by Rie Warren
I’d only learned my lesson when I knew I couldn’t raise a child in the violence and mayhem Reggie got his rocks off on.
He started up the steps of my house, offhandedly swiping beneath his nose that seemed more red than usual.
When he got to the door, he stared at me with eyes that had become beady over the years. They were red-rimmed too.
“Knock fucking knock, honey.”
Jesus. Not again.
I braced my hands against both sides of the flimsy screen door. “Are you on something?”
He snorted in an ugly tone. “Oh yeah. They got me hooked up on them antidepressants ’cause I told the doc I got a real bitch ex. Zoloft or somethin’ like that?”
Nice.
“You’re not seeing Caleb in this condition.” I made sure to stick my foot right at the corner of the door in case he tried to bust through.
“Don’t you be a cunt this time. Din’t I pay the fuckin’ support last week?”
“I can’t talk to you like this, Reggie.”
He snickered. “Ain’t like you ever did much talkin’ anyway. Always was better at spreading those pretty legs and lettin’ me rut between them. Maybe I should knock you up again.”
“You need to leave.” My skin prickled all over, and I wished I carried a gun.
Or a taser.
Something to protect my family from this asshole I’d never be rid of.
“Ma! Hey, Ma!” Reggie punched a fist against the doorframe. “What the fuck does this bitch have over you, Ma? My own flesh and blood, gonna let Honoré treat me like a pile of shit she stepped in on the sidewalk?”
My heart beat harder when he rattled the door, hollering, “MA! FUCK YOU TOO! You were just a womb, nothin’ more!”
I blinked back tears, imagining both Joan and Caleb listening to all the hurtful hatefulness Reggie spewed.
He drew back, swabbing at his nose again. “Got a right to see my boy. You’re raisin’ him up to be a spoiled l’il shit, ain’t you?”
Shoving out the door, I pushed him back.
Reggie flailed for a second before stumbling off the steps.
Unsteady on his feet, he definitely shouldn’t even be driving, but my main concern was getting him off my property and away from Caleb as fast as possible.
“You come back when you’re straight!” I pushed at him. “Damn you, Reggie! You know better than this by now. You’re the president of a biker club. Is this really how you want to be remembered, all hopped up on shit and a bad example to Caleb?”
His head came up slowly, and a snide smile slid across his lips when I blurted his MC standing.
The prez.
He just couldn’t get enough of being Big Man Biker . . . it made me sick inside to think about the years I’d wasted on him.
He thought being a gangster gave him balls bigger than anyone—gave him standing.
The thing was, I’d met MC men who didn’t rely on nasty reputations or breaking the law to make their mark.
I’d met the Blood Legion MC.
“Sometimes I miss you gettin’ all feisty and up in my face.” Reggie’s stringy hair fell across his eyes when he leered at me.
“Yeah? Well aside from Caleb, I regret every single moment I spent with you.” I pointed at his hog, unwavering. “Get lost before your son comes out here and finds you tripping on whatever you’ve been taking this time. It sure as hell isn’t Zoloft.”
His eyes held a nasty gleam, but he mounted his bike.
I didn’t move a single inch until he roared off down the street, not before he spun out a giant chunk of turf on my lawn.
I wished so much I could strip him of all rights regarding Caleb, but I didn’t have the funds to take him to court. Hell, it took all Joan and I had to keep this house and pay the bills and make sure Caleb never went without.
I’d have given up on my music years ago—it was so impractical to keep that one dream alive. If it hadn’t been for Momma Joan, I’d have lost that last true part of myself too.
Dragging deep breaths in and out, I calmed down before going back inside.
The sad thing was, Caleb was used to the disappointment. I imagined he was actually relieved not to have to spend time with his father.
No boy should be made to feel that way about his own dad.
Both Joan and I did our best to keep his mind off that stuff during the rest of the day. We ate the chocolate chip cookies. We went to the playground. We watched a movie with ample amounts of buttered popcorn.
