A Kiss to Keep You (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 14) Page 3

  “Few years. Longer than me.” The kid spoke again, and Brute frowned down, feeling a body get close, crowding his space so the boy could lift to his toes and look through the glass. “If she’s your woman, you don’t have to worry about Mouse.” These words set Brute on edge, and he looked again at the bartender, seeing the glint of piercings in both ears, quality clothing even working in this bar. Seeing that, the kid’s next statement didn’t surprise him. “He’s totally gay. Came out to his grandmother and everything. She’s cool with it, told him she’d ride as his wingwoman anytime he needed to go out without worrying about anyone having problems.”

  Brute grunted, and after a minute, he felt the boy wander off, leaving him to his vigil.

  For two hours, he watched her nurse that third shot, then a slow fourth and fifth. She would finish a shot and stand, chat for a minute with Mouse, and head to the bathroom, the path taking her out of sight down a hallway that ran the length of the kitchen. From where Brute stood, he could hear the plumbing work, so had eyes on her the instant she cleared the hallway on her way back. Again seated on her stool, she would push the shot glass towards the inner edge of the counter, waiting for the next to be poured before she asked for a fresh glass of water. Smart. Cautious. Not accepting anything that wasn’t dispensed in front of her.

  So, when the blocky guy came in and wedged himself between her stool and the one next to her, standing, not sitting, it surprised Brute that she didn’t push back. Surely she understood a man in her space like that, he had only one thing on his mind, and that thing didn’t seem to be what she was looking for.

  She had only spoken to Mouse, gracefully shutting down two approaches from other customers by pulling out her phone when she noticed them moving her way. She pretended a conversation, using the mirrors to make sure they saw her chatting and flipping her hair. Doing the kind of things a woman would do when on the phone with her man, making it clear without saying a word that she was taken. Not a little bit, but all the way taken. Which he knew was a flat lie. He had never seen her with a man, or a woman, so it wasn’t as if she was a closet Mouse, waiting for the right moment to let her brother know a secret.

  She didn’t appear to have any secrets that Brute could see. She worked, talked to her friends, spent time alone or with her brother and his son. But she didn’t date and didn’t do casual hookups, either. So her phone act was just that, an act, and he wondered what in the hell she was doing.

  She turned her head, looking up the bar, calling out to Mouse, and Brute saw the blocky guy dig in his pocket, watching the hand that hovered over her still-full shot glass for a moment before returning to that same pocket. The man then moved away without having asked or received anything from the bartender, going now to the jukebox to mess with the screens on the front, punching buttons and flipping the selection descriptions back and forth without playing anything. Brute noted the guy’s eyes stayed on her, using the mirror mounted above the juke to watch.

  The moment her elbow bent, lifting the glass to her lips, the predator smiled and moved, aggressively pushing to the bar at her side. She glanced up at him, face carefully blank as she sat the shot glass down, then turned back to the bar, taking out her phone and tapping on the screen. That was when Brute got out his phone, calling in a marker with Gunny.

  “Right,” he told Gunny, pulling his thoughts back to the basement where they stood on either side of the man who’d drugged her. “She made it through okay. Head’s hurting, but she’s okay.”

  “She thank you for saving her ass from him?” Gunny used the hard toe of his boot to shove the man in the ribs, grinning as the guy groaned.

  “She doesn’t remember anything, my guess.” Brute glared at the man on the floor. “Roofied like she was, hard to believe anything else. That dose you gave him mean he won’t remember this?”

  Gunny threw back his head and laughed. “Nope. Gave him that shit hours ago. It’s through his system now. Aftereffects, though, those are a bitch. His head’s bustin’ wide open whether he’s here or away, but he’s with us when he’s awake, brother. This son of a bitch will remember every moment of what you’re dealin’ out.” He toed the man’s ribs again, dragging another groan from him. “Once he’s cogitatin’ again, anyway.”

  Bexley

  “So.” Brice leaned his head back against the couch cushions, rolling his neck so he could look at her. “You gonna tell me who finally breached the massive and impressive defenses of my sister?”

