Beyond Reckless

  “Christ, should we be expecting a visit from the cops next?” Z mutters.

  Murphy shakes his head. “Remy Holt’s little sister.”

  “How the fuck did she wind up here?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Came with her boyfriend. He wants to prospect.”

  “That’s a hell fucking no,” Z says. “Obviously he has bad judgment.”

  Heidi shakes her head. “He was probably trying to impress her and Murphy just scared the crap out of both of them.”

  Murphy grins and doesn’t deny it. He leans in close to her. “Are we impressive, beautiful?” he murmurs.

  “You are,” she answers in a low voice.

  “Knock it off. I’m sitting right next to you for fuck’s sake.”

  “Someone’s cranky tonight,” Z says. “Past your bedtime?”

  “I’m past something.”

  Charlotte said we shouldn’t see each other.

  Is that why I want to see her so damn bad?

  Shouldn’t. As if what she wants doesn’t matter.

  I was too testosterone-jacked yesterday not to connect the dots. Merlin must have paid her a visit.

  Or is that wishful thinking on my part?

  I guess we’ll find out. “You all right if I take off for a bit?” I ask Z, ignoring Sway’s “more for me” comments.

  Z, surprisingly doesn’t razz me. He doesn’t even crack a smile. “Yeah, go ahead. It’s all good.”

  “You’re leaving?” Heidi asks, touching my arm.

  “Just going for a drive.”

  Her concerned gaze darts to Murphy who gives her a subtle headshake.

  “You want company?” he asks after she continues staring at him for a few seconds.

  I huff out a laugh. “No. I’m good. Thanks, though.” I give Heidi a quick kiss on the cheek and slap Murphy’s hand before standing. “Catch you tomorrow, Sway.”

  “Night, brother,” he answers, barely looking away from the brunette at his side.

  The blonde wriggles away from Sway and intercepts me in the middle of the room. “Are you leaving?”

  I don’t want to be a jerk, but I really don’t want her touching me either, so I duck my shoulder when she attempts to latch on. “Yeah, I have to be somewhere.”

  She makes a pouty face—which isn’t as cute as she thinks it is—and strokes my arm. “Are you sure Sheila and I can’t convince you to stay?”

  “Not tonight, darlin’.” I lift my chin toward the couch where Sway and the brunette are watching us. “Show Sway a good time.”

  Her nose crinkles. “He’s old enough to be my dad.” She flicks her gaze over my shoulder. “I guess he’s pretty hot for an old dude, though.”

  “Don’t say that to him,” I warn her, half-laughing.

  “He’s a president, right?”

  Typical patchwhore. “Yup. Their club’s downstate.”

  “Next time?” she asks.

  I don’t bother answering because she’s already strutting her way back to Sway.

  Doesn’t surprise me.

  Doesn’t bother me either. Only confirms that I made the right decision. Muffler bunnies don’t care who they fuck, as long as they can go back to their sad lives and brag to their friends about fucking a biker over the weekend.

  If I suggested Charlotte go entertain another guy, she’d probably throat punch me.

  The idea almost makes me laugh.

  If I’d said something like that to Mariella, she probably would have cried.

  It’s a sobering thought.

  I pass Swan on my way to the door, and because she’s not just another bunny to me, I actually stop to talk to her. “How are you, sweetheart?”

  Her eyes widen as if she’s surprised I’m being nice. I guess I’ve been foul to everyone around me lately.

  “Okay,” she answers. “Are you leaving?”

  “Need to clear my head.”

  She nods as if she understands what’s bothering me. “Too much?”

  “I guess.” I glance at the mess that’s being made in the living room. “Hopefully they don’t wreck it too bad.”

  A brief smile flickers over her lips. “I hope not.” She nods to the staircase. “I’ll be up early to take care of it.”

  I wrap an arm around her shoulder and turn her to face the hallway where Dex is watching us with a blank face. “He’s been waiting for you all night.”