The whole time, I tried to be strong, but tears kept leaking to my eyes.
Joan knew, and she knew enough that if she so much as patted my hand in sympathy, I’d have broken down altogether.
A couple hours after an early dinner, Caleb looked ready to drop off.
I carried him to his bedroom, and he protested sleepily with the usual, “I’m not a baby no more.”
But he was.
He was my baby.
When I tucked a sheet around him, he smelled like grass and sunshine and melted butter.
“Mommy?” He yawned against his fist.
“Yeah, little man?” I smoothed the hair from his forehead.
The lock sprang right back into place.
“Why’s daddy so mean?”
When his lower lip trembled, I thought the wellspring of pain would burst open inside me.
I kissed his cheek, holding him against me. If only I could love him enough for two people.
“He doesn’t mean to be. Not about you.” No matter how hard I hated on Reggie, I didn’t want Caleb to be screwed up in the head about his deadbeat dad.
No matter how unlikeable or unreliable the dickhead was.
“Will he like me one day?” Caleb turned those big pale blue eyes on me.
I swallowed harshly. “He has things going on that have nothing to do with you, and never did. ’Kay?”
“’Kay,” he agreed sleepily.
“Besides, Grandma and I pretty much think you’re the bee’s knees.”
“Bees don’t have knees, do they?”
I chuckled damply. That was a far better question than why doesn’t my dad love me.
I kissed Caleb one last time before leaving his room.
And in my bedroom, I discovered Joan laying out all the dresses from my closet across my bed.
“What time is Saint coming to get you?” She glanced back at me from inspecting a cream-colored wrap dress and tossing it aside.
“Maybe I should just stay home tonight. I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”
Spinning from my displayed wardrobe, Momma Joan winked at me. “I think this is the best idea I ever had.”
I sank into a chair.
She perched in front of me on the edge of the bed. When she grasped my hands, I hung onto them like a lifeline.
Then she scolded, “If you don’t go shave your legs, put on some lipstick, and wear something nice for your date with a fine, fine man . . . I’ll go in your place.”
“Hey”—I sniffle-laughed—“I shaved my legs yesterday.”
“What about the down below?”
“Joan!”
“Well?”
“God,” I grumbled, grabbing my robe and stepping around her and all my high heels she’d spread about along with my dresses. “I’m going already.”
“Don’t forget to preen your la-la!”
“Oh my god.” I groaned again.
But I was smiling. She was purely nuts, that woman.
And I hadn’t even taken one moment to consider how she dealt with Reggie, the fallout, her own son . . .
Somehow, she was just as bright and cheerful when I finished up and stepped into the living room. Mind you, there was a half-finished bottle of wine on the table beside her.
I didn’t blame her.
In fact, I could use a drink or five myself.
“Bien!” She hopped up and circled around me. “I approve.”
I wore my hair down, and the natural pale platinum waves cascaded
just around my shoulders. With a hint of mascara and some deep red lipstick, I thought I’d accentuated my best features. The dress had been hanging in my closet—unworn for years. Same thing with the strappy heels and fringed wrap.
When the doorbell rang, Momma Joan took me in her arms. “G’on, hon. You deserve this.”
Then she took off to the kitchen, bottle of wine in hand.
When I saw Saint waiting outside, I almost fell over.
He opened the door, took my hand, and I joined him on the small stoop.
He looked panty-melting hot. Gone was the leather cut and T-shirt combo. In a narrow tie loosened around his neck, he’d opted for a black button down with the sleeves rolled up over sinewy inked forearms. Below, he wore jeans and huge black boots. The rings on his fingers caught my eyes . . . those silver rings had been right between my legs.
With his razor-edged long goatee and forest green eyes, Saint was totally gulp-worthy.
While I stared, his gaze devoured me.
I’d never put much stock in my appearance, but his reaction made my preparation worth it.
Saint’s gaze lingered at the top of my breasts before sweeping to my hips and all the way down my legs.
