The front door flies open, and I smile at the sight before me. Nic’s bleached blonde hair is in a messy, falling bun atop her head, which tells me she slept on it like that. Letting my eyes travel down her too-fucking-skinny frame, I realize she’s wearing a faded black tee-shirt that’s about ten times too big. The large collar droops over her shoulder, exposing her bare shoulder blade and the corners of a tattoo of vines and roses that trails down her arm to her elbow. She blinks rapidly, squinting from the late morning sun that’s shining in her green eyes. Recognition dawns on her face, and her bewildered surprise morphs into an angry scowl.
“So you’re grouchy in the morning,” I say. “I’m going to keep that in mind.” She doesn’t move or offer me entrance into the house, so I take it upon myself to get past the doorway. I step up and into the house with my heavy boots and move forward. When we’re close enough to touch, she moves backward and then moves around me to shut the door.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. I ignore the question and make my way into the kitchen. It’s not exactly tidy, but isn’t really dirty, either. It’s just lived in—with magazines and newspapers strewn about the counter and a few bills sitting opened beside them. The sink has a few plates, glasses, and a fry pan in it waiting to be washed. From the looks of the floor it could probably use a sweep and mop, but it’s not gross like it is at mine and Ryan’s place.
Off to the side of the room is a round breakfast table. I pull a chair out and plop down, listening to the wood creak beneath me. Following behind me, Nic enters the room and leans up against the sink.
“How much is it going to cost to pay for the scratch on your bike?” she asks and moves toward the table. When she gets closer, I see what her eyes are fixated on—her purse. It’s hanging off the back of the chair beside me. Reaching out, she grabs the strap and lifts the purse into the air. I catch my fingers as they itch to move in her direction. I’ve been thinking about that shit she said last week. Actually, I’ve been thinking about that and her pussy, but she’d be damn pissed if she knew that my preferred way to make up is by getting my dick inside of her again.
That night brought me back to being in high school and thinking she was bad ass. But back then she thought she was too good for me and the MC. Dating that jackass Darren—who she apparently still keeps in touch with—who thought the rules the MC laid down for the town didn’t apply to him. I knew Nic belonged with a guy like that—who could give her more than some bastard from the public housing development like me could.
But I never stopped thinking about it.
And damn if seeing him with her at the coffee shop didn’t make me want to slit his fucking throat and wash the floor in his blood.
“Not a dime,” I say. She pauses and sets her purse on the table, giving me a grouchy gaze. Looking around the kitchen makes me hungry, and I think I want a sandwich. “Why don’t we talk about it over lunch?” I suggest. Her eyes widen slightly as she looks around and then down at the shirt she’s wearing.
“I’m not going to lunch with you,” she says, shaking her head. I shrug and lean back in the seat. “What part of ‘I’m not doing this’ didn’t you understand?”
“Then we’ll eat here. What are you going to make me?” I ask, ignoring her comment.
The look on her face is incredulous. She’s obviously not up for playful in the mornings. Maybe I can work on that. She takes a long moment to look at me like I’m the world’s biggest idiot before she breaks out into a hearty laughter. She throws her head back and lets her entire body shake from laughing so hard. My eyes travel down her torso to her tits as they bounce around. It’s so rare that Nic smiles, and even more rare that she seems even remotely happy. I drink this moment in for all it’s worth and revel in seeing her this way.
“I’m not sure what you find so funny. I’m hungry and you need to feed me,” I say in a mock serious tone. She looks down at me with the faint twinkle of laughter in her eyes.
“So go find an Old Lady,” she says then clears her throat and runs a hand through her hair. Her body is spotted with tattoos here and there. Like it was yesterday, I remember the string of star tattoos she has on her lower belly. There’s nine of them, and I want to know what they stand for. But it’s the tattoo of the robin that’s on the top of her left wrist that catches my eye. It’s a beautiful tattoo—very intricate with excellent coloring. The reds and the yellows of the bird rest above a light teal background. I’d recognize that work anywhere, even if I didn’t know that Torque—one of my brothers who’s doing a year in county—did it for her birthday last year.