Thornhill Road (Love Me Tender)

Chapter Three

Tess

After I’d arrived in the parking lot of Steel Mustang, I freed my hair from the clip I’d worn all day and shook out my wavy locks until they brushed to tops of my shoulders. Then I looked at my reflection via my rearview mirror and frowned.

What am I doing?

This was exactly the wrong place to be for someone who was on a bad boy hiatus.

I’d moved to Gillette right after college. Since then, I’d been in a series of failed relationships. None of them lasted very long. My most recent attempt had gone on three months before it ended in disaster.

He was a bull rider.

A real cowboy.

A total heartbreaker.

Admittedly, that was exactly my type.

I was a sucker for a bad boy.

I liked them rough around the edges and slightly dangerous. I found the devil-may-care attitude sexy. It was a total turn on when a guy said screw it to the rules of society and did what he wanted to do. Not to say I wanted a felon in my bed. I seriously didn’t. But a rebel who pushed the limits just to see how far he could go? That was my kind of dare devil.

When a man like that wanted me, it made me feel like more of a woman.

It was hard to explain why, but I’d fallen for that guy and chased that feeling time and time again. And, without fail, I’d ended up with a broken heart—a heart I’d recklessly given away too easily.

Difficult as it was to admit, after a decade of failures, I realized I was the problem. It wasn’t like there was anything wrong with the guys. They were who they were—unapologetically; and who they were, were men who didn’t know how to handle my tender heart. I couldn’t be mad at them when their devil-may-care attitude extended to how they treated me.

In a way, I’d asked for it.

Now it was time I tried something different.

I needed to look for a guy who was more gentle than rough.

Safe.

Reliable.

Maybe a guy who knew how to tie a Windsor knot.

I gathered my hair and put it back up in a clip.

Man, I needed sleep.

I wasn’t there to impress anyone. I was there for Ed.

It wasn’t unheard of when patients died alone. Except, usually those patients were in a hospice care facility, not at home. The whole point of choosing to spend one’s last days at home was to have the freedom to enjoy their loved ones in a place filled with warmth and memories.

Ed’s house was not full of memories. It was full of clutter.

I knew I couldn’t get emotionally wrapped up in his situation. I needed to remain objective, and I promised myself I would— after I spoke with Sully. I didn’t want Ed to die alone. Also, I didn’t want his son to live with regret having not gotten to say things he might have needed to say but didn’t know he was running out of time to say.

I wanted to help.

I wanted to try .

Glancing around the parking lot, I noticed it wasn’t too busy yet. The couple nights I’d been in the past, the place was so packed I wondered how many fire-safety laws had been violated.

I’d wondered, but I hadn’t worried.

I was too busy having a good time.

The reputation the bar had was actually pretty impressive. I couldn’t remember exactly when it opened, but it wasn’t older than five years, and they were known not just in Gillette, but in the surrounding towns, as well. I would have gone more often, but it was the kind of place one went to party all night—and I didn’t have that luxury most of the time.

I got out of my car, adjusted my purse on my shoulder, and tried to ignore the thrill that shot through me at the sight of a dozen Harleys parked out front.

Like the bar, the garage, and the auto-parts store, the Wild Stallions had a reputation of their own. They were as respected as they were feared. I didn’t know any of the specifics behind why they were feared other than they were a bunch of badass bikers. It wasn’t like they were in the news for stirring up trouble—even though it seemed unlikely they weren’t the kind that stirred the pot every now and again. Of course, there were rumors and conjecture, but one could never tell fact from fiction.

As I approached the front entrance, I drew in a deep breath and let it out on a heavy sigh.

I was on a bad boy hiatus—that meant no badass bikers, no matter what I found inside.

I was there for Ed.

I pulled open the door and stepped through it, allowing my eyes a moment to adjust to the lack of bright sunlight. When I looked around, I found the place just as I remembered.

To my left, toward the back, were a couple of pool tables. That half of the bar had a number of high-top tables with barstools. On my right were the low-top tables and chairs. The seating was strategic, as the stage for the bands was along the far right side of the building.

The walls were covered in neon lit signs, framed photos of old motorcycles and famous musicians, posters, flags, and metal wall art that made it clear their bias was for Harley Davidson.

The bar, opposite the high-top tables and tucked in the corner, was L-shaped. The front was decked out in old motorcycle license plates from all over the country. There was a custom neon Steel Mustang sign that hung in the back corner, and the walls were full of shelves stocked with booze. There were no televisions, like one might have found at a typical bar. No one came there to watch sports. They came for the drinks and the music.

My favorite part was the ceiling.

It was plastered with vinyl record sleeves.

“You lost, sweetheart?”