When heat suffused his cheeks, I was suddenly glad I’d put in the special effort.
“Hey, baby.” His hoarse tone telling, he leaned down to brush a light kiss on my lips that left me hungering shamelessly for more. “You’re fucking ravishing.”
“You look good too.” I rested a hand on his solid chest, climbing up to my tiptoes as heat swarmed my belly.
“I got that by the way you can’t stop drooling.”
The grin threatening his lips was contagious, and I ended up laughing with him.
“You’re a little bit unbearable, you know that?” I tilted my head at him.
“So I been told.” With his hand swallowing mine, he ushered me down the steps toward . . . a classic muscle car in pristine shape detailed in dark blue with white racing stripes.
“No Harley?” I asked.
“Disappointed?” Looking down at me, a grin twitched his lips.
Maybe I was in one small part. I knew being on the back of Saint’s bike would’ve been worlds different than those times as Reggie’s old lady.
I covered by smoothing a hand across the hood of the sleek car. “How could I be disappointed by a Chevelle SS in seemingly mint condition?”
Saint rocked back on his feet. “Fuckin’ hell, woman. You know gearhead shit as well as music?”
“Sort of.”
He handed me into the passenger side, a more gallant gesture than I’d ever expected.
“Classic cars and vintage bikes are instruments too, don’t you think?” I peered up at him.
Blowing out a low whistle, Saint rounded the hood and slid into his seat. “I probably couldn’t play a sonata or whatever on a V8.”
“But I bet it goes really fast.”
“Is that what you want?” His eyes gleamed wickedly.
“That’s exactly what I want.”
Big hand on the gearshift, he backed out of my driveway. He took it slow through the neighborhood.
As soon as he hit the open road, he put his clearly babied muscle car through the paces, and I felt every growling throb of the powerful engine all the way from the soles of my feet to the peaks of my breasts.
I laughed out loud, grabbing the oh shit bar even though I was belted in.
Every time I squealed, Saint glanced over.
Freedom.
That was what this feeling was.
Like wind in my hair.
Or Caleb’s happy laughter.
Or a perfect orgasm.
I felt safe yet so very turned on by Saint—a high that wasn’t dependent on drugs . . . just this man.
This man who surprised me yet again when he maneuvered into a spot across from the restored Orpheum Theater.
He loped around the car, opened my door, and took my hand in his.
As he walked me toward the concert hall, my eyes lit up when I saw the Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra was playing Tchaikovsky tonight.
Then I narrowed my gaze at the tall blond biker escorting me through the doors of the venue. “This isn’t what I signed up for.”
He bent so his mouth came close to my ear, and his deep voice trebled inside of me when he said, “I’m not gonna just fuck you, Honoré. I’m gonna take you out. Show you a good time. Get to know you. Then I’m gonna have you so hard you’ll be begging me for more.”
My nipples puckered at the rumble of his voice and the virile promise of his words.
I could hardly focus on all the lights and glitz of the opulent lobby as he pressed a champagne flute into my hand.
He chimed his glass against mine . . . then chugged his bubbly down in one go only to give me a thoroughly wolfish grin.
“Champagne, huh?” I took a sip.
His hand smoothed disarmingly low along my back. “Nothing but the red-carpet treatment for you.”
Saint didn’t appear the least bit uncomfortable in the upper crust surrounds, except those moments I caught him scowling and tugging at his tie, which he’d already loosened.
His brief scowl only served to make him more attractive because the expression set off his firm lips against the soft blond bristles framing his mouth.
He guided me to the upper balcony and a luxurious velvet seat inside the plush red velvet and gold gilded theater. Although the audience kept streaming in and filling up seats, I felt secluded with Saint, as if his bigger body were a shield against all others.
As if we were in our own private box.
The lights dimmed, and that was always the moment my breath caught in my throat. My heart caught in my chest.
I leaned forward, chills rising on my arms as the concerto began.