  “What?” Startled, looking down to hide it, she shuffled the popcorn in her bowl, settling the unpopped kernels to the bottom, tossing a few fluffy white morsels into her mouth so her next words were muffled. “Whatchu mean?’

  His gaze was on her. She felt the weight of that look as if it were a physical thing because this was one of his favorite topics. She thought that was mostly because he knew it bugged her when he started up with it, so she kept her eyes on the TV, watching the show around the outline of Duncan’s head where he sat on the ottoman between the sofa and screen. Brice had loved his wife, loved having that kind of close relationship in his life. Which meant he hated that Bexley had never found her Jean. Shoot, he had only recently stopped trying to set her up with every single guy he’d met who he’d deemed worthy. Before he could answer, she shouted, “Oh, ugh. Gross, Dunk. Why are we watching this movie again?”

  Duncan twisted and looked at her, broad grin in place on his face. “Because zombies are cool, and this show is awesome.” He stretched his eyes wide in emphasis as he informed her, “And it’s a show, not a movie. This is the first episode. We have tons more to watch.” She groaned as he turned back to the TV, his sweet tenor singing out, “Zombie marathon coming up.”

  “Not sure this is a good idea, Bricey. If he has nightmares, it’s on you, Bubba.” She flicked another handful of popcorn at her face, picking a couple of missed kernels off her shirt, popping them into her mouth. “When—and I say that with full certainty that I will—when I have nightmares, that’s on you, too.”

  Tone carefully patient, Brice asked, “Who was the guy who answered the phone last Sunday? You know, that day when I called to find out why you didn’t make it to Duncan’s game? Something you never miss, but skipped on for the first time ever?” Brice hadn’t moved, so she knew his gaze was still locked on her.

  “What guy?” Dumb was the way to play this, because just telling her brother flat out that she went out to a bar because she was lonely and afraid and wanting to feel something even if that something was terror, was not going to make him happy. Trying to explain that she found herself wanting to spend time in a place where no one knew her because at least then she wasn’t as lonely, and losing some of that lonely made the rest not seem as bad, was going to make him a lot more not happy.

  He didn’t know and never would know if she maintained her resolve.

  Plus, if she told him she thought she’d been drugged while making such a stupid move, he would be even less happy than his unhappy butt would already be. Might ask questions, might dig deep if his parent radar pinged. And, if she happened to slip up and tell him that apparently, she had hooked up—she remembered the voice, telling her she wasn’t a pickup…no, that wasn’t quite right, he told her that she wasn’t a fucking pickup—and that she had no idea who had answered her phone? Not remembering name or face to go with a voice heard only from the hallway, this while she was flat on her back in bed, naked, body clean but soiled clothing soaking in the tub, he would lose his mind with unhappy. To Brice, she was still his little sister, and someone to be protected. So, with no other options, dumb was the only play she had.

  “Bex, hon.” His voice was pitched low, so Duncan wouldn’t hear over the soundtrack of screams coming from the TV speakers. “A man answered your phone. Told me you weren’t feeling well. Said he would let you know I was at the game if you needed me.” He paused, and she felt the couch shift as he leaned close. “What’s your man’s name?”

  “None of your beeswax.” Sh
e deliberately used a light tone, laughing as she cut her eyes his way, seeing he was still intent on her. “I’m a grown woman, Bricey. I pick out my own clothes and everything.”

  “Yeah.” He snorted, leaning back into the cushions, head twisting to face the screen. When he spoke again, it was as quiet as before, but the tone was regretful. “I know you are, Bex. I know.”

  ***

  She sat on top of the wooden box she pulled out to her postage stamp of a stoop in the summer. Not a porch—the space was not at all large enough for a swing, which she would have loved—the stoop could accommodate the box and her legs, but only just with her knees bent and her feet propped on the small wall surrounding one end of the stoop. The box had the advantage of being portable, so when the sun shifted in the late summer, easing around the corner of her house and across the yard in the afternoon, she could adjust where she parked her butt. Piling a thick pillow on the box took it beyond comfortable, and she could lean on an angle against any available wall, keeping all of her people-watching options wide open.

