sturdier of the chairs—and ate. The curry thing was really good. Really good. Spicy and savory. And Sid didn’t make a fuss when he tore off a hunk from the half-loaf of French bread he’d found and dipped it into his bowl.

  They didn’t talk much while they ate. Sid looked like she was thinking. Muse was thinking, too. Sitting here having this domestic moment, he felt like things were getting shaken around in his head. He tried to remember the last time he’d sat alone with a woman in her kitchen, eating a meal she’d made him. Not since his Nomad days, anyway.

  Maybe it was that unsettled feeling he had, accompanying the sinking feeling he had every time he came while he was inside her, while he lay against her, recovering, but he felt something like queasy, and he didn’t like it. Yet he was in no hurry at all to leave.

  Maybe it was that conflict inside him that had him so sure that now was the time to bring Demon up. It wasn’t the time. He knew that, but the need to do so would not be denied. He put it off until he no longer could. Wiping a fresh piece of bread around the last dregs of his curry, he asked, “There anything you can do for Demon? Get Tucker out of foster care?”

  Sid was still eating her curry, and she paused with her fork in her mouth. For a beat, two beats, three, she simply stared, her lips closed around the fork. Then she pulled it out and chewed, slowly.

  “Sorry. I—”

  She put her hand up to stop him from saying more. “You know, it had occurred to me that you got in my pants to help your friend.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she continued, raising her voice to keep him quiet. “But then you hardly brought him up since that first talk we had before you fucked me in here, so I thought maybe you were into me. You fuck me like you’re into me. But maybe you’re just the kind of guy who’s equally happy with any pussy you get. Or maybe you’re just a really good actor.”

  “I am. Into you, I mean. I’m not fucking you because of Demon.” He leaned closer. “I’m not, hon.”

  “Then why bring him up? Why now, while I’m sitting with you, in my underwear, still feeling like you’re inside me?”

  His cock strained forward at that. “I don’t know. But you’re on Tucker’s case. I want to help my friend. Why wouldn’t I ask?”

  “Because a person with any kind of empathy would know how much it would hurt to ask right now.”

  He didn’t know how to respond. So he said only, “Sorry.”

  She got up and took their bowls to the sink. After she rinsed them, she turned, leaning backward against the counter, her arms crossed. “I talked to my mom this weekend. She’s a lawyer. She doesn’t do family law, but she talked to her colleague who heads up their family law division, and he called me yesterday. That’s actually the main reason I called you earlier.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  She stared at him, her expression angry and guarded. “I don’t know. I heard your voice, and you called me ‘hon,’ and I wanted to fuck more than I wanted to talk, I guess. Something about you makes me act like an idiot. I’m not an idiot, by the way.”

  He stood and walked toward her. But this time, for maybe the first time, she backed away from him. So he stopped. “I know you’re not an idiot, hon.” Thinking of her words, he gave her a smile. “You like that I call you that?”

  The muscles in her forehead and around her eyes relaxed a little. “It’s stupid. You probably call all women ‘hon.’ But yeah. I like it.”

  He didn’t know whether he did or not. He didn’t think so, but he wasn’t going to say one way or the other and land in a trap down the road. Still smiling, he closed the distance between them. “I’m here for you. I like you. I like fucking you. I like talking to you, too. And I like looking at you. But I am curious what the lawyer said.”

  He put his hands on her hips. With a shake of her head, she sighed and answered, “He’s on a fathers’ rights crusade, and he’s interested in the ‘optics’ of Demon’s case.”

  “‘Optics’?”

  “The way it looks, the way it’ll play in the media. Junkie mom given preferential treatment over biker dad, prejudices and assumptions and whatever. Anyway, he’ll talk to Demon, maybe help him.”

  “Demon doesn’t have the scratch for an Orange County lawyer.”

  “He’s in L.A. But yeah, it’s a prestigious firm. If he takes it, he’d do it pro bono.”

  Muse grinned, and his chest got tight. This girl—he’d sensed that she could be an ally, and that she was a fighter, but she barely knew Demon. Hell, she barely knew him. But she was really trying to help. Without him fucking asking. He should have kept his mouth shut. He’d known it was the wrong time.