So attuned to the passionate performance of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto, I felt every note in my body. I felt like my fingers were on the strings, the violin’s bow bending to my every whim, and I held my breath as the music filled in by the rest of the orchestra only to fall away to the ardent strains of the one singular violinist.
The concerto wasn’t the only thing grabbing my attention.
I glanced at Saint, and his gaze remained on center stage as the woman in red caressed and cajoled her instrument. But his hand remained on me, always wandering.
As the violin, the orchestra, rose to a crashing crescendo, his hand clenched my thigh then skimmed higher than prudent in a public setting. My entire body hummed, and I nearly arched up into his touch.
I was on fire.
From the music.
From Saint.
From the restraint it took to refrain from leaping onto his lap and grinding on him to the wild sonata wrapping all around us.
Intermission found me flushed with desire. Strung out on arousal. Attuned to every light caress Saint imparted on my skin, like I was his instrument, and he knew just the right strings to pluck.
I rushed to the bathroom in an attempt to tamp down my baser urges, and when I returned to the lobby, Saint’s sheer masculinity dwarfed all the other patrons. He stood—tall and rough, tatted and muscular—head and shoulders above the rest.
He’d never looked more tantalizing to me.
Handing me another glass of champagne, he murmured, “You’re enjoying the music.”
“I’m enjoying more than the music.” My voice throaty, I said, “And you know that.”
“Mission accomplished then.”
“Is it though?” I pouted playfully. “You already left me hanging last week.”
“I left myself hanging too, baby.”
I sipped the bubbly that couldn’t compare to the new effervescence inside of me. Remembering how big and hard his cock had felt beneath his jeans, I didn’t believe for one second he hadn’t taken matters in hand, so to speak.
“You really didn’t . . . ?” I left the question hanging as others milled around us.
He bent to
my ear, and my hair fluttered around with his breath. “Didn’t fuck my hand. Didn’t jack off. Couldn’t think about any other woman.”
Chapter Seven
SAINT
“YOU REALLY DIDN’T . . . ?” HONORÉ asked, her eyes dazed, tendrils of her hair clinging to her neck, her nipples so obviously puckered beneath her dress.
I was already so horny I couldn’t see straight.
And the tie I’d put on at the last minute was about to get ripped off my neck, the goddamn thing.
Or wrapped around Honoré’s wrists at the base of her spine so I could do the most obscene things to her body.
All week. No loving.
Our texts that had me chuckling low in my chest or chubbing hard in my jeans.
No relief.
Fuck.
“Nope.” I leaned over her, loving the way her ice blue eyes became dilated and heavy lidded. “Didn’t fuck my hand. Didn’t jack off. Couldn’t think about any other woman.
“Did you?” I asked, voice as raspy as gravel.
She shook her head slowly, red lips primed around the rim of the delicate champagne glass.
I’d been completely aware of her during the first concerto or whatever. She was taken by the music. But she was also taken by me. Each time I skimmed my hand down her arm or slipped my fingers between hers, she’d arched the tiniest bit like I was already between her thighs and licking her wet pussy until she was screaming and breathless.
I bet my hardcore woman was already plump, swollen, and soaked.
The bell rang in the lobby—halftime over—and fine dressed folks herded back to their seats. I still had the rest of the ensemble thing to sit through, and I’d made dinner reservations for afterward.
What the hell was I thinking?
Honoré had been begging for my cock. And I decided to goddamn torture the both of us by going someplace proper and public. A damn theater of all the places. Not an appropriate venue to get my grope on when I was trying to impress a classy lady.
Fuckhead.
Fuckhead with a hard-on.
Fuckhead with a hard-on wearing a tie that was strangling me.
The Orpheum Theater wasn’t really my scene, but I could do semi civilized for Honoré. For a couple hours at least. I wanted to find out what made her tick, besides my fingers slipping slowly in and out of her pulsing pussy and my mouth sealed over hers. Besides, sitting through some classical music was worth it to see her in the dress.