Fast As You (Reapers MC: Conroe Chapter, #2)

by Hunter, Bijou

“But it’s a triangle.”

  Smiling at his comment, I pick up Freki and set the dog in my lap. “The man who built this house might have been mentally ill. He lived in the woods for decades. Then a relative of his died and left him money. Nylon Dolphy went from homeless to buying half an acre on what was then just an empty road. Rumor has it that he feared the Illuminati and thought if his house was shaped like a pyramid that he would be safe. He lived here for over twenty years. After he died, no one wanted such a small, odd house. They also thought it was haunted.”

  “But you live here now,” he says, stating the obvious as if he’s discovered something profound.

  “I wanted a small place for me and my birds,” I say, wishing I would shut up. Swallowing the grief burning in my chest, I sigh. “I used to have two parrots, and their noises can bother some people, but the neighbors here aren’t so close. Plus, they’re all old and can’t hear well. This seemed like a nice starter home.”

  “Is it haunted?” he asks, watching me intently now. I want to believe he noticed my sadness and feels pity rather than he just remembered a hot chick is within reach.

  “I don’t know. I never feel anything.”

  “Do you believe in that stuff?”

  “My mom does, but she thinks if Nylon still roams the earth that he would return to the woods where he felt the freest. I like that idea,” I say and swallow the sadness threatening to rise in me. “I imagine him in the woods with my birds.”

  “They died?” he asks, sounding heartbroken.

  His concern makes me want to taste his lips. Not a complete moron, I keep my ass put.

  “I don’t know. Someone tore open the atrium when I wasn’t here. I don’t know what happened to my birds. They probably just flew away, and I guess they could come back, but it’s been months. If they’re alive, I assume they’ve found a new home.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” I say, hating how easily I fall into trusting men. I’m already convincing myself that this banged-up hunky puppy is harmless. He’s probably sweet as sugar and only a little rough during a good fuck. No reason to stab him tonight. “Are you going to tell me about why Buzz hates you?”

  “Buzz?”

  “Isn’t that your brother’s name?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not the one. No, Buzz is the nice brother. The fun one. He’s so fucking reckless, though. As a kid, he was always jumping into pools without anyone around or running into the road without looking. He’s impulsive. Like one time, he climbed onto the roof because he thought a cat was up there. Then he decided the best way to get down was to jump. He broke his arm and ankle, but it didn’t scare him,” Bubba says and then mutters, “Scared the shit out of me.”

  “If Buzz doesn’t hate you, who does?”

  “Butch.”

  I take a moment to wonder why his parents punished their children with such faux manly names. Yes, I’m Soso—well, Calypso actually—but my brother has a very respectable cool name. One goofy name choice is understandable, but three?

  “Why?”

  Bubba turns so suddenly toward me that Freki flinches and I nearly pull out my blade. His intense gaze forces me to lean away. My instincts demand I flee.

  “You won’t understand if you don’t know my brother,” he says in a dark voice. Then he blinks, and his melancholy returns. “You’ll think I’m the asshole, and I need you to see me right.”

  “Help me understand then,” I say in a voice stuck somewhere between curious and fearful.

  Everyone knows about the two main reactions to fear: fight or flight. But there are three others: freeze, friend, and flop. I tend to react in those three ways. Like I froze at the bar. I tried to “friend” Griff when he started acting like a psycho a few months ago. Now I do the same with Bubba. I believe if I’m approachable, these men will act less threatening. As if it’s my job to keep them from becoming violent.

  Despite knowing this viewpoint is bullshit, I still fall back into the habit of trying to make nice to avoid running or fighting.

  Even so, I keep my blade at the ready while wondering why I ever allowed Bubba into my house in the first place.

  “Butch is weird,” he whispers in almost a hiss. “Fucked in the head.” Bubba taps his temple and nods. “My parents thought maybe he was autistic because of how Butch didn’t want to talk to anyone and got rigid when in crowds. The kid threw up at school like every day because the teacher would talk to him or the kids would get loud. He couldn’t handle anything.”

