The Biker and the Loner (Oil and Water #3)- S. Ann Cole Page 0,65

my truths. To lie in his bed, on his chest, and talk, and talk, and talk.

I miss him so much.

I no longer feel a connection to Grunt, which means I can't talk to him about my life anymore, so I don't. And he doesn't push me to follow-up on what I was about to say, so I guess the feeling is mutual.

After a long, long while, he asks in a quiet voice, "Don't know what you were back there for, but I just wanna know… Are you good now? Are you Ley again?"

He doesn't know? I’d figured I would be pillow-talk with him and Toni, or that Cookie would’ve gone off blabbing to everyone.

Huh. I guess they do have my back.

If Grunt doesn't know, then Scratch doesn't know. But while it's none of Grunt's business, I won't be able to hide it from Scratch. The scars are there, both on the inside and the outside. But mostly, I don't want to hide anything from him anymore. I'm done lying and hiding and faking. I want to give him me, all of me, the best of me.

"Better," I answer. "Better than the Ley I was before."

~

Grunt ignores my request to be dropped off at Isaac’s and takes me straight to Opal Meadows instead.

Considering I left my X6 with Isaac, I’m surprised to see it parked in the driveway. If I’m to guess, Kendra ripped him a new one for not noticing I was cutting and moved all my stuff from his loft back to Opal Meadows.

Grunt tosses me my keys when I climb out of the truck, then leaves me with a, "Stay safe, Ley."

No sense fighting it anymore, this is my home. Because it's Scratch's home, and wherever he is, that's where I want to be.

Entering the house, I damn near jump out of my skin from the shrieks that come at me.

"Welcome home!"

With my hand pressed over my heart from being scared shitless, I gasp, "Jesus Christ, you scared the ever-loving crap out of me."

Kendra, Toni, and Cookie stand in the living room, grinning at me with glasses of margaritas in hand. Behind them, the kitchen island is laden with finger foods, drinks, and pastries.

Bemused, I ask, "What—What is this?"

"Your welcome home party," Toni answers.

"But I was only gone for six weeks."

"That's four weeks longer than we checked you in for," says Kendra. "So you're damn straight we're celebrating you."

This feels almost foreign to me. No one “celebrates” me. At least not since Papà died. I've been a loner for so long that I almost forget what it's like to have...people. People on my side. People who support me.

I might not know these women all that well, but I do know their deeds and their reputations, and so far, they've shown me that I can trust them with my truths. For the first time in a decade and a half, I am open. Open to friendship, love, and life.

Feeling free, untethered, and joyously overwhelmed, I burst into tears.

In seconds, all three women have their arms around me.

I am free.

~

Two hours later, with two glasses of margaritas sloshing around in my stomach, I tear a mini pineapple turnover in two and stuff it into my mouth.

"Desayunar!"

Kendra, who is slouched on a stool, and Cookie and Toni, who're draped on the couch, one eating cake the other smoking pot, all look over at me as if I've lost it.

I'm sitting on the floor by Kendra's feet, my back against the island, a tray of tasty pastries on my lap. It's after six in the evening, on a Friday, and we're all tipsy.

Over the last two hours, all three women took turns telling me stories. Toni, mostly about her life before Denver and Grunt. Kendra, about her expeditions with Alec, most of which I already know. And Cookie—well, she has some rather, um, interesting tales about, well, everything. From strippers and drug dealers to avenging a sexually abused boy by castrating a pedophile pastor. That woman has lived an incredibly unique life and has worked her butt off to deserve every bit of success she has.

Now they all stare back at me, wondering what I'm on about.

"It means breakfast," I explain around a mouthful of pastry.

"Okay?" Kendra drags, frowning down at me. "You want me to scramble some eggs for you or something?" Condensation drips from her beer bottle and plops onto my cheeks. She's not a margarita gal, so after sipping less than half a glass for my benefit earlier, she