  “I doubt that.” She steps away, putting some distance between us. “I was over at Wrath and Trinity’s, helping her with something,” she explains, not that I care or would judge her for whatever she was up to.

  “That’s good.”

  “Be careful.” She gives my arm a gentle pat before squeezing in behind the bar.

  Part of me must have known I’d want to escape the clubhouse tonight because I left my truck down the driveway to avoid getting boxed in. I don’t allow myself to even glance at the garage where my bike’s stored.

  The uneven ground aggravates my leg and by the time I reach my truck, I’m hurting.

  Is showing up at her house uninvited tonight a good idea?

  What if she’s with someone?

  Unthinkable.

  What if she’s with that douche she said is just a friend?

  I doubt it because I don’t peg Charlotte for a liar.

  What if she tells me not tonight?

  When has something like that ever stopped me?

  To cut down on time, I contemplate all the ways this could go down while I’m driving to Charlotte’s.

  I don’t relish the idea of leaving my truck parked on the street, there’s no guarantee what condition I’ll find it in tomorrow.

  I really must like this chick.

  Tonight, I’m lucky and slip into a space only a couple doors down from her. On the way to her front steps, I do a quick scan of the street.

  Her apartment windows are dark and no one answers the door. I check out her spot in the back of the building but it’s empty.

  She must not be home yet.

  Or she could be out with someone else.

  I shut that thought down.

  I’m hurting, so I go back out to wait on her front steps. To entertain myself, I whip out my phone and scan a few texts from Murphy. As I’m about to reply, he calls.

  “What?” I answer.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  “Yeah, why?”

  He snorts. “Because you jetted out of here pretty fast.”

  “Why you so concerned?”

  His sigh comes through loud and clear. Then sounds of him moving and in a lower voice, he says, “Because I worry about you.”

  All my irritation disappears. I’m aware of what a miserable fuck I’ve been and that my best friend’s worried about me.

  “I needed some air that didn’t reek of strippers and pot.”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, okay.”

  Clicking on the sidewalk draws my attention up. “I gotta go,” I mumble.

  “Hey, if you need anything, I’m around.”

  “Thanks, brother.”

  I stuff my phone in my pocket and stand.

  What a shitty day. The longest. No, they’ve all been long this week. And I’ll probably end up in my office Sunday to prepare for a custody case on Monday.

  I’m still pissed at myself for leaving things so weird with Marcel, again.

  I should’ve told him the truth.

  My uncle calling right after Marcel and I finished having chair-breaking sex, freaked me the fuck out. But then I would have had to explain my uncle’s visit and veiled threats the day before.

  And I wasn’t ready to get into that with Marcel yet. Because a guy like him would insist on doing something about it.

  I jolt to a stop on the sidewalk when a dark form on my front steps rises. A bolt of fear cracks through my chest.

  I’m mentally calculating whether my pepper spray is in my briefcase and if I can turn and run back to my car without tripping over my heels.

 
And then I realize it’s Marcel.

  What’s he doing here?

  Friday night. I figured he’d be at his clubhouse with a handful of strippers filling each palm. Or whatever it is they do on the weekends.

  My feet hurry over the uneven sidewalk before my head decides if it’s a good idea to let Marcel know I’m excited to see him.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask and realize I’m smiling. I’m a little disgusted with myself for being so happy to see him.

  The sidewalk in front of my front steps is sunken in, dipping low. The usual six inches Marcel has over me feel like six feet as I stare up at him.

  Then he smiles and walks down the three steps, landing on the sidewalk next to me. “You always get home this late?”

  “Usually.”

  “It’s Friday,” he says, slipping my briefcase off my shoulder and hefting my lonesome bag of groceries into his arm. It’s a sweet, unexpected, nice gesture. I’m left staring up at him. Blinking. Speechless.

  “Charlotte?”

  “What?”