  “But he’s not autistic?” I ask, based on his wording.

  “No. He has some kind of mutism. Selective might be the word. I don't remember exactly. I was a kid when all that went down. Once I grew up, I didn’t care what was wrong with Butch. He was just weird. He talks when he wants. Keeps people at arm’s length, but he can get close. It didn’t matter what was wrong with him. I’m his big brother, so I needed to watch out for him.”

  Even still nervous about Bubba’s slightly aggressive demeanor, I smile at his need to watch out for his little brother. Keanu always protected me growing up. I wanted to be a boy. Well, maybe not have a dick, but I craved to be as tough as my dad.

  Except I wasn’t tough. I’d get hurt and cry every single time. But I still wanted to be a badass. It was a stupid cycle—much like Buzz’s need for impulsive adventures, I guess.

  Keanu always helped me up when I was down. He dried my tears and talked trash about people in Korean, so only we’d understand. Keanu made the world less scary, and he did it with style.

  “Do you like your brother?” I ask Bubba.

  Nodding with too much enthusiasm, he leans back into the couch, and I loosen my grip on the knife. “He’s funny sometimes. We were best friends, and I liked him, but I never really knew if he liked me. Butch isn’t easy to read. Since I didn’t make him vomit from stress, I figured that meant I was someone important to him.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “She happened,” Bubba hisses. “Sissy Mullen. That name doesn’t mean anything to you because you don’t know Ellsberg, but her family’s trash. Fucking nasty evil bastards.”

  “And she screwed with your brother?” I ask when he stops talking.

  “No, Sissy’s got a good heart. She’s not like the rest of her family. I guess her brother’s okay too. He’s harder to like than her. Sissy finds a way to smile even when life gets rotten. She’s always humming and singing, and she’s as dumb as a box of rocks, but she’s got a light to her.”

  “And you liked her?”

  “Yeah, but Butch loved her. See, she was in Ellsberg, and we’d moved to Conroe. Those are places in Kentucky,” he says in case I’m confused. Wearing a smile, I nod at his helpfulness. “Then she moved to Conroe with my cousin. That’s Audrey’s sister. I can’t remember her name for some reason.”

  Bubba trails off for a few seconds until I tap him with my foot. Regaining his focus, he shrugs. “When Sissy visited our house for the first time, I was totally going to hit that hot ass of hers. I mean, she’s an attractive chick. But then I saw the way Butch was acting around her. It was so fucking obvious how much he wanted her. I’d never seen him act like that with a chick before. Ever. He can barely tolerate women long enough to get laid.”

  “He sounds like a charmer.”

  “No, see,” Bubba grumbles, wagging his finger at me, “you say that because you don’t know him. Like you think he’s just a jerk, but he’s got wires messed up in his head. Like with Sissy. She’s dumb, but not because she wants to be dumb. Some people don’t care if they forget shit or fuck up stuff. They’re selfish but not her. She just can’t remember crap. And Butch can’t be close to people. They want too much from him, and he gets rattled and closed off and then sulks in his room.”

  “But not with Sissy?”

  “Well, he still acts like him, but he was always hanging around her place. I knew he wanted her, but I realized he wasn’t going to do anything about it.”

  B
ubba stops talking and stares at me for like a minute before I wonder if the absinthe has finally shorted out his brain.

  “You’re going to think I’m an asshole,” Bubba says and literally pouts.

  “I already do, so why not finish your story?”

  His laughter startles me. He sounds so damn happy. Finally, he tires himself out and smiles. “You’re too beautiful to be with me. I’m a loser, you know? Everyone knows. Even Butch.”

  “Finish your story before I rule on how much of a loser you are.”

  “Fine,” he sighs and loses his smile. “I asked out Sissy. Just to rile up Butch. He can be competitive with me. We’re close in age. We look a lot alike, and people often get us confused. I’m not really competitive with him because he’s fucked up in the head, and I don’t want him to puke from stress. That’s all I’m aiming for with him, so keep that in mind when I look like an asshole later in my story.”

  Hiding a smile behind my hand, I wave for him to continue.