  She had been outside about fifteen minutes when it started, a noise heard so frequently over the past months she could almost believe it was coming from a neighbor's garage. Almost, except for the one day when she’d woken up hungover in a way that was memorable and right after she’d heard her backdoor close, she’d heard the noise, and it was close, coming in rolling waves within seconds of the door closing. So close, whatever it was probably sat in her driveway, engine turning over in a rumbling rush. A motorcycle, she had decided. Not a hotrod as she’d first suspected, but a motorcycle.

  No cab home for her that night, her mysterious hallway lurker had parked on the cement apron in front of her garage, his walk of shame out in the open for any neighbor to see. So, putting two and two together—something cops didn't seem able to do, but she and social workers had in common—the sound was attached to the man with the unbelievable voice.

  That meant she might have some chance of seeing him if he lived nearby. And given the number of times she had heard the sound, she believed—hoped—he had to live close.

  She had tried to pinpoint the period in time when she’d started hearing it, but nothing stood out. Nothing around here, anyway. No houses losing their proud realtor “Sold” signs had preceded her first noticing the sound, so maybe he was established. Or maybe had grown up in the neighborhood. The homes on the streets surrounding her were old and most had accommodated families for a long time. Far longer than she had lived here, for sure. What if he’d had to move home, or a parent got sick, or his siblings sold him their portion of inherited childhood memories? What if he was nearby?

  Close, but still unseen. And she wanted to see. So now, each time she heard the noise…the engine…the motorcycle, she would begin a stealthy scan of the area, hoping to catch sight of him.

  Today would not be her day. Like the last hundred, the rumbling growl quickly died as it moved away, silence settling on the lawn in its wake. Darn.

  The lawn. Cocking her head, she leaned one shoulder into the corner created where her small entryway joined to the house. Her lawn needed mowing. She would be pulling out her smooth running lawnmower soon, and with every pass across the striped grass, she would remember the note. Careful handwriting that gave nothing away. No swirls or whirls, only straight lines and graceful curves to pass the message of unrequested mechanical assistance. Mysteriously fixed, things set right, then posed in her path without opportunity for a thank you.

  With a sigh, she glanced up the sidewalk to see the Sunday morning parade about to begin. First up was the couple from three houses down, pushing a stroller with their twin girls. The worn and comfortable outfits on the toddlers advertising they were headed to the park. Easy parenting there, making sure their little ones only had to focus on the good times, not on rumples and ruffles.

  Next was the sister duo, yoked in tandem. Working together to raise the young son of the oldest sibling. They were talking, heads turned to look at the other, laughter welling from their throats as they walked up the sidewalk. Two women, comfortable with the family they’d been given, creating a different unit with their efforts. The boy clasping tight to two pieces of one generation, suspended himself between them, picking his feet up, bent knees twisting, his body swinging wildly back and forth from their strong, supportive hands.

  She gave them a wave and a shouted hello, keeping her eyes on them long after they passed her house. Over the next hour, another dozen families were represented, and she found her eyes following each of them the same way.

  In a different world, that would have been her life. A house filled with shouting, laughter, skinned knees. A home. Not my life, she thought, twisting her neck to look up the street, stoutly ignoring the dry stinging of her eyes.

  From inside the house, her phone rang just as she heard the motorcycle again, and she was up and headed indoors when she realized the rumble was loud, much louder than before. Booming to the point she wouldn't be surprised if all her neighbors came charging out to see what was happening, hands protectively over their ears, turned-down mouths mutely protesting against the intrusive flood.

  Echoing from the houses across the way, the direction the sound was emitting from wasn't clear until she saw a long, double line of motorcycles round the corner, turning up her street. Frozen in place, she watched as the riders passed her, their eyes moving neither left nor right.

  Then, near the end, exactly at the back of the line, she saw someone she knew. Knew, but didn’t know. Didn’t know, but wanted to know. She saw him. HIM. When she did, the memory of that day in the grocery store hit her. The day she put herself out there only to get shot down so hard it was a wonder the crater from her fall wasn't visible from space.