  “It’s Friday. You always work late on Fridays?”

  “Not always.” I find my voice and grip the handrail, pulling myself up the stairs. My body’s very aware of him following behind me. “Uh, my apartment’s probably a mess…”

  “I don’t care.”

  Like an idiot, I drop my keys while trying to shove them in the lock. Marcel leans down and picks them up, completely unruffled.

  I manage to get us inside the apartment without any more fumbling. “Can you give me a minute?”

  He sets my briefcase on the end of my couch and glances around.

  “You know where the kitchen is. Just leave the bag on the counter.”

  “Sure.”

  The door to my bedroom is difficult to close all the way. Always has been. I shut it as much as possible before peeling off my sensible suit.

  A few minutes later, there’s a sharp intake of air behind me.

  Aware it’s Marcel, I turn slowly to face him. “What are you doing?”

  “Fuck me,” he says, running his hand over his chin. “You weren’t wearing sexy shit like this under your work clothes yesterday.”

  I was feeling good this morning. Sexy even. Because of our encounter. Even though I’d been a bitch to him, maybe I was hoping for another one.

  Now, I feel silly. “Why? Are you planning to order me to only wear sexy stuff for you?”

  He flicks his gaze up and meets my eyes. I have the impression he’s considering several different answers and is trying to figure out which one will offend me the least. Or the most. Marcel does have a troublemaker vibe about him.

  Before answering he takes a few steps closer. Close enough that his body heat warms me all over. He doesn’t reach out and touch me though.

  God, he smells amazing. Why can’t I stop noticing that about him? I don’t even think he wears cologne. Woods, wind, something wild. Maybe faint traces of soap. Whatever it is, I want to rub him all over my sheets so I can wake up with that scent every morning.

  Or I could do the easier thing and ask him to stay the night. Wake up with my nose buried in the crook of his neck.

  My gaze travels down the length of him, stopping at his bare feet. “You took your shoes off?”

  “Believe it or not, I’m housetrained.”

  “No, I—” My gaze travels up, taking in his loose jeans and fitted T-shirt. Remembering how sculpted and hard everything underneath is. “Thank God you’re not one of those guys who wears skinny jeans,” I mutter.

  He lets out a surprised huff of laughter. “Okay. That was random.”

  Yes, it was. And I’m not one to normally blurt out nonsense. Something about Marcel rattles me every damn time I see him.

  I wave my hand in the air in an attempt to sound less stupid. “You know what I mean. The pants that are so tight you can tell what religion the guy is.”

  So much for less stupid.

  He laughs for a solid minute. And swipes at his eyes to drive home the point that I’m an idiot. “I hope you’re not mad that I came over tonight,” he finally says.

  “Not at all. Why would you say that?”

  “Because you seemed eager to get rid of me yesterday.”

  Yeah, Marcel’s nothing if not blunt and to the point.

  “And yet you came back.”

  We end up staring at each other and he takes a step back, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “I’ll go start dinner.” He gestures toward my kitchen.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Would you rather go out?”

  “Not really. But you don’t have to—”

  “I want to. It seems like you had a long day.” He meets my eyes again and this time his are full of heat and promise. “Do me a favor.” He traces his finger in the air as if he was running it over my skin. “Keep that on.”

  Keep that on? After he leaves, I stare down at the black push-up bra, garter-belt and stockings. I’ve been dying to get this contraption off all day.

  I unclip the garter belt and roll the stockings off, but leave everything else in place, the whole time wondering how he’ll react.

  Somehow I managed not to rip Charlotte’s lacy bits off and bury myself in her.

  It wasn’t easy.

  I don’t want her thinking I only showed up to fuck her.

  Again.

  I mean, I plan to later. But that’s not the main reason I’m here. Shaking my head doesn’t erase the image of Charlotte in all that black lace, though. She didn’t strike a pose or try to entice me the way most of the women I’ve known would’ve done.

  Somehow that’s hotter.