  “So, I asked Sissy out. I didn’t expect her to say yes. I got the sense she was into Butch. He was always fixing shit at her house, and she would stare at him. Sissy does stare at people a lot. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure if she liked him because of her staring habit, but I figured asking her out would answer some questions.”

  “But she said yes.”

  “Yeah,” he says in a quieter voice. “She did, and I thought maybe she didn’t like Butch. I knew Butch wanted her, though. I wasn’t sure what to do after she said yes.”

  “What did you do?” I ask when Bubba falls silent again.

  “This house really is a triangle.”

  Rolling my eyes, I don’t know why I’m trying to have a conversation with Mister Blotto over here. I stand up and walk to the fridge, where I pour him a glass of mint-flavored water. At the very least, he’ll stay hydrated, and his breath ought to be better.

  “Thanks.”

  “Let’s skip ahead to where you fucked your brother’s dream girl, and he hates you.”

  “I didn’t fuck her. I didn’t really want to date her at all, but then Butch was acting like a cocksucker to me after I asked her out.”

  “I wonder why?” I ask, struggling to keep my sarcasm in check.

  “He didn’t know I knew he wanted her,” Bubba says, spilling water on himself as he tries to handle the complexity of a glass. “Butch could have come to me and said, ‘Brother and closest friend, could you kindly step the fuck away from the chick I want to bang?’ Did he say that? No, he acted like I was a cocksucker.”

  “And you dated her to get revenge?”

  Bubba wags his finger at me again and returns to his sexy pouting. “See how you think I’m the bad guy?”

  “Dude, I’m going to be square with you right now. I have no emotional attachment regarding how your story ends. Like if you set fire to your brother and are on the run, I’ll feel about the same as if he tried to set you on fire and you’re in hiding.”

  “No fire was involved,” Bubba says as if letting me in on a secret.

  “But you fought?”

  “Yeah. Sissy and I dated a few times. We didn’t even kiss. I kept going because Butch pissed me off. I also thought I’d hurt her feelings if I ended things. When it was finally over, I was relieved. But like twenty-four hours later, my cocksucker brother humped her in public. I looked like a fucking loser, and Butch knows no one respects me. But does he try to protect me like I’ve protected him his entire fucking life? No, and he didn’t just disrespect me. He proved he doesn’t care about me either.”

  Despite the anger in his words and tone, I see only hurt in his expression. I hope he doesn’t cry. Booze can turn the toughest men into crybabies under the right circumstances.

  One time, my father cried over his dead mom despite her being very much alive and ten feet from him. Dad was so upset over never telling his dead mother... Well, we never really understood what he wanted to tell her because his sobs made his words incoherent.

  This incident is why my father no longer drinks moonshine.

  “I’m sorry your brother hurt you,” I say because I don’t know what else to tell Bubba.

  The anger drains from his face, and he gives me a crooked smile. “I’ve never met a woman as beautiful as you. I think I’d be fucking shy if I wasn’t a little buzzed.”

  I smile at his compliment and his far off-the-mark analysis of his drunk level.

  “I’m the president of the Conroe chapter,” he says, sounding tired as he rests the empty glass on the table. “No one respects me. My mom calls the shots, or my uncle calls them. The Dogs think I’m a joke. Now I know my brother does too. I’m not even sure why the fuck I should go back there? It’s not like any of them would miss a beat without me.”

  “Then maybe don’t go back,” I say, not really caring about his club’s internal workings. “Be your own man. Do what’s right for you. If that’s going back, then do it. If it only serves other people, fuck them.”

  With his head resting on the couch and his body sagged half off it, Bubba watches me with sad eyes. “My mom will raise holy hell if I don’t pretend to be president.”

  “You’re not a little boy, and your mommy isn’t your master.”

  “No, she’s not, but I feel like she is sometimes.”

  “Then make a change,” I say, sliding off the couch and gesturing for him to stretch out. “Or don’t.”

  Bubba rests his head on the arm, and I smile at the sight of his feet dangling off the other end.

  “You smell good,” he says, and I immediately tense at the horny implications.