  She had rounded the end of the aisle and seen a man. Tall, broad shouldered, he’d worn his jeans and thermal like a second skin. Full head of dark, thick hair. Strong, muscular. Gripping her basket by the handles, she’d walked close enough to catch a hint of his scent. So exactly what she would have expected, nothing except musk and man. Then he’d dropped a box and, not sure if it was intentional, she’d decided she would not pass up the chance to talk to him.

  It wasn’t until she’d retrieved the box and was straightening that she looked at his face and saw the scarring. Dark red and tight, the raised and painful looking grafts ran along the hinge of his jaw, the result of treatments for deep burns. The pocked surface of his cheeks, nose, and forehead held deep hollows from trauma, surrounded by alternating rough and smooth skin. Full lips firmly pressed into a thin line. Then he’d looked at her, and all she’d seen were his eyes.

  Deep brown, intense, expressive, warm, and outrageously gorgeous. His personality, his being, shone from those eyes, and at that moment, the scarred face became unimportant. She saw the man, liked what she saw, and wanted him to know it. She issued a teasing dare, thrilled when he took her up on it, and then his lips were on hers. Chastely executed, her belly had still clenched when he’d leaned in, and she’d felt the heat from his mouth. Firm, controlled, his head had tilted the slightest, rightest amount.

  If he had held the kiss a nanosecond longer, she would have entirely embarrassed herself by swiping his delicious bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. But he hadn’t, and neither had she. He had pulled back, staring down at her and she’d watched how his eyes widened, flaring with what she hoped was arousal, attraction. She’d waited for a beat, then another, carving out a final stuttering second, holding her ground against the urge to flee in the face of what felt like a rebuff.

  She pinpointed the moment she’d known it was rejection as the emotion in his gaze shut down, causing her hope to collapse in on itself, feet forced to step backwards a stride into the blackhole of dismissal, then another. With offhand words, she’d withdrawn, fleeing up the aisle, turning at the last moment to see him still staring at her. No reaction to the kiss, and no response to her final good-bye, the lamest flick of her fingers possible.

  Then he wa
s out of sight, and she had run to the checkout, dropping her basket onto the belt. Carelessly dumping the few items gathered before the encounter, she’d stared at them as they’d rolled around, the jerking movement carrying them to the cashier’s hands to then be placed into a bag. She’d paid without looking at the boy running the register, convinced the embarrassment of what happened was written on her face in the blazing blood under her skin, branded by the rejection.

  Now here the man was, riding a motorcycle down the street in front of her house. No doubt it was the same man. Strong, virile, he’d shown her with a single kiss that the fumbling boys of her past never had a chance. She heard his voice in her head, two words lifting her on a wave of hope and anticipation, A kiss.

  Tilting her head, she twisted to look up the street, watching as the lines of motorcycles disappeared under the canopy of leaves.

  How’s the head?

  Threading her fingers together, she levered the twined digits against her belly. A futile attempt to hold in anxious fears as she mentally compared the voices. Rational thought fled, squeezing through the physical strainer, skin and bone no barrier to awareness.

  Taking that to mean she connected.

  Rough and filled with humor, the tone clear in her head. Boldness mixed with desire. A kiss.

  Her hallway lurker’s identity was positively confirmed. He was the scarred man from the grocery store. Her humbling hero.

  Brute

  Motherfucking asshole, Brute thought as the club rolled through the residential streets. Gunny did this just to fuck with me. I shoulda peeled off soon as I realized where he was leading us.

  As they’d walked out of the clubhouse this morning, Gunny had slung an arm around his neck, bringing Brute close to blow a loud raspberry against the side of his head. Crowing as he released Brute, Gunny told everyone around that today would be Brute’s lucky day. With an exaggerated wink, Gunny had sauntered to his classic knucklehead, cheers and jeers sounding when his attempts to kick the thing to life succeeded on only the fifth or sixth attempt.