Being part of her brute force posse did have its comic moments. Like pretty much all of them.
Boomer reverentially positioning pairs of wicked high heels on glass-topped tables. He made sure the shoes were arranged just so, his big hands lingering on the strappy sandals.
“Thinkin’ about buying some for Rayce or what?” Cole had called out.
“Yeah. Maybe.” Boomer’s face had flushed like he’d been caught mid-triple-X fantasy. “None of your damn business.”
Tail blowing long hair out of his face as he sat surrounded by boxes of flashy girly gear he sorted through.
“Trying to see if they have your size, Tail?” Kinkaid had shouted from across the store.
“Fuck you. You’re the one with the shiny man-thongs, stripper.”
Coletrane unwrapping and hanging dresses with the lightest of touches, all the while cursing about the fiddly fuckin’ hangers he had to deal with.
“That might be a good look on you,” I’d casually remarked when he squinted at a flimsy, filmy white sheath decorated with a sunburst of sequins to make sure it hung correctly.
“Blow me. I don’t do sparkles.”
“But they go so well with your eyes and shit.” Tail guffawed.
Tucker polished his handlebar mustache in front of one of the long mirrors. “You know what’s missing from this scene.”
“Brodie,” we’d all sounded off at the same time.
Because if he’d been present—number one jackass—absolutely no work would’ve gotten accomplished.
Brodie had taken paternity leave . . . from life.
The dude was so wrapped up in Roxy, Cara, and Ashe he appeared to have dropped off the face of the MC earth to take care of his family.
Couldn’t say I blamed him one single bit.
He did, however, find time between diaper changes, homework and carpool duty, and being on-demand massage therapist to the new momma, to blow up our phones with an endless feed of photos.
Cara wearing her I’m the big sister shirt, smiling down—braces and all—at her l’il sis.
Ashe caught mid-doze with Roxy snuggled on her chest.
Then the picture that launched about a million text messages:
Little Roxy in her My dad’s a biker onesie complete with a pink Harley emblem propped side by side with her slightly older cousin, baby Danny. He boasted his own custom onesie that said My dad rides an Indian Chief bearing the classic red and gold headdress design.
Shy had gotten quiet after that pic, received just a couple days ago.
I’d shut off the phone, placing it aside. “What?”
“I might not be able to have children.”
Her heartbroken expression pretty much tied knots in my stomach.
“I know.” I pulled her palm to my lips, kissing the soft center. “I’m so sorry about that.”
“Does that make me less of a woman?” Tears had spiked the tips of her eyelashes before dropping to splash on her cheeks.
I gulped hard, staving off my own waterworks. “Never. C’mere, Shy.”
She’d melted into my embrace, crying softly, letting go of all the things she might never experience.
When she’d calmed, I tilted her face to mine. “If you were any more of a woman I probably wouldn’t be able to handle you.”
A light sparked in her eyes, the shiny depths dilating slowly. “Oh, you think you can handle me, do you?”
“Wanna find out?” I’d smoothed my hand up her inner thigh, cupping her heat hidden by the frailest barrier of lace panties.
Shy had thrown herself back into the shop opening, redirecting her creativity with a determined force that awed me every single day.
The guys and I had done the grunt work, but the whole party-planning gig? Completely beyond our scope of questionable expertise.
If we’d been in charge of that detail there’d be pool tables, beer in bottles, possibly some gratuitous weed, and maybe a few unsavory elements attending.
I was pretty sure Shy—who sat on her bed dressed in nothing but a skimpy see-through thong and a barely-there bra that barely covered her tight pink nipples—had something a bit more upscale in mind.
With only one hour ’til go-time, I lost control of all my basic functions, becoming nothing more than a drooling dude incapable of keeping my body in check.
Apparently Shy recognized that look—the one that meant sex time—because she ruffled my hair that dripped to my shoulders and helpfully supplied a countdown to when we could fuck again.
“Three hours, tops.” Her lips nipped against mine. “Then you can bring me home.”
Groaning at the gorgeous spectacle she made with hardly anything on, I licked a path up her thigh where I always drew chills on her soft, scented flesh.
By the time I reach the apex, she’d widened her legs, gripped my hair in her fists, and arched her hips.
“Three hours?” I breathed against her sensitive skin.
A small wet spot appeared on the triangle covering her pussy.
I lapped at the slippery wetness, easily locating the swelling bud of her clit beneath sheer fabric.