Page 19 of Zeppelin (Satan’s Angels MC #9)

Zeppelin

I t’s still dark outside when Ginny stirs beside me.

I’m a light sleeper from force of habit.

A lot of the club’s work used to be done at night, and if not, most are late nights anyway.

I’ve never needed a lot of hours of sleep.

It doesn’t have anything to do with the club.

It’s more a product of coming from a hungry childhood in more ways than one.

I was in survival mode for so long that even as an adult, I find it hard to relax my body, even in sleep.

It’s pitch black in the room without even the most basic light. I’ve noticed that the countryside is exceptionally dark. It’s not like the city, where there’s a residual glow, even if you don’t have a hall light, a lamp, or a nightlight.

Ginny throws back the blankets on her side of the bed.

My phone is on the washstand by the bed. I snatch it up and get the flashlight on.

Ginny’s sitting on the bed bent over, the trashcan with the garbage bag lining it in her lap.

I reach out to stroke her back or gather her long hair up out of her way before she’s sick, but she tosses the trashcan on the ground frantically and leaps up.

She wore fuzzy pajama bottoms like it’s the heart of winter, and a little tank top to bed.

She rushes to the dresser across the room and frantically grabs the flashlight off the top. She clicks it on and flees the room.

I throw back the sheet that’s covering me. Without AC, the house is more than warm enough. I didn’t need even that layer, but I only have my boxers to sleep in. As usual, my dumbass forgot a change of clothes.

“Ginny?”

I follow as she flies downstairs. She storms through the house and throws open the back door. At least I don’t have that rickety porch to worry about. There are a few stairs back here and she handles them well.

But where the fuck is she going in the dead of night? There are wild animals out here. Coyotes and bats and shit. She could step on something sharp in her bare feet. Aren’t farmyards notorious for having crap buried in the soil all over the place? Isn’t everywhere ?

“Ginny!”

She spins back around as I miss the bottom step, catching myself but nearly annihilating my ankle. “Go back inside!”

Her hissed command and her pale skin raise the hair on the back of my neck. “What are you doing out here? You should stay in the house when it’s dark like this. There could be anyone or anything out here!”

“I need to be out here.”

“If you’re sick, that’s okay. I’ll boil some water so you can have a bath, and give you a new trash bag or find you a bucket or something. We’ll figure it out.”

“It’s not that kind of issue.”

“Okay. You have to pee.” That’s right. Pregnant women have to use the bathroom more frequently. “I hear that. I’ll come with you.”

“Jesus, no!”

“I’ll stand outside and wait for you then.” I’ll make sure she’s okay and that she gets back to the house safely.

“Fuck no.”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Go back inside!” She gestures wildly then spins around and resumes speed walking towards the outhouse. It’s set well back in the yard, surrounded by a large bank of trees, almost like the tiny little privy needs its own privacy.

I follow her, but she whirls again. “I am sick. I’m going to be more than a minute out here.”

“I’ll still wait—”

“For fuck’s sake, I need to go to the bathroom and you are not standing outside listening to that!’

Oh. Whoa. I’ve never seen Ginny so mad, shooting sparks and spitting at me. She’s farmgirl tough, but she’s also mortified. She wants her privacy. She doesn’t want me to see her like this, at her worst.

We had sex, and after, we had tea, and she read a few chapters from a book in her living room that wasn’t half bad.

We shared the same bed, but we didn’t cuddle.

We had separate blankets. We’re here together because I’m helping her out.

We had sex because… well, because we needed each other, but that moment didn’t extend past the cellar.

We’re not a couple. Even if we were, I have a feeling that Ginny is used to taking care of everyone else.

She doesn’t like being the one cared for.

I love how independent she is, but that doesn’t mean I’m okay with leaving her out here for the coyotes to devour.

“I’ll get the stove on and heat some water for a bath,” I grumble, trying to reason that she’s lived in the middle of nowhere her whole life and has somehow not been taken by any wild animal so far.

She nods curtly, spinning around and tossing her words over her shoulder as she marches towards the trees, the flashlight beam bobbing madly. “The big metal tub is in the kitchen. Just fill it in there. It’ll be easier,” she says as she reaches the outhouse a few strides later and slams the door.