  “That’s great news, hon. Seems like you’re going to a lot of trouble.”

  She laughed harshly and laid a pretty hand on his chest. “You have no idea. I’m so far out of bounds with this it’s not funny. At a job I just started. Even spending time with you is a conflict. The rest of it—I could lose my job. More than that, maybe.�
��

  “Then why?”

  “Not for you. For Tucker. He’s in a good placement now, but it’s still foster care. I read every single word of his file, and I don’t think Demon got a chance. I understand why—he beat the fuck out of Tucker’s mom, and he has a long record as a violent offender. But all the reports of his conduct with Tucker are glowing. Dakota got chance after chance. She kept hurting him, neglecting him, and my predecessor kept leaving him with her. I don’t have proof, but I have rumor, and I think he was getting…favors from Tucker’s mom.”

  “Motherfucker.”

  “Literally. Anyway, his reports influenced judicial rulings, too. I don’t think Demon was treated fairly, and I think Tucker would be better off with his family, if he’s safe there. Your club is pretty clean, from what I could tell. At least for the past few years. And Demon’s record hasn’t had any new hits for a few years, either. I’ll need to write a report of my own, about Demon, his home and work, his support system, all that—and that’s where what we’re doing could really fuck things up. It’s a conflict of interest. We need to stay away from each other.”

  He hated that thought. “No. We’ll be careful. But I want to see you.”

  “Muse…”

  He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck. “No, hon. I know how to be discreet. I’m not done with you.”

  She gave him a sharp look, her eyes dark and intense. “And when you are?”

  “Time comes, we’ll be grownups about it. Both of us. Deal?”

  She held her eyes on his, searching. Finally, she said, “Deal.”

  Sliding his hands down her arms and around her hips, he grabbed two handfuls of little ass. “Hop up, hon. I’m not done with you tonight, either.” She laughed and jumped into his arms, wrapping around him in the way that was already becoming snug and comfortable, like she fit exactly there, and he carried her back to her bedroom.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning, Sid parked the Ford she drove for work at the curb in front of a large, tidy subdivision home, one nearly identical in style to at least half of the houses on the street—it had clearly been a popular model when this development had been built.

  She got out, pulling the leather messenger bag she used as a briefcase out with her, and went up the walk. The yard was one of the least landscaped—just grass and a line of hedges across the front porch, but it was well-maintained. She stepped onto the covered slab porch and rang the bell.

  A heavyset woman wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a button-down shirt over it answered the door with a bright smile. She had Tucker resting on her hip. He was wearing blue fleece footie pajamas, and his light hair was sticking up in all directions, as if he’d been put to bed just after a bath and now had a textbook case of bedhead.

  He looked vastly better than he did when Sid had picked him up off that horrid kitchen floor and brushed ants out of his mouth.

  “Hi, Sid. Come on in.” She opened the screen door, pushing it outward.

  Sid took the door from her and stepped into the front hall. “Hi, Mrs. Albert. Thanks for letting me come first thing.”

  “Call me Rhonda. And first thing is great—the other kids’ll be off to the school bus in about half an hour, but they’re all into their routine now. I’m pretty much on autopilot until the mad rush just before bus time.”

  “Hi, Tucker. Remember me?” Sid reached out to touch the baby’s hand, but he yanked it away, drawing back from her.

  “He’s not really a people person,” Rhonda said. “Not yet, anyway. He doesn’t complain much, but so far I’m the only person he’ll come to. He’s a pretty suspicious little guy. Come on—let’s go see what the circus is up to.” She turned, and Sid followed her down the hallway.

  Rhonda and Fred Albert were famous among the staff of the San Bernardino County DCFS. They had been foster parents for two decades and had adopted six of the children they’d fostered over the years. They were the kind of family that ended up in the brochures, the family that got asked again and again to speak at foster and adoption events. Nearly all of the children who were placed with them became success stories for the system—and success stories were not a common occurrence. The department was criminally understaffed and full of cracks for children to fall through.

