Page 14 of Heart of Stone (Stoneheart MC #1)

ANDI

" W hat do you mean you won’t accept payment over the phone?"

I pace Duck's office, phone pressed to my ear, trying not to curse out the utility company’s fourth representative.

Ginger had arrived that morning with Steel in tow.

“You need to work and I have a free day,” she said, bundling up the kids and hustling me out of the house with a cheerful wave. “Go! We’ll be fine.”

I don’t know what it says about me that I left babysitting duties to a woman I barely know and a biker prospect. But I need the cash.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but for this account, we can only accept payment by check."

I stifle a scream. I’ve been fighting with the utility company for over an hour, pacing back and forth in Duck’s tiny office at the garage as I’ve been passed through person after person who doesn’t seem able to help me.

"That makes no sense. You’re really telling me you won’t accept my cash, and I have to wait until you get a fucking check in the mail before you’ll turn my shit back on?"

"Language, ma’am. And yes. The account status has been changed. We can only accept checks or in-person cash payment for this account."

Through the window, I see Duck and Hawk talking by a restored Harley. They’ve been hovering all morning, taking turns finding reasons to walk past the office.

Normally I’m out the back of the garage, elbow deep in engine. I rarely see the customers during the day—and if I do, it’s normally because I have to be the one to tell them the bad news.

"Changed by who? Why?"

"I don't have that information, ma'am. If you'd like to mail a check?—"

"It’ll take five days to process! I have three kids in that house."

"I understand your frustration, but?—"

"No, you don't. Because if you did, you'd take my damn payment." I grip the phone tighter. "Let me speak to your supervisor."

"They’ll tell you the same thing. Check or cash only."

"Fine. Where’s the closest office front?"

"One moment, let me check."

He takes his time, coming back five minutes later. "Lexington Gardens."

I cough. "Are you shitting me?"

"Ma'am, language!"

"Dude, Lexington Gardens is five hours' drive away. You’re telling me you have nothing closer?"

"That’s correct."

"Fine," I snap. "Give me the mailing address."

The representative rattles off an address, and I scribble it down.

"Okay, how long will this take to process?"

"Five days for the check, then we’ll send someone out in five to ten business days."

"Dude, come on. This is a joke. I have three kids to take care of."

"Then you should have paid your bills on time."

I bite back the curse on the tip of my tongue. Yeah, Amanda really should have paid her bills. Now I’m out nearly five grand in overdue notices and potentially homeless until these guys get their act together.

"Is there anything else?" the guy asks, his voice dripping with smugness.

"No," I grind out through gritted teeth.

"You have a lovely day."

The line clicks dead, and I lose it. "Son of a bitch!"

"Problem?" Hawk's voice is carefully neutral.

I spin to find him and Duck watching me from the doorway. "They won’t take my payment unless it’s by check. Oh, or cash, but I have to drive to Lexington-fucking-Gardens to hand it over. Since when do utility companies refuse credit card payments?"

Duck and Hawk exchange a look I can’t interpret.

"Sounds frustrating," Duck says mildly.

"Frustrating? It’s—" I stop, sucking in a deep breath. "Sorry. I’m fine. I’ll take this as a lunch break."

Duck tosses me a brown sack. "Then eat up. ’Cause we’ve got a fender-bender coming in that the guy wants a full repair on. ’69 Mustang."

I wince. "His fault or the other guy?"

“His. Wanted to show off and put it through a fence.”

I shake my head as I pull the sandwich from the bag. “Damn. People like that shouldn’t own cars that precious.”

“You’re telling me.” Duck jabs his elbow into Hawk’s ribcage. “Go talk to the girl while I deal with this mess.”

I freeze mid-bite. “Talk to me?” I ask around a mouthful of ham and tomato.

“I overheard.” Hawk takes a seat, stretching out his long legs. “Sounds like you might need a place for a while longer.”

I chew slowly, taking my time as I consider my options. “Look, it’s not great,” I admit. “It sounds like it’ll be at least two, maybe three weeks. But don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.”

My dwindling bank account says that “something” will need to be cheap. Maybe I can buy a tent and camp in the backyard.

“Hmm.” Hawk makes a non-committal sound.

I take another bite, chewing even slower as my brain races.

Maybe there’s a cheap motel around somewhere. But where would I take the kids during the day? There’s nothing close by. I could move them back to my apartment, but I have to be out of my place by next week, and I already organized movers to store my stuff until I can find us a better place.

Which leaves me screwed. I’d still have to figure out somewhere to live unless I want to sign a twelve-month lease on a one-bedroom apartment.

Not happening.

Panic starts to claw its way up my throat as I feel the walls of my carefully constructed life crumble around me.

I set the sandwich back down with shaking hands, my stomach clenching with panic. My mouth tastes like sawdust and I swallow, drying to draw moisture in.