I’d maybe feel better if I knew there was an ironclad lock in there, but not really.

I have to turn back to the house, grumbling to myself in the dark about her living like this. It’s her choice. I get it, but I don’t have to like it. It’s a conversation I’ve had with myself a hundred times after I had it with her.

I go hard in the house, stoking the stove.

The coals are still red hot in the firebox from last night.

It’s easy to find them when I rake back the gray ash.

All it takes is a little bit of kindling from the bin by the stove, and some of my hot air, to produce flames.

I pump water from the devil bastard contraption by the farmhouse sink.

How the ever loving fuck does Ginny operate this thing?

It’s hard for me, and I have to have five times the power in my body that she does.

I get the large, galvanized steel tub ready.

It hangs from a peg by the door like its predecessor likely did in the past, but it’s clearly a new purchase—is there really a market for this shit?

Or are most of the buyers people who are into historical re-enactment.

The stove makes quick work of the water, even in that massive pot, and I dump it in boiling hot so I can heat another.

I’ll have a refresher made. It’s going to be as hot in this room as the stove is soon, so Ginny shouldn’t get cold, even if her bathwater does.

I brew a whole pot of mint tea and find a sleeve of saltines by the time Ginny walks into the kitchen. She looks at the bath first, steaming away, before her eyes track to the pot of tea, the mugs, and the crackers on the table. She’s sweaty, shaky, and extremely pale.

She walks past me and silently gets a glass out of the hutch thing in the corner.

She fills it at the sink. She drinks deeply, downing the whole thing before I can advise her not to.

For a moment, I think she’ll be okay, but then she curses under her breath, grabs the trashcan from the corner of the kitchen, falls to her hands and knees, and projectile vomits water into it.

I’m stunned by the force of it. She spits when she’s done, but stays crouched over the black plastic can.

She gags a few more times, then retches, her entire back bowing with the force of it.

I stand by the stove, overheating myself, beads of sweat tracking down my temples. I’m soaked too, but her clothes clung to her damply right from the second she walked in here.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her sniffle turns into another and another, and that turns into tears. She bows her head, her hair a privacy curtain in place, her slight frame trembling and shaking as she cries.

If I’ve ever questioned whether I had a heart or not, I know I do. It cracks in half in such a painful burst that I wonder if it took out a few ribs on the way. I rub the spot for a few seconds, debating with myself, but as her sobs get louder, reason loses, and instinct takes over.

I walk over to her and scoop her off the floor, cradling her in my arms. I snag a fresh towel from the metal basket on the hutch and dab at her mouth.

I use the other side to wipe her tears and mop her forehead.

I walk straight to the living room with her and sit down on the couch, arranging her on my lap so that she can sit comfortably with her legs draped over my knees.

I stroke her hair and then her back as her tears dry up.

“S-s-sor-ry.” Her broken tone guts me.

“Don’t apologize.” I massage her lower back.

She shakes her head and tries to pull away, but falls back against me, whimpering. “Everything hurts,” she moans.

My heart knits itself back together real fast, only to bang against my ribs furiously. “What hurts?”

I must look too freaked out because she shakes her head again, but swallows thickly and tries to reassure me with a pat on my upper arm. “Not everything. Just my stomach and my- um, well, probably everything.”

I want to move her so I’m not hurting her, but I have no idea what position that would actually be. “Do you want to get in the bath?” I imagine that if I’d had a nice, caring mother, she would have given us a bath when we were sick.

“No,” she whines, but changes her tune when she catches a chunk of her hair. She gags wetly. “Oh my god. There’s barf here!”

I stand up, taking her with me. I’m so careful with her, like she’s literally made of glass. I don’t want to jostle her and cause her more discomfort, or make her sick again.

“I’ll help you,” I tell her as I approach the tub.

She doesn’t protest. I set her on her feet, steadying her, then strip off her top. She undoes the drawstring on her pajama bottoms and pulls them down, along with her panties.

She’s always going to be a gorgeous goddess, but sex is the last thing I’m thinking about. I don’t see her body that way right now. I can appreciate her beauty, but it’s with a tenderness that does nothing to stir my blood. It digs into me, leaving tender spots in my midsection instead.