  She wasn’t shy and didn’t try to hide herself either.

  I liked that.

  There was the whole awkward skinny-jean comment. I haven’t laughed that hard in a while.

  I’m eager to find out if she leaves the stockings and stuff on like I asked.

  “I can take over,” she says from behind me. Turning around, I find her in a pair of soft, loose pants and a tight little T-shirt. She’s wearing slippers, so I can’t tell if she left the stockings on or not. The mystery will keep me occupied through dinner.

  “I’m fine.”

  She inspects the way I have everything laid out on the counter with an amused smile.

  “This,” I say, waving one of the sturdy knives I took from the massive block on the counter. “Is serious equipment. Are you a professional chef in your off hours?”

  She laughs and toys with one of the knife handles, pulling it in and out of its slot. “No. Carter bought them for me when I moved in here. Part housewarming gift, part home defense.”

  “Smart.” I gesture to one of the kitchen chairs. “Have a seat. Tell me about your day.”

  “This is weird,” she mutters as she drops into one of the chairs. “I’m not used to men in my kitchen.” She squints at me. “Do you even know how to cook?”

  “Wow, look at Miss Equality with the gender-stereotyping.”

  She snorts. “Where’d you come up with that?”

  Chuckling, I turn back to the stove and work on finishing dinner. Let her wonder. She doesn’t need to know about my sister lecturing me on how not to offend the modern, non-MC female in the hope I’d start dating one.

  “Who taught you to cook?”

  “Television.”

  “What?”

  “Heidi liked to watch cooking shows when she was little.”

  “Not cartoons?”

  “Nope. Someone needed to feed her. So, she’d pick out something and I’d make it.”

  Charlotte’s quiet and when I glance over, she’s staring at me. “What?”

  “I think that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. Your grandmother didn’t cook?”

  “Nah, this was before my mom left us there. We used to jack the neighbor’s cable so we had access to all the cooking shows.”

  “Criminal and sweet. You’re the perfect man.”
br />   I snort.

  “He’s better at it than I am now, but when he was little, I cooked for Carter all the time too.”

  “Yeah? Who takes care of him now?”

  She chuckles and stands, walking over to lean against the counter. “No one. He still lives with our mom. He’s pretty much taking care of her.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, it does. When things are bad at home he’ll come stay here. I keep trying to get him to move in with me.”

  I raise an eyebrow and glance around her tiny kitchen. “Really? Where?”

  She flicks her fingers toward the back porch. “That’s supposed to be a second bedroom. I could take the hammock down.” Her shoulders lift. “Or get a bigger place.”

  “He’d rather stay at Mommy’s?”

  Whoops. Wrong way to put it. She throws a glare at me. “No. She’s a drunk and he’s afraid if she’s alone she’ll drink herself to death.”

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Come here.” I reach out and pull her into my arms. At first, she resists, but then she melts against me, wrapping her arms around my waist and laying her cheek against my chest. “I get it. Believe me,” I say against her hair.

  For a few seconds, I just hold her, running my hands over her back. She sniffles once, then pulls away. “I moved out. Went to college. Did the whole tough-love-she’s-responsible-for-her-own-actions thing. Carter’s not quite there yet.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with either approach. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to help themselves. And it’s not a bad thing for a guy to want to take care of his mom.”

  “Yeah, well, she never bothered taking care of us, so I don’t know why he’s so—”

  “He’s still hoping she gets better.”

  “You talk like you have experience.”

  “Watched one of my brothers go through it with his mom for years.”

  “Murphy?”

  I cock my head and study her closely before answering. “What makes you think I’m talking about him?”

  “The way he’s so devoted to your sister and niece.”

  “Observant,” I mutter, turning back to the stove. “I’m pretty sure most of us come from fucked-up families.”

  “True. But some people repeat the pattern. Others seem to have the ability to recognize it and break it.”

  I know which one I want to be.