This isn’t good. We’re going to be homeless. We’ll have to live in a borrowed car. CPS will take them. I’ll be branded and unfit ? —

“Stay.” Hawk’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.

I jerk upright. “What?”

“Stay. At the clubhouse. Until this gets sorted.”

“I can’t?—”

“You can and you will.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “The kids are settled. Steel’s apparently been promoted to personal fairy. And Ginger’s…” He pauses. “…well, Ginger’s Ginger.”

“That’s what worries me,” I mutter. I left the twins braiding Steel’s hair while Ginger supervised, baby Adam happily drooling on her shoulder. She’s a great person and it would be far too easy to become reliant on her for support.

I knew better than to look to others for help—no matter how nice they seemed.

"Look," Hawk leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "Something's not right with this situation."

"You think?" I ask, rolling my eyes.

His expression darkens. “Fuck it. You’re not the only one impacted by this.”

My eyebrows rise. "What do you mean?"

He hesitates. "Let’s just say you’re not the first person to experience this bullshit."

I wait, frowning when he doesn’t continue. "You want to elaborate?"

"No."

I crumple the wrapper from my sandwich. "Right. Mysterious biker business."

"Andi—"

"It's fine." I stand, brushing crumbs from my coveralls, my appetite gone. "I appreciate the offer to stay, but?—"

"But nothing." He rises too, crowding my space. "You're staying. End of discussion."

"You can't just?—"

"I can and I am." His eyes hold mine. "Unless you want to explain to those kids why they have to leave a home for—what are you thinking? A motel? A tent?"

Low blow. And far too close to the truth.

It rankles that he has something over me.

"Two weeks," I concede. "Max." I poke him in the chest. "And no biker business. You keep that shit to yourself. Got me?"

His shoulders relax, but his eyes darken as he catches my finger, holding it against his chest. "Careful, little lamb. Keep touching me like that, and I might forget why this is a bad idea."

My breath catches. "Which part?"

"You. Under the same roof." His thumb traces circles on my wrist. "In my space. Smelling like my soap."

"I—"

"Making pancakes in the morning." He steps closer, still holding my wrist. "Walking around in those tiny shorts after the kids are asleep. Anyone ever tell you that your thighs make a man think of sex?"

Considering I’m a size eighteen on a good day—the answer is no.

Not that I’ll ever tell him.

Heat blooms on my cheeks. "Hawk?—"

"You want to know why I'm doing this?" His other hand comes up, and I flinch away.

“What are you doing?”

“You have some grease.” He gently cups my cheek, wiping the smudge from my skin.

"I’m doing this,” he repeats, his gaze locked with mine, “because I can't decide if I want you gone or underneath me, and until I figure it out, I'm not letting you out of my sight."

I don’t know how to take this admission. I open my mouth, searching for words, when a motorcycle roars into the parking lot. The sound is horrible and grinding—engine knocking, timing off.

"Damn it," I mutter, using the interruption to step back, my skin tingling where he touched me. "That better not be?—"

"Andi," Duck calls from outside the office, tapping against the window. "He’s fucked it this time."

I swear softly, stepping out from around Hawk. "I told that dick if he rode it before I checked the timing?—"

The bike cuts off with an awful grinding sound.

"Yeah," Hawk drawls from behind me. "We're done here. Go fix his mess."

I shoot him a look over my shoulder. "This conversation isn’t over."

"Yes, it is." His voice drops lower. "But we can start a different one later."

Heat pools in my belly at his tone, but I force myself to focus on the disaster pulling into the lot.

The Vincent Black Shadow is a classic—a British motorcycle produced from 1948 to 1955, the gorgeous import has a v-twin engine, cantilever rear suspension, and can reach a top speed of 150mph—not bad for an old bike.

They command high prices at auctions and are in high demand by collectors.

A pity its current owner is a guy with more money than the sense God gave a gnat.

"What did you do?" I demand as the rider dismounts.

"Nothing! It just started making this noise and?—"

I hold up my hand. "Stop, Nicky. Just... stop talking before I cry."

Or punch you.

Behind me, I hear Hawk's low chuckle as he heads back to his bike.

"I'll pick you up at five," he calls over his shoulder.

"Why? I have a car," I remind him.

"Five, Andi. Be ready to ride."

"But the car. I need it for?—"

He revs his bike, pulling out without waiting to listen.

I watch him go, torn between irritation and something warmer, more dangerous. He wants to take me for a ride. On his bike.

"You know," Duck says mildly beside me, "I've never seen him like this."

"Like what?"

"Invested."

I shake off Duck’s words, reminding myself that I don’t need another complication.

Turning back to the Vincent, I mutter, "Yeah, well, don’t get used to it."

Duck’s knowing chuckle follows me as I pop the bike's cover, ignoring Nicky’s whining explanations while I check the damage the dickhead’s inflicted this time.

Two weeks. I can handle two weeks.

Or so I tell myself.