It wasn’t even that.
It was Jussy, almost from the first—before they got their shit together to be together—making him feel like this was his space, a part of him as it was a part of her.
Deke felt this in a way he knew, when they got back from the road to settle in for winter, he’d go to his lake. He’d fish. He’d take his woman to the trailer to have her with him, fuck her there, let her put her stamp on it with shit they collected along the way, sticking her part of his history that was now starting to be their history on the ceiling, the walls.
But this would be where they would be so Jussy could have her father close to her through his guitars and all his other shit and Deke could be in the place he gave her—not offering it up with money—piecing it together because that was his job.
And that was the way he could give her what she needed.
He shook himself out of his thoughts, as good as they were, because he needed to make his woman coffee.
He had it brewing, had pulled out the Bisquick, eggs and milk and was reaching for a mixing bowl out of a drawer when he heard someone driving down her lane.
He looked to the front door, knowing it could be anybody. Even though those anybodies were all invited to her place that night, that didn’t mean one (or several of them) wouldn’t be at her door for whatever reason they had need of Jussy.
This had just become the way. Jussy was a part of Carnal now and when the folks of Carnal accepted you that happened.
Deke left the shit on the island, moved around the marble and made his way to the door.
He had it open and stood in it. The sun was bright in the sky. The snow that had stuck, stayed through the chill of Wednesday, then disappeared by afternoon Thursday after warm rushed back in meant his woman’s pumpkins were again out.
There was a shiny black Escalade in the drive.
Out of it stepped a woman, long legs, great ass, big head of auburn hair, a profile that was a mirror of Jussy’s.
She turned to him full face with sunglasses on. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he still knew she was Joss.
She slammed the door, and on high-heeled boots, her rounded hips incased in faded denim, a feminine-cut sheepskin jacket that looked torn off the likes of Carly Simon and transported straight from the 70’s on her shoulders, huge shades covering her eyes, shades locked to him, she moved across the gravel like she was gliding gracefully along ice.
When he sensed movement, Deke’s attention shifted to the man rounding the hood of the SUV. Tall, seriously lean, his head a mass of long, tangled, spiked-out-at-the-top, dirty-blond hair. He was wearing a black leather jacket that was a lot of zippers and snaps with a dangling belt at the bottom, black jeans, motorcycle boots with rings at the sides, wraparound black shades covering his eyes.
Roddy Rembrandt.
Without notice, Jussy’s family was calling.
Fuck.
He didn’t move even as they made their way up the front walk and stopped in front of him.
“Jesus, you’re a big boy,” Jussy’s mom muttered.
And looking at her close, Deke was straight up stunned.
Not a line on her face. The shades still on, he couldn’t see her eyes but from what he could see, he knew the woman was fifty-three, and she looked, tops, like she hadn’t even hit forty.
“You’re Joss,” he stated.
“Yup,” she declared. “And you’re Deke.”
“Yup,” he replied, turned his attention beyond her to Rembrandt, who was standing close to his wife’s back, and he greeted, “Rembrandt.”
“Dude,” the man greeted back.
Deke moved out of the way, opening the door farther as he did, indication they should come in.
No hesitation, they came right in.
He shut the door behind them and turned, seeing they were already planted inside, facing his way.
Jussy’s mom had her sunglasses pushed up in her hair and he saw gray eyes, not Jussy’s brown, and still no lines.
These were aimed at his chest.
And her mouth was curled up.
“Jussy’s lazing,” he shared. “I’ll go rile her ass,” and get a fucking shirt. “Coffee’s on. Take off your coats, come in, get comfortable. Be back.”
Rembrandt had kept his shades on, as apparently rockers did, even inside, but he didn’t hesitate to shrug his coat off. When he did, Deke saw a long sleeve tee that had seen better days, was faded from its original black to a dark gray, and had big, cracked white letters on the front that said, It’s Only Rock and Roll. But I like it.
Joss kept smirking at him.
Jesus.