8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Jemma
Saturdays were always rushed.
I glanced at the clock as I finished juggling my bank account to cover the current bills. It was later than I expected. I wouldn’t have time to shower and change before I headed out to pick up Jackson. I’d spent too much time fretting over how to pay for the new clothes and shoes my son desperately needed. He’d outgrown almost everything, and the seasons were changing. If his current clothes were too small, then those we’d put away last year for cooler weather would never fit him.
“Mierda! Where did the fucking time go?” I cursed, a pleasure I reserved for when Jackson was absent.
I combed my fingers through my hair and grabbed my purse, knowing I was already going to be late. Jackson wouldn’t care, but Sweet probably had obligations to his MC. The last thing I wanted was for the bikers to get angry with me.
The very idea that we were involved with such a scary group was almost too much for me to handle. I couldn’t believe I trusted Sweet, yet it was a fact.
Before I could reach the door, I heard the loud engine of a truck in front of my house. Fear shook me as I thought Mitch’s adversaries had come for me. At least Jackson wasn’t home. He was with Sweet, who had promised to protect him no matter what.
I turned to run out the back door in order to avoid trouble, but the sound of my son’s laughter broke my stride. I hurried to the new front door, the one with all the locks and bolts it could hold, and opened it to see Jackson leaping down from the truck that sat on the biggest wheels I’d ever seen.
How anyone got inside it without a ladder I’d never know. I held my breath, praying that Jackson didn’t break a leg. He landed safely on his feet and came running to greet me. “MOM! Guess what? Sweet’s gonna teach you to fight. Me too!”
I frowned. His words didn’t make sense. Then, I remembered Jackson wanted a new video game that contained a lot of fighting.
“I don’t play video games, and you don’t have your new one yet, so Sweet will have to be disappointed,” I answered.
“Not video games, Mom! He’s gonna teach us to fight for real. You know, punching and kicking stuff, so Dad can’t hurt us anymore.”
I was instantly on the defensive. The hairs on my arms raised, and my back stiffened.
“Where do you get off thinking we need your help? Who asked you to teach us anything? What if I don’t want my little boy learning to fight? Who do you think you are?”
By this time, I was shoving my finger into Sweet’s hard chest. It probably felt like a butterfly fluttering against those muscles. He certainly didn’t show any reaction to it.
“Jackson is leaving out a whole lot of our conversation. He’s excited. I told him not to say anything until I talked to you, but he can’t seem to help himself.”
“I can’t believe you called me a little boy! I’m almost a man!” Jackson cut in.
“Then you should know to show some respect for your mother,” Sweet told him. “You’re living under her roof. She’s the one that provides your food and clothes. She has a right to decide what you’re taught and by who. She also deserves a better explanation of our discussion. We can’t just tell her what we plan to do. You need her permission, and this isn’t the way to get it.”
“You don’t have any plans,” I firmly stated. “Fighting is a way to get into trouble.”
“Can we go inside, please?” Sweet asked. “I doubt you want your neighbors in on your business. I know I don’t.”
“There’s nothing else to say. You can go. Jackson, go wash your hands. You can help me make supper,” I declared.
“Give me a minute to explain. Hear me out. I’ll leave quietly after that. You’re jumping to hasty conclusions again. I’m not planning on making a bully out of Jackson or recruiting him for the MC,” Sweet calmly announced.
I saw curtains move in nearby windows and realized he was right. The neighbors were watching. Still feeling defensive I proclaimed, “They wouldn’t be watching if you hadn’t brought Jackson home in that gigantic, loud monstrosity. I was coming to get him.”
“The game was over early. I figured you were busy, so I thought I’d save you some time. I borrowed the truck from another mentor. I apologize that my being nice is a problem for you. Would you rather I’d put him on the back of my bike?” he replied with a smug smile.
I winced. If he’d shown up with Jackson on his motorcycle I’d have freaked. I knew in my head that Jackson was old enough to ride behind someone as experienced as Sweet on a motorcycle, but in my heart he was still a baby.
