“She lost her daughter, Rush,” I reminded him carefully.
“I know. She’s still a grown-ass woman. You got sensitivity to her because she lost her daughter. She has no sensitivity to you that you lost a friend. There’s take and no give, that shit ain’t right.”
“I think maybe in this scenario I need to have more sensitivity than she does,” I told him.
“I think you bein’ you, that’s the way you see it. What you gotta get is, it’s not my job to look after Amy and not just because I haven’t met the woman yet. Because it’s my job to look after you. And someone lays the heavy on you, it makes that hard to do.”
And he just couldn’t help being all . . .
Rush.
I strained the limits of the seat belt to lean his way and kiss his jaw.
He kept his hand tight in mine when I sat back, and he changed the subject again.
“What are you making me for dinner?”
“If I’m gonna be fucked senseless, all I’ll have in me is dialing in our Chinese delivery order.”
“Works for me.”
Just that easy.
I’d had a lot of hard. Not struggle, just hard.
My parents didn’t get me. They’d never understood me. A creative soul was like the workings of the mind of Stephen Hawking to them. And it went without saying, what they didn’t understand, they abhorred, and they didn’t mind acting on that.
And I had to watch Diesel bear the burden of knowing they totally would not get him.
Not to mention, generally, I grew up among the strains of small-minded hate couched vaguely in religion and patriotic loyalty.
I left home, struggled with money and paying dues and kissing ass until I made enough of a name for myself, I could strike out on my own.
Then my friend was murdered, and I allowed myself to get pulled under.
“What are you thinking?” Rush asked.
“That I like that you get me.”
He said nothing.
Just held my hand.
“Molly is gonna love you,” I shared.
“Good,” he murmured.
“Though Molly loves almost everybody,” I added.
“I see why you two get along so good.”
Nice.
“D and Mad are totally gonna put you through the wringer,” I told him. “You’ll have to prove your salt.”
“Nothin’s worth it, you don’t have to earn it somehow.”
Oh, he was earning it all right.
I pulled his hand to my thigh.
He released my fingers to curl his on my leg, claiming my flesh.
I just rested my hand on top of his.
Because that felt good.
“Go.”
God.
“Go.”
God.
“Go, baby,” Rush growled in my ear.
Fingers wrapped around the top of his low headboard, the fingers of my other hand curled around the back of his neck, on my knees, ass tilted, taking Rush’s cock, with one of his hands between my legs, finger circling my clit, the other at my breast, rolling my nipple. My head fell back to his shoulder and I went.
A couple of seconds later, I heard and felt Rush go too.
Yeah, he was the coolest guy I’d ever met.
And he was really good in bed.
“Eugenie?”
“Cole?”
“Eugenie?”
“Cole?”
“Cole’s a kickass name, Rebel. But Eugenie?”
“I didn’t give myself that middle name, Rush. And we’ve already established my parents are losers.”
He grinned at me.
Meryl had been briefed. I was sending her my notes tomorrow morning.
There were Chinese delivery cartons all over the floor.
And beer bottles.
But we were naked, tangled up together on our sides, facing each other in bed.
“No one calls you Cole?” I asked.
“Mom used to, when she was pissed at me. Dad sometimes. Tab on occasion,” he answered. “But mostly no.”
I pressed deeper into him, so his arms got tighter around me.
“That’s kind of a waste. Cole is a kickass name, honey.”
He grinned in my face. “I know.”
“Is your dad’s real name Tack?”
He shook his head on the pillow. “Nope. Kane.”
“That’s a kickass name too.”
“Yeah. Tab and Shy named their boy after him.”
“Sweet,” I whispered.
But secretly, I was kinda ticked they got to it first.
“Though everyone calls him Playboy,” he shared.
That was surprising.
“How old is he?”
“He’s a baby, but he’s still a flirt.”
I smiled at him and said, “You boys are into your nicknames.”
“Biker names. Street names.” He gathered me closer. “Old lady names.”
“Tyra is Cherry,” I told him what he knew.
“To the men. Dad calls her Red.”
It wasn’t original.
But it was cool.
“I’m not a Punk,” I announced.
“Babe, don’t fight it. It lands on you, no getting rid of