I try not to meet Short’s eyes, but it’s difficult when he spots us when we’re only halfway down the stairs.
“Morning,” he barks. It’s not quite a smile on his face, but his words seem welcoming.
Having descended the rest of the steps, I approach him, willing the butterflies in my stomach to subside, and return his greeting. “Good morning. Is there anywhere I can get Trip some breakfast?”
“Fuck, of course. Should have thought of that myself. Come with me.” He beckons and leads the way to a door behind the bar that I quickly find leads to a kitchen.
Pulling up abruptly, I startle when I see half a dozen bikers or more sitting at a large farmhouse-type wooden table, and two strangely dressed women working a stove. Strangely? Wrongword. Inadequate is better. Attire that, in my view, doesn’t match with cooking. Shorts so skimpy I can see the curves of their asses, and… have they not ever heard of bras? I have to resist the urge to cover Trip’s eyes.
“Well, fuck. Don’t they make a pair?” Rattler snorts a laugh. “Is this a new look?” He holds on to his belly.
Beside him, I see Winchester and a man I don’t recognise, exchanging awkward looks and wincing.
“What?” Rattler notices he’s the only one finding mirth in the situation. “Just look at them. They’ve each got a pair of blackened eyes.”
There’s another woman, one who meets my eyes kindly, and one who’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, with no cleavage or nipples on view. Relieved, I recognise her. She’s Pippa, whom, with my dad, I’d given medical attention to when we were called in to treat her after a bad accident. And who, I grow red as I remember, was a victim of Dad’s wandering hands.
Back then, I hadn’t known what would happen to her. I’d had the suspicion, even while we were treating her, that the bikers wouldn’t have cared less if she’d died. I’m glad she seems to have found her place here, and, compared to the other women, at least she looks normal.
And it’s Pippa who walks behind Rattler, giving him a clip round the ear. “I’ll give you eyes to match them if you don’t watch your tongue.”
To my surprise, Rattler blanches and seems not to take her threat lightly, while Pippa continues to approach Saint. The VP reaches up, pulls her down onto his lap, where she proceeds to give him an open-mouthed kiss, while he…is his hand really caressing her breast?
Short, having gone tense for a while, now relaxes after Rattler’s been put in his place.
“Bronwyn, you remember Pippa, don’t you?” Acting as if nothing unusual is happening, Short introduces me. Pippa, ignoring what her man is doing, offers me a little wave. I do notice he doesn’t introduce the other women by name.
“Hey, little man. Want some eggs and bacon?” One of the scantily clad women addresses Trip directly.
Of course, Trip stays dumb, his eyes wide. This is so far out of his comfort zone, I have no idea how he’s going to behave. But to my surprise, there’s a slight upward and downward movement of his head. If I’d blinked, I might have missed it.
Eggs and bacon?My own mouth waters. We’ve never been allowed such delicacies for breakfast before, though I might have sneaked some from the hospital cafeteria.
Short pulls out two chairs. I urge Trip forward, indicating he should sit, but being careful not to let my hand make contact with him. Within seconds, it seems, two overflowing plates are placed in front of us, loaded not just with the aforementioned items, but also with sausage links, waffles and syrup. Trip’s eyes go wide, while my stomach clenches.
“Can I just have toast?” I ask, having looked around, seeing there’s no oatmeal on offer.
“Of course,” the woman who seems to be in charge of breakfast says. “Aren’t you hungry?”
Starving,I think in my head. When all heads turn toward me, I fidget with my hands and know I have to offer some explanation. “I usually just have a bowl of plain oatmeal.”
“Nonsense!” Saint barks. “Your parents might only have eaten that, but we know an army marches on its stomach. You didn’t eat when you arrived yesterday. You must be starving now.”
I don’t know why I feel I have to make an admission, but the words come out of my mouth. “Mom and Dad had a full breakfast. But it wasn’t for us.”
“What the actual fuck?” Saint barks.
Hesitantly, I offer what my dad would have said. “I need to lose weight.” I shrug as if it doesn’t matter.
“Bronwyn, eat your damn breakfast. Set an example for Trip.” Short’s eyes all but roll back in his head. “You’re not overweight. In my view, you both need more flesh on your bones. Trip’s a growing boy. He needs nourishment, not starvation.”
My mouth’s watering, and I’m torn between doing what’s been drilled in me is right, and my manners. This woman has prepared food for us, and is standing, the sides of her mouth turned down, as she waits to see whether we’ll accept the offering she’s placed in front of us.
I pull my plate toward me, pick up the utensils, and raise a fork full of heavenly cheese-covered scrambled egg to my mouth. It tastes glorious. So does the bacon. Looking to my side, I see Trip glancing at me, then digging in himself.
His face.Just watching him enjoy the food sends all the feels through me, even more than the pleasure the tasty offerings are giving me.
Once it’s obvious we’re eating, the men start talking to each other. I recognise a couple, Paint and Winchester, who I’d helped treat for their injuries, coincidentally when Short had been shot. Huh, I’ve never believed his story about accidentally shooting himself, then falling on a knife. But as Dad had gone along with it, so had I at the time. He’s either the clumsiest man on earth, or he had been caught up in some fight.