Sweet was being thoughtful, while I was being a bitch. “I give up. Come inside and explain yourself.”
Sweet began his explanation the moment we were fully inside the house. It was as if he was afraid he wouldn’t get the whole thing said before I asked him to leave. It was funny how the very idea of Sweet letting me call the shots made me feel powerful. No other man was confident enough to deal with that.
“I’m not offering to teach either of you to fight the way you do in a ring. It’s more about you learning self-defense techniques so that you’re not so vulnerable. Neither of you have the muscle power to take on an attacker in the way they’ll be fighting you. There are methods of defense that can serve you well enough to allow for escape. That’s my goal, not beating someone up just because you can.”
“I can find somewhere to take self-defense classes. Why are you offering?” I argued.
“Because I’m good at what I do. I’m available, and I give a shit. You have a need that I can fulfill. Are those good enough reasons?” he sarcastically asked.
I reached up to scratch my nose, encountering a small scab from the glass cuts, and was reminded of how easily Mitch had controlled me. I also remembered the helpless feeling of being unable to protect Jackson. Maybe, Sweet had a good idea.
“Fine, I’ll do it under one condition,” I gave in.
“Name it,” he snapped.
“I watch you show my son some moves for a couple of weeks, and if I approve your teaching methods, I’ll let you help me too.”
“Done. In two weeks, I’ll have you in Colt’s boxing gym. You can strengthen those slim arms and legs and learn some sneaky moves to save yourself,” Sweet smugly promised.
“I don’t want gigantic arms like yours. They look fabulous on you, but they’d be ridiculous on me,” I replied before I realized I was telling him how good I thought he looked.
His grin told me my words had been heard. He answered in the same way. “Your arms and legs are sexy just the way they are. I have no intention of making them appear any different. That would be a shame. Right now, my hand can fit around them perfectly, and I’d like to keep it that way just in case…”
“In case of what?” I dared ask, feeling sweat trickle down my spine.
“If you don’t know, then I’ll gladly show you sometime.”
I set that idea aside for the next two weeks. I didn’t dare let my mind dwell on Sweet’s meaning. Any time I had a random thought in that direction I shut it down because it made me wet, which was infuriating.
In the meantime, Jackson learned how to block a punch, twist out of a chokehold, use his elbows as a weapon, and break a man’s foot by stomping on it in the right spot. Oddly, those skills made me a very proud madre.
When my turn came I met Sweet at his friend’s boxing gym. Actually, I met the friend first. A dark haired man, with piercing dark eyes that seemed to have seen some really awful things in his lifetime, came to greet me when I entered the gym. He was tall, though nowhere near as tall as Sweet. He was muscular, yet slim. The way he moved had me thinking of the gunslingers I’d seen in westerns. I easily imagined him in a cowboy hat, boots, and a holster on his hip.
“Hello. I’m Colt. This is my place. How can I help you?” he asked, frowning down at me.
“Oh, you’re Sweet’s friend. I’m Jemma. I’m here to meet Sweet and learn self-defense,” I stumbled through the introduction.
The weird smile he gave me threw me off. I had no clue what he was thinking, and I was too afraid to ask.
“Follow me,” he grunted.
I did. We zigged and zagged our way through punching bags, benches, and other equipment until we reached a small private instruction room. I silently thanked Sweet for making sure I wasn’t going to be the entertainment for the evening.
“Hey Sweet! Your woman’s here,” he announced when he opened the door.
I turned on him and shoved at his chest with my fist, too angry to be afraid any longer. “I’m not his woman! I belong to no man.”
“Excuse the shit out of me!” he declared, holding his hands in the air in surrender and backing away.
“I guess you can be a wildcat when you want to,” Sweet proclaimed with a hint of laughter in his voice. “Colt won’t ever forget your reprimand. He’ll remember not to call you anybody’s woman.”
“I didn’t mean to be so bitchy. He just got on my nerves the instant we met. He had some kind of smirky smile when he looked at me that made me want to grind my teeth. Then, he assumed I belonged to you.”
