Fuck.I punch the starter and then lean back in the saddle, drawing a deep breath. A wise man would take heed of Kyra’s warning about her father and make some bullshit excuse to bail on our coffee date. Stay the fuck away from certain trouble. But I’m no ordinary man, and the existing conflict with the Kings is the whole fucking reason why I like the idea of stirring a little shit with Marty in the process.
Checking the way is clear, I tap into gear and then pull out onto the road. My gut feels off, and I check my mirrors repeatedly, looking for the thing that puts me on edge. But I won’t find it there. Not when the needling worry isn’t related to anything physical. It’s knowing that even if I keep her to myself, it wouldn’t be long before the club would muddy the waters between us. And once she finds out her relationship to the local law takes precedence over any feelings I might have for her, the thought of Kyra’s hurt and confused face is what makes my stomach twist now. I’ve never given much of a fuck what people think of me or my actions before.
But I give a fuck what she thinks about them.
Unlike some people I’ve known, I’ve never wanted to hurt Kyra. Never wanted to let her down. I’ve always felt a pull to shield her from the harshness of the world, and how do I expect to do that when Iamthe harshness of the world around her? I hold loyalty and responsibility to the patch that heats my back as I cruise down the main street. A duty to take one look at the situation and ask myself how this can benefit the Kings of Anarchy before I consider my own needs and wants. Let alone hers.
Why does the girl I want have to be Marty’s daughter? The shy, straight-A student whom I always hoped for a glimpse of on the days I actually showed up at school.
Off-limits for so many damn reasons.
Fuck.
I shake my head as I ride, wind making the wisps of hair at my nape tickle my skin. Gone is the straight, bleached hair she had. Gone are the pointy collarbones beneath her shirt. Gone is the modest duck of her chin when spoken to. Nope. In its place is a curvy, dark-haired siren with the kind of confident smile I always wanted to see on her.
Damn, she looks good.
Seems fitting that when I discover the perfect girl does exist, she’s the same one I’m not allowed to have.
FOUR
KYRA
“Well,it’s not much of a surprise why you don’t have a man, if that’s how you line up a stitch.” Grandma Lucy doesn’t look up from decorating her patchwork to critique mine. “You young ones all race around, trying to get to the next thing as quickly as you can. You need to slow down and take more care. Have some patience. If that’s how little pride you have for making something for the home, then how is a man supposed to believe you can care for him?”
I drop the somewhat crooked start to my quilt in my lap and sigh. “And what man do we talk about exactly?” I narrow my eyes at the old fusspot and tilt my head a little. “Because since I’ve been back, I haven’t seen anyone much other than the boys who were here when I was in school, and none of them were good enough for you then, so what makes them ideal candidates now?”
“People grow up,” she quips. “Attitudes change.”
“Yours hasn’t.” I set the crafting aside and rise from the embroidered sofa. “It must be time for a coffee. Would you like one?”
“There are biscuits in the tin beside the sugar pot.” Her nimble fingers sweep through the creation of an impossibly perfect flower burst.
Mom thought it would be considerate of me to spend regular time with my aging grandmother now that I’m back—make precious memories while I can. I think she considered her own sanity when she came up with the idea. All the woman has done since I arrived is spout negative feedback about everything, from my choice in clothes to the time of day I called around.
I set the kettle to boil, then retrieve the bitter-tasting instant coffee from the cupboard above the counter. People like Grandma Lucy are why I’ve been intentionally misleading about what I’ve done since leaving college, choosing to spin a lie about an internship at a marketing startup rather than tell the truth.
If they knew the real reason why my bank account is stacked enough to afford the moveandpay for a house with cash, they’d have a conniption.
“No creamer for me!” she hollers from the front room.
I roll my eyes to the ceiling and then call back with a fake smile, “Sure thing.”
I’ve often wondered if Icouldtell anyone here how I made my money. Or would it be a source of public disgrace for my family? Common sense says the latter now that the new laws have passed. I spent a good deal of my first paychecks and two years after college on therapy to undo the intricate knots of trauma from growing up in a strict and often stifling household. Being brave enough to own my success is the last hurdle to get over, but it’s a damn tall bitch. One I’ve exclusively focused on for the better part of this last year, with minimal progress.
Turns out, no matter how bold I am when the person on the other end of the internet is a stranger, when it comes to my family, I struggle to overcome the deep need to be accepted. Good enough.
Praised according totheirvalues, not mine.
“I hope you didn’t make it too hot.” Lucy carefully folds her progress and places the bundled quilt on her footstool.
I set the cup on the side table to her right and draw a deep breath. “Best you blow on it first, then, just in case.”
She retrieves the drink as I retake my seat, shrewd eyes on me over the lip of the pretty china. “Your mama said that you work for the council now.” The late afternoon sunshine that slips through her window frames her in a laughably ironic halo.
“Yes.” I fidget with the drink, finding the best place on my knee to balance it. Ididmake the blasted thing too hot.Damn it.“Picked up the job last week. They needed someone who could start immediately.”
“You should enjoy it there,” she appraises. “Typing is a woman’s job. As is being the pleasant face they see when they arrive.” She curls her upper lip. “Sales were always the men’s domain. Too brash and pushy.”
