Page 45

CHAPTER

TEN

Rory

Somehow, I manage to fall asleep shortly after finding out that regardless of the money spent, I’m not allowed to pay him back.

I’m now lying in the same bed as the infuriating man who informed me I was going to be his. I may not know much about motorcycle clubs, but I read and of course, I watch television, so I know what that means, and quite honestly, I’m not sure I want to get involved with someone else so soon.

I mean, Patrick broke something inside of me, and while I’ve done a lot of thinking during my time away, I don’t know if I can put my trust in another man ever again. Although, since he first knocked on my window when I was broken down on the side of the road, Banshee’s been nothing but solicitous. He and the other two bikers didn’t have to stop, or hell, even render assistance.

Yet, he did. They did. We’re in a clubhouse that is not his home base, and even these men and the woman I met earlier, Sage, have been kind and friendly. Do I give him that chance to break my heart?

Patrick didn’t really break your heart, dumbass, my brain says. He shattered your pride, and those are two different things.

Sighing, I roll over trying to get comfortable again and feel a hard arm pull me close until I’m snuggled into his warm, hard body. And when I say hard, he’s hard all over . “Rest, Rory. You’re safe now,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy.

Despite my inner worries and musings, his warmth and the conviction behind his words has me falling back to sleep, content to worry about the state of my life tomorrow.

“Is your cat always this persistent?” I hear rumbled next to my ear.

“Hmm?” I sleepily reply, still mired in a delicious yet very dirty dream involving me and a certain biker I’ve recently met.

“She’s standing on me and poking me in the cheek,” he rasps. “Why is she doing that?”

I start giggling because she does that when she wants her wet food. “She’s hungry,” I reply, trying to disengage myself from his embrace. He’s definitely a cuddler and I find I like being the little spoon in the equation, especially when I feel his morning erection pressed against my lower back and ass. “I suspect she wants her wet food. I’ll get up and feed her once you let me go.”

“Don’t wanna,” he grumbles. “Okay, alright, I’ll let her up, you fuzzy little pita.”

Laughing now, I roll away from him and get out of the bed. “What does pita mean?” I ask going over to the corner where the prospect set up the food and water. He even got the brand of wet food she eats, as well as a separate bowl to put it in. I top off her dry food and then open up the can and put it in the bowl. Picking up the water bowl, I head to the bathroom, dump out the old water then refill it with fresh water which I then take back over and set down.

“Pain in the ass,” he replies, having sat up with his back against the wall since there’s no headboard. The sheet is piled around his waist, but I can still see what he’s packing and feel my face flush.

Sex with Patrick was… well, it was sex. Nothing to write home about and of course, since he was never about me or how I felt, he never really did anything to get me ready. It was often painful, and I never once orgasmed. Yet I suspect the man currently watching me with a look in his eyes that I can’t decipher, would more than ensure I was ready and willing.

Not only that but watching how he interacts with Sassy has my bruised heart healing slightly. He may not be thrilled about being awakened by her, but while I was filling up her bowls and getting water, he had her curled against his chest and was gently petting her. Hell, she was purring so loud, I could clearly hear her!

With her now situated, I take a few minutes in the bathroom to empty my overfull bladder, wash my hands, then return to bed. As soon as I’m situated on my side facing him, I watch as he slides down then turns so we’re staring at each other. I can practically feel the pheromones flying through the air, but he doesn’t do anything more than tuck a curl that’s fallen into my face behind my ear.

“She can definitely be one of those,” I admit, grinning at him. “But she’s very, very spoiled. So, if anyone’s a pita, it’s me.”

“How is that even possible?” he asks.

“Because when I found her one day, she was still too young to be on her own. I had to bottle feed her, and since I was worried about her, I carried her around in one of those sling things while doing my chores,” I reply.

He bursts out laughing at my admission and I find myself watching his face relax even more than it was after he first woke up. I suspect he hasn’t done a lot of laughing; there’s a solemnness to his expression that almost borders on cold and uncaring, so I’m glad I’m seeing this side of him.

“Guess that’s one way to spoil a pet,” he teases. Glancing toward the window, which still shows it’s dark outside, he says, “It’s too early to get up. I can guarantee that none of the brothers will be up and at ‘em at this time of day.”

“What time is it?”

I should know or at least sense the time. God knows living on the farm, I was up around four thirty in the morning to help with the early chores. However, as Grampy slowed down, he sold off most of the livestock and cut back on the size of our garden. The only thing that we really kept were the chicken coops, and as long as the girls and roosters are fed and watered regularly, they don’t care if I go out there at the butt crack of dawn or later, around nine.

He rolls back slightly and grabs his phone then hits the screen so it lights up and I gasp. “Five? Really, Sassy?” I fuss. “You haven’t done that in a long, long time.”

A small mew comes from the corner where her food is, and we both start laughing. “She’s got your number, Rory,” he rumbles out. “Why don’t we get to know each other better?”

“Okay, what do you want to know?” I ask. “I’m pretty much an open book, though. No deep, dark secrets, or hidden wealth.”

“Tell me about your ex. When did y’all meet?”

Talk about pulling out the big guns. I close my eyes and think back to when Patrick started coming around. “It was about eight or so months before Grampy passed away,” I murmur. “He started coming to our church, then he somehow finagled his way into eating with us at the diner afterward.”

When Grams was still alive, the only day she didn’t cook was on Sundays. We’d always go out for lunch after church, often with several of their long-time friends, then afterward, head home and if we got hungry later, we’d make sandwiches from the roast she made the day before. As she would say, it was a day of rest and that meant everyone . After she passed away, Grampy and I began eating in town more frequently, at least for dinner. Not because I couldn’t cook, but he didn’t want us to become too isolated out on the farm. I made our breakfast and lunch every day, and just like Grams did, I’d put a roast in the crockpot on Sunday with all the fixings so we could make sandwiches on Sunday night if we got hungry.