  Bubba’s expression is more goofy than predatory, and I suspect he’ll be asleep soon.

  “This isn’t going to work,” I mutter. “Since it was my idea for you to crash here, you can have the bed. Come along before I change my mind.”

  I try to sound edgy, intimidating even. “I’m just so apathetic toward you” is the vibe I’m going for, but my voice is too soft, and I’m already wondering what Bubba’s like when sober. Is he half as sweet as when plastered?

  Bubba doesn’t really understand where we’re going, but he shuffles after me. I warn him to duck as we enter the bedroom section since the ceiling is lower, but he still conks his head.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles, yanking off his damp shirt before flopping onto my bed.

  “You’re on a roll with the head injuries, pal.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t fit on your couch.”

  “Stop apologizing. You’re making me want to start a charity in your honor.”

  Bubba chuckles as he rolls onto his stomach and stretches out. I’m relieved to see he understands how I’m not sharing the bed with him. With his back to me, he whispers, “I’m going to make you love me so much that no other man will do.”

  I smile at his words despite having no idea if he’s even talking to me. Bubba hasn’t said my name once all night, and I suspect he doesn’t remember it.

  Leaving him to crash, I walk to the living room and cuddle on the couch with Freki under a colorful afghan. I worry about sleeping with a strange man in the house. Letting down my guard isn’t an option, but I don’t think I can stay up all night.

  What have I gotten myself into with Bubba?

  THE RUNAWAY

  I study the triangle house and the woman who calls it home. Flashes from last night fill my throbbing head. The fight at the bar involved Keanu. I remember that much. Who started it? Were he and I on the same side or fighting each other? Did I beat a black belt? Did watching all those “John Wick” movies make me a martial arts master? No, that’s stupid, and I might still be a little drunk.

  Around the room are hints of this woman’s personality. She has a fluffy dog, but he isn’t wearing any clothes, so she’s not a total nut. I don’t see a TV anywhere. She listens to New Age music—Celtic-Arabian-sounding crap that fortunately she turns down once we start talking.

  The floors are cedar, and I suspect the cabinets are too. Everyth
ing is scuffed up and lived-in. I feel surprisingly comfortable in this odd house despite worrying I’m going to bang my head.

  I spot a bowl of what looks like granola on the freakishly small circular kitchen table. From this, I surmise she doesn’t host company much, and she eats like a squirrel. I smell a mixture of flowers and plants, but not a fake scent like from perfume. The odor reminds me of my visit to a botanical garden.

  I scratch my chest and realize I never put on my shirt. When I left the bedroom, I saw it on the compact, scratched-up dresser. I assumed I’d want to be as close to naked as possible when I met up with my last-night fuck partner. Now, I’m standing shirtless in front of a chick who didn’t even kiss me. “Wait, did we kiss?”

  “No,” she says when I ask as she brews a small pot of coffee.

  “Did you want to kiss me?” I ask, and she glances at me over her shoulder.

  “At times, but I don’t kiss strangers.”

  “But you bring them back to your house.”

  She turns around and crosses her arms in a way that makes her tits jut out. Even wearing a baggy flowered shirt, I can tell she’s got ample flesh to nuzzle my face between. Too bad her expression is full-blown cock block.

  “I should have left you in the parking lot with Griff, but I suffered a moment of weakness. I guess you implying I’m a slut is my reward.”

  “No,” I mumble, feeling like an asshole. “I think I remember you were nice to me last night.”

  Her shaming frown fades. “You were sad.”

  Oh, crap, please, Lord, tell me I didn’t cry in front of this gorgeous woman! I don’t know how I can walk back such a display of ball-less wonder.

  “I wish you hadn’t seen me acting like a punk. I’m not usually like that,” I admit, shoulders sagging from a lack of confidence.

  “I liked your sweet side.”

  Her praise immediately inflates my balls. “Well, in that case, you saw the real me that I hide from others.”

  She quietly laughs, and I’m now the badass motherfucker who made her smile. It’s a good feeling.

  “Wait, who’s Griff?”