Grinning widely, he replied, “I understand his smirk perfectly. Those jeans look hot on you the way they’re practically painted over your skin. They show off your curves in a way that makes a man drool. If that’s the way you want to defend yourself, making a man drool and unable to move due to his cock swelling too big, then you’re all set. However, for what I have in mind, you’d be better off in spandex. Don’t you have exercise clothes and one of those super bra things that keep your tits from bouncing?”
I blushed. Who wouldn’t with a hot man staring at their chest? For the first time I noticed his clothing. He wore loose fitting, knee length shorts and a tank top that displayed so many muscles my mouth watered and the area between my thighs dampened. Tattoos colored his skin adding more dimension to the already bulging skin.
“I doubt that I’ll be what you call properly dressed if someone attacks me. They’re not going to warn me so I can change clothes,” I said to cover my sensual overload.
“That’s true. But for learning purposes you’d be more comfortable, and the movements would be easier. There’s also the added joy of your trainer, me, getting to see you in skimpy tight outfits. Not that those jeans aren’t showing off some tempting spots, like your perfect ass,” Sweet retorted.
“I see you took your own advice. You’re showing me some skin. Is that supposed to be intimidating or a turn on?” I teased to calm my nerves.
He raised an eyebrow and asked, “Can’t it be both?”
“Just drop it. I’ll buy appropriate clothes for next time. For now, let’s get started.”
“I can do that. Let’s begin with a fighting stance, so I can see what you’ve got to work with. Show me how you’d stand and hold your fists if you wanted to punch someone.”
I moved my left leg back, bent slightly at the waist, and raised my fists in front of my face.
His laughter caught me off guard and angered me. I punched out, but he moved, so I missed him by a mile and almost fell to the floor in the process.
“What’s so damn funny?” I asked.
“If you stand like that an enemy could blow you over with a feather. You came close to doing it yourself. And your fists should be lower, as well as putting your thumbs inside them. They’ll break if you leave them out like that.”
“Then stop laughing and show me the correct way,” I demanded.
Sweet moved around behind me, put his large hands on my hips, and began to shift my stance. I gulped in surprise as my body tingled all over in response to his intimate touch. But the worst was yet to come.
He snuggled his chest and hips against me, allowing me to feel his hard cock against my back because of the height difference, in order to reach around me and show me how to hold my fists.
His unique, sinful scent surrounded me. My eyes practically crossed in order to help me keep control of myself. I would either melt into him or slip to the floor if I lost control. It was difficult to breathe without moaning.
“Mierde!” I exclaimed.
“Exactly,” he answered.
I had more to protect myself from than Mitch’s cohorts.
“Go, Mom! You can do it!” we heard Jackson yell as he entered the room.
We instantly jumped apart, but the lightning that sizzled between us remained.
“Jackson, how did you get here?” I asked more harshly than I intended.
“The movie was over, and I didn’t want to go home with David. They’re having liver and onions for supper. Yuck! His mom dropped me off here because when I called your phone you didn’t answer, so I knew it meant you were practicing.”
The guilt was overwhelming. I’d gotten so wrapped up in Sweet and learning some moves that I’d forgotten to put my phone where I could hear it. What if something had happened to Jackson and I was unaware of it until too late?
“Knock it off, Jemma,” Sweet ordered into my ear. “He’s fine. He’d have reached out to me if there was danger. My phone is right here in my pocket. You can’t hover over him all the time. He’s twelve. He needs a little independence in order not to turn out to be a damn wimp.”
“How I treat my son is none of your damn business. You don’t know what it’s like to be a single parent with an ex- husband who can’t stay out of trouble. What if Jackson has too much of his father in him? I can’t let him turn out to be like that.”
“What if he turns out to be like me? Is that a problem too?” Sweet asked, the hurt showing in his eyes.
I knew that Sweet was deep into criminal activity, and he’d kill if he had to. However, I didn’t see him in the same way I saw Mitch. There was something about him that kept me from feeling any hatred or worrying about Jackson becoming like him.
“No,” I answered. “Show me some more moves.”
He didn’t question me. He just led me over to a punching bag where I could take out my frustrations.