The Biker and the Loner (Oil and Water #3)- S. Ann Cole Page 0,38
house smell like a diner?”
He’s shirtless, but still in his jeans and socks from yesterday, and I can see a peek of his red boxers. Both of his arms are inked, across his chest and along his left side. I’m familiar with the tattoos he had before he left, but some of them are new. Like the red lip print on his left pectorals. Or the compass on his inner arm.
I know he’d gotten short breaks, at least four different times, but never came to Denver. Even when Grunt and Kendra didn’t know, I did. Because he would text or call me and ask me to come visit him here or there, but I never went. I didn’t think it was fair to Kendra or Grunt that I would get to see him all while they didn’t even know he was in the country. Additionally, Kendra and I were slowly building a bond, and I didn’t want the weight of that secret between us. So I’d encouraged him to come see his family instead. He never did. That’s how much he believed he was going to die.
“Good morning,” I mumble over my cup of tea, checking him out.
Please come over here and touch me. Please come over here and touch me.
His bleary eyes bounce from the platter of croissants and crepes to me, a frown wrinkling the space between his brows. He rounds the island to where I’m sitting at the breakfast bar and chucks me under my chin. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I echo.
“Where’d all this food come from? You went out?”
I laugh. “No. I made it.”
His brows shoot high, and he scans the breakfast bar again which is laden with food before looking back to me. “Seriously?”
I shrug. “I’m big on breakfast. What can I say?”
“Yep. I’m def gonna marry you.”
Taking my chin, he leans down and kisses me. He tastes like mint and fluoride. At least he brushed before he came down. He pulls back and touches the damp knot on top of my head. “Where’d you get clean clothes?”
“From the runaway bag I keep in my trunk.”
“You got a runaway bag? Why?” Then his eyes narrow as he adds, “Yeah, don’t bother answering that. It’s just gonna piss me off and it’s too early for that shit.”
“It’s also too early to say ‘shit’,” I admonish as I slide off the stool. “Ready for breakfast? I had to put the hot stuff in the oven to keep warm since you were taking forever to wake up.”
He scratches his jaw as he observes the contents of the breakfast bar. “There’s more?”
“Just the eggs, spinach quiche, and ham slices.” I fetch the rest of the food from the oven. “Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee. Cream, no sugar.”
As he picks up an empty plate and begins loading it with food, I make him a cup of coffee.
“How did you sleep after…you know?” he asks once we’re settled.
Picking at a piece of croissant, I say, “Better than I did before.”
“See you’ve covered up the marks with make-up…” He swallows thickly. “I-I’m so sorry I did that to you.”
I don’t bother trying to convince him I’m fine. These marks are a reminder, and as long as they’re on me, he’s going to beat himself up about it.
While I’ve forgiven him for almost killing me last night, the bruises I woke up to this morning were a horrible sight. I knew immediately that I would be calling in sick. Though I’ve done my best with my make-up concealer, anyone who looked closely enough would be able to tell.
“What time do you have to get to work?” he asks after a while.
“Oh, I don’t have a shift today.” If I tell him I’m skipping work because of the marks, it’ll only make him feel worse. Better if he believes it’s my day off. “The couch set is being delivered at noon, so I’ll stick around for the delivery then head home.”
He won’t be here for the delivery. I’d overheard him on the phone making plans in code last night with the club. I’m familiar with the term “road drop” at this point, so I know it means they’ll be going on a mini road trip to “drop” either drugs or guns.
“This is your home now,” he says, looking me square in the eyes. “What aren’t you getting about that?”
Sighing, I hop off the stool and pick up my empty mug and plate. “Don’t start with this again, Scratch. Let it go.”
He doesn’t respond but instead continues to eat, and