“Is that when y’all started dating?”

I nod, still lost in thought. “Yeah, we’d go out on Friday nights, then he’d sit with us on Sunday at church, go to lunch with us, then take me for a drive afterward.”

I can feel the derision rolling off him and barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Kinda sounds like that movie Pleasantville, doesn’t it?” I ask, snickering. “But he was always respectful toward me when Grampy was alive, and I didn’t get a bad vibe from him at all. Then, when Grampy died, he was there helping me through everything that had to be done. I never remember asking him to move in, he was just there one day and never left.”

“When did things start to change?” he quietly inquires.

“Maybe four or five months ago? It was little things at first and I was still navigating through my grief over losing Grampy,” I reply. “Time was kind of confusing then, you know?”

He nods. “Yeah, I was still a kid when my parents died, so it probably didn’t hit me the same way, but I remember how the adults seemed to just be going through the motions sometimes.”

“That’s how I felt too. I got up, did the chores, took care of the house, handled my job on autopilot for about six or so months after he died. Then one morning I woke up and saw the date and realized he’d been gone that long, yet everything was ‘done’ as though I’d been aware every single day and I can tell you now, I wasn’t. It was then I noticed that my ex had started treating me differently. He was condescending toward me, stopped going to church, would leave the house and stay gone for hours. That kind of thing.”

“What about physically?” he asks, causing me to blush.

“That was, um, never really a big thing between us, but he started acting like he was offended whenever I was too tired to do anything, so I just gave in, and then he would get angry and say I was nothing but a cold fish.”

The sting of those words still reverberates in my head; I couldn’t help I was bone-deep exhausted from taking care of literally everything there was to do, plus add on the messes Patrick would create in the house and not clean up. I mean, I wasn’t a raving beauty or cover model by any stretch of the imagination, but I wasn’t some swamp troll, which is how I started feeling.

He snorts out a laugh before he says, “Babe, I don’t think you could be a cold fish if you tried.”

“I was tired all the time, Banshee. I was getting up around four, taking care of the chickens and other farm tasks, then coming in and cooking him breakfast, before I’d clean myself up, do my job which thankfully is done remotely, then take care of lunch, go back to work, try to keep up with the house and all the bills, make dinner. There were days I wanted to go to bed by seven,” I admit.

“What did he do while you were doing everything?”

“I honestly don’t know. He’d leave after breakfast, come back for lunch, then head out again before coming in right before dinner.”

“So, he never bothered to help you?”

It’s my turn to scoff because after the beating he gave me, the rose-colored glasses were most assuredly off. “Yeah, that would be a great big fat no.”

This whole time we’ve been talking, he’s been lightly stroking his large, calloused hand along my side in a soothing motion. But when I tell him Patrick didn’t so much as lift a finger to help me get everything done, his hand grips my hip so tightly I’m sure I’ll have a bruise.

“What a fucking asshole,” he mutters.

“Totally agree with you there. The last straw, though, was the day he hurt Sassy.”

“Tell me what happened, babe.” His voice, while still delicious sounding, is firm and unyielding, and I find myself relaying what happened that fateful day. By the time I’m finished, he has me in his arms, murmuring nonsense in my ears as I cry it all out.

I’m not a dainty, pretty crier. You know the type, tears flow down their faces yet they still look like they could get their photos taken. Nope, my eyes swell almost shut, my skin gets all blotchy, and my sinuses clog up, so I sound like Foghorn Leghorn or something. Yet this man, who’s large and intimidating, is gently wiping away my tears.

“I’m glad I had my RV,” I stammer out. “And I’ll never forgive him for nearly killing Sassy.”

I know she only ended up with a broken leg, but as hard as he had thrown her, I was worried he had hurt her far worse.

“At least you fought back,” he states.

I grin even though the room’s still pretty dark. “Yeah, I ‘used my resources’ as Grampy taught me to do. Clawed every bit of skin I could get to, kicked, and bit him too. If my gun had been handy, I would’ve shot his ass.”

“I saw your gun, is that the only one you have?”

“I have several, actually. Grampy raised me to be a farmer and sometimes, that meant taking care of the wildlife trying to harm our livestock. He also taught me how to hunt and fish. We were relatively self-supporting on the farm, Banshee. Grams bought whatever we couldn’t grow or kill at the store, but every year, we went in with a neighbor and paid to slaughter and process a cow and two pigs.”

“I think you’re the perfect woman,” he murmurs, making me giggle.

“How do you figure that?”

“Because, sweetheart, we may be bikers, but we live in the mountains, and next to riding, hunting and fishing are two of our favorite things to do. Our old president and several others started a processing company, so everything we kill goes through it, and after our freezers are beyond full, we donate what’s left to whoever needs it.”

“I like that,” I reply. “We did that too, plus Grampy would take our extra vegetables and eggs, along with any bread me and Grams would make, down to the local farmer’s market on the weekends. He had his own little booth but was never there very long because he’d always manage to sell out.”

“The ol’ ladies used to do that too when I was a kid. Now, we just have one ol’ lady, my sister.”

“What happened to the rest of them?” I question, curious to know everything about this man who is making my pulse raise with his proximity.

“Some of the old-timers retired and moved to be closer to their kids who moved away a long time ago, while a few of them passed away. We, the brothers that is, still hunt and get the meat processed for our community food bank, but maybe starting a garden and getting a booth at the farmer’s market would be a good idea.”

“Well, if you need another set of hands to help, I apparently don’t have a home to go back to anymore,” I boldly offer.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he growls out, gathering me even closer before I feel his lips touch mine.