  Sid intended her cases to be airtight. She’d chosen this career to make a difference in the world, to help children in crisis, and she was determined to do exactly that.

  The Alberts always had six children under their roof. Four of the six they’d adopted were grown and off at college or on their own. Two of the children still at home now had the last name of Albert. And four were fosters, each with a different caseworker. Tucker was their most recent placement. As of today, he’d been with them a week.

  Sid followed Rhonda into a large, sunny kitchen, where five children were at various stages of school-readiness—three boys and two girls, ranging in age from six to sixteen, and of a variety of ethnicities. Two were making lunches. Two were still eating. And one, the oldest girl, was beginning to clear the dishes and stack them at the sink to be rinsed. They were talking and laughing, everybody moving about in perfect sync.

  One of the kids making lunches, a boy about twelve, looked up. “I just packed the last applesauce cup, Rhonda.”

  Rhonda nodded. “Okay. Put it on the list. We’re going to Costco this afternoon.” She turned to Tucker in her arms and rubbed noses with him. “Aren’t we, honeypot?”

  The boy turned to the fridge, where a pad was stuck to the side with a pen Velcro’d to the top. “Can we get the stuff with sugar this time?”

  “You know the answer to that, Terrell. You don’t need extra sugar to make applesauce sweet.”

  “You kinda do,” he groused. “At least strawberry applesauce?”

  “Yes. Strawberry applesauce I will do.” She looked around at her charges. “Backpacks packed?” All the kids raised their hands. “Beds made?” A little girl with dark hair pulled into cute pigtails groaned and rolled off her chair. “Thank you, Ximena.”

  Field visits were awkward for Sid. She was only just starting out, and her first day had been a disaster, so now she felt extra insecure. She felt like a guest in Rhonda’s house, and that was the wrong way to conduct herself. She was there to evaluate Tucker’s placement. She knew what she should be doing, and she was handling herself well in other home visits, but she was having trouble asserting herself here, in the home of this obviously experienced foster mother.

  But finally, with a little friendly prodding from Rhonda—which was embarrassing—she managed to do a full site visit, checking the facilities, watching the family dynamic, asking questions about Tucker’s first week. When the kids, after a last-minute chaotic rush, all went off to their bus stops, Rhonda, still holding Tucker on her hip, poured her and Sid cups of coffee and then led the way onto the backyard patio. They sat at a redwood picnic table.

  “So, how do you see Tucker doing with this transition?” she asked, sipping what turned out, sadly, to be decaf.

  Rhonda sat Tucker in a play saucer. He was two, but he was small for his age, so he fit comfortably. When she sat back, he stared up at her with huge blue eyes, ignoring the toys rimming the saucer.

  “Like I said, he’s quiet and really shy, but otherwise he seems okay. He’s gaining some weight. I’m a little worried because he doesn’t seem to really walk yet—he still uses furniture to cruise around. And he hasn’t said a word all week. He barely vocalizes at all. The pediatrician thinks it might just be the transition, or related to his home life before, but she wants him to see an audiologist. I’m not sure that’s covered. Can you approve that?”

  “Sure. I’ll get the forms done today, when I get back to the office.”

  Rhonda grinned. “That’s perfect. Thank you!”

  When Sid left shortly thereafter, she felt confident that Tucker was in a much better situation than he had been. Her commitment to helping Demon was shaken a little. But he really had not been treated
fairly. And if he could be a good father and give Tucker a good home, then that would free up a space in this ideal foster home.

  ~oOo~

  Sid knocked on the frame of her boss’s office door. “Harry? Got a minute?”

  He looked up from his laptop and closed it when he saw her. “Sid! Sure. Come in, have a seat.”

  Harry wasn’t a bad looking guy, and he wasn’t an asshole. He was maybe fifty or so, and looked basically like a state employee, to Sid’s eyes—a little pudgy, and a pretty basic dresser, in Dockers, short-sleeved, button-collar shirts, usually plaid or striped, a tie. Wire-frame glasses and a strip-mall haircut. He was a Regular Joe, and he’d been nothing but nice and supportive.