His lips twisted to the side, his body stilled, and he was so silent, I wondered if he was angry.
“If you can’t take me, I’ll have Mom—”
He gave me a quick squeeze. “No, I’ll let Blood know what’s up. My luck, I’ll have to hang back and Beast or Tundra will take you back instead.”
I fought against a frown. “I hope not. The ride back is much better with you.”
He lowered his head and kissed me. His tongue teased mine enough to get his point across, but not enough to start anything. “That’s good to know, baby. Let’s get to bed.”
At nine-thirty, I opened Rafferty’s front door to Mom coming up the walk with Auntie Natasha. Mom wore a pair of jeans with a fitted, aqua t-shirt sporting the logo for one of her favorite bands. Auntie Natasha looked like she was going to a brunch downtown, not at a neighborhood bar and grille slash biker bar. She wore black dress pants with a caramel brown short-sleeved blouse that brought out the flecks of gold in her deep brown eyes, but also accentuated her umber skin. Her dark wavy hair was pulled back with a headband in a stylish ‘do.
While they proceeded toward the house, it struck me strange that Dad was missing.
On auto-pilot I asked, “Where’s Dad?”
Auntie Natasha aimed a supremely disgusted face at Mom. A matching attitude laced her tone, but it was so over the top, I knew she didn’t mean anything with the attitude. “Do youhearthis daughter of yours? ‘Where’s Dad?’ I haven’t seen her since the holidays, and she asks where Cal is. Are you sure you raised her right?”
Auntie Natasha was my godmother, and I grew up going to her house when Mom and I weren’t at the Riot MC clubhouse, since Natasha’s family lived about three miles away. Her sons, Nate and Derek, were like my big brothers since they were seven and five years older than me, respectively.
I padded out onto the front porch in my socks and lounge wear. “I’m sorry, Auntie Tasha. It surprised me Dad isn’t leading you two up the walk.”
I gave Natasha a hug.
From beside us, Mom said, “Your dad had to go to the clubhouse. He’s meeting us at brunch.”
I nodded. “Come on in. I can give you the tour, Auntie Tasha - Mom already saw the place yesterday.”
She waved a hand at me. “Nope. No need. This isn’t exactlyyourhome yet. You move here permanently and put your mark on it, then I’ll get a tour. Go get dressed. I’ve got a mimosa calling my name and some waffles to judge.”
“You’re judging the waffles?” I asked.
Auntie Natasha aimed a stern look at me. “Girl, he wants honest opinions about his food. When it comes to food, I’m nothing but honest. I’m just hoping I don’t have to be scathing.” Her eyes traveled quickly up and down my frame. “Get dressed, girlie.”
I beamed at her. “In case I don’t mention it, I’ve missed you! You aren’t going to be scathing today.”
Less than fifteen minutes later, I set the alarm and locked up Rafferty’s house. We loaded into Mom’s Toyota.
Once we were moving toward I-10, I realized something was off. “Did Dad ride to the clubhouse or did you drop him off?” I asked.
Mom caught my gaze in the rear view mirror. “I dropped him at the clubhouse, then picked up Natasha. Why do you ask?”
I shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. How’s he getting to On a Lark if he doesn’t have his bike?”
From the passenger seat, Natasha looked over her shoulder at me. “Derek’s picking him up and having brunch, too. Then Derek can take me home.”
“Really? Derek’s gonna be there? I haven’t seen him since—”
“Since the holidays when you came over for New Year’s Eve. You gotta stop being so scarce, Alexandra.”
“You’re right. And who knows, by next January, I might be finishing my degree at JU.”
Natasha twisted in her seat. “What? Did your mother’s head explode? You aren’t going to get your degree from UF? No orange and blue?” She stared at Mom for a beat. “Stop the car, I gotta check the skies for flying pigs or bovines.”
Mom gave a quiet growl and shook her head. “Cows aren’t gonna fly - and neither are pigs.”
I laughed. It was hard to say who had a greater flair for the dramatic, Mom or Auntie Natasha.
“What brought this on?” Auntie Natasha asked.