I looked toward the bar, where the voice had come from, and noticed two men were staring at me. I remembered I was wearing pink scrubs, and I couldn’t fault him for his question.

“No,” I said, making my way toward them.

The guy behind the bar appeared to be younger. Maybe twenty-five. He had a baby face, his hair trimmed on the sides, but longer and messy on top. He wore a kutte, as did the guy sitting on the opposite side of the bar. I couldn’t help but notice him, too. He did not have a baby face. He had a biker mustache that totally worked for him, and his hair was thick—with just the right amount of lazy curl—and hung down to his shoulders.

I reminded myself I was on a bad boy hiatus.

I was also in the middle of a biker bar wearing pink scrubs.

I got straight to the point.

“I’m looking for Sullivan Thomas.”

The guy behind the bar frowned. “Who?”

“Sullivan? Maybe Sully?”

The man with the mustache chuckled while Baby Face said, “I have no idea who you’re talkin’ about.”

“She’s lookin’ for Mustang,” Mustache drawled.

I gave him my attention just in time to see his eyes trail slowly up and down my body. He did not appear put off by my scrubs. I tried to ignore that.

“Mustang?” I asked, attempting to stay on track.

“You’re in his bar, darlin’. Best call him by his rightful name.”

“Mustang’s name is Sully? ” asked Baby Face incredulously.

Just then, the door behind the bar swung open, and the man who walked through it stated, “Sure as fuck ain’t to you.”

Baby face laughed.

I did not laugh.

I could hardly breathe.

That was because those hazel-blue eyes hit me, and I could barely think.

The same eyes on his father were sad. But on Sully, they were vibrant and alive .

The black and white photo I saw earlier didn’t do him justice.

He was a chestnut-brunette, his straight hair overgrown, but not enough to be considered long. His beard was full, and maybe a little unkempt—like he’d get around to trimming it when he felt like it, and he hadn’t felt like it in a few days. He was tall, like Ed—maybe six-foot-two—but unlike his father, he was far from frail. He didn’t look like a body builder, but he certainly looked sturdy.

The black and white photo also failed to capture the decent sized tattoo he had on his left bicep.

It was an old school, American traditional style mom tattoo. It was in full color. Even though it was clearly not new, it still looked good, the artist obviously no novice. The heart was red. The bird holding the ribbon with MOM in the center was blue, and the flowers that completed the piece were purple and pink. If done wrong, it would definitely have been a cheesy disaster of a tattoo—but it most certainly was not done wrong. It was so clearly in memorial of a woman he loved.

It was badass and sweet in equal measure.

He gave me a half-smile, and a zing shot straight through my belly.

“You, on the other hand—you can call me whatever you’d like.”

Oh, god .

I wanted to call him a lot of things.

Like mine .

But I was on a bad boy hiatus.

More importantly, he was a family member to one of my dying patients.

I needed to focus.

“Are you Sullivan Thomas?” I managed to ask.

His smile disappeared. “Except that.”

“Okay—but you’re Mustang?” I stammered. “As in Steel Mustang?”

“Yup.”

He folded his arms across his chest, and I couldn’t help but notice the tattoos he had scrawled in massive, intricate cursive lettering across the back of both forearms. One read: ride wild . The other: roam free .

Oh, god .

Why did he have to be so hot?

“Um, okay. Could I have a word? In private?”

“About?”

“Your father.”

I watched as those hazel-blue eyes went cold— instantly .

“I don’t have one of those.”

Alright. So, things between father and son were bad. Worse than bad.

I pressed on anyway.

“Ed is dying.”

Sully— Mustang— didn’t even flinch.

Our evolving exchange made it easier for me to ignore how attractive I found him. I hoped there was a small chance I could get through to him, somehow.

I took a step closer to the bar and explained, “My name is Tess. I’m Ed’s hospice nurse. I just came from his house and…” I lost my words for a second, intimidated by the icebergs his eyes had become. “Look, it’s very obvious your relationship is broken, but I thought you should know. You should at least know that he’s dying.”

“Now I know.”

It was all he said.

Stubbornly, I asked, “Do you think, maybe—?”

“No,” he interrupted, clearly not interested in anything I had to say in relation to his father.

I thought about the sad look in Ed’s eyes as I stared into his son’s cold ones—cold at the thought of his father, but vibrant when he first looked at me. I wondered what caused the giant chasm between them, but it wasn’t my place to pry. I wanted to try to help them, but I knew some things couldn’t be fixed.

Still, I gave it one last shot.

“My next visit is scheduled for Friday night around ten. I understand it’s been a long time. If you change your mind and you want to stop by, I’ll be there. You won’t have to do it alone.”

“Like I said—I don’t have a father.”

“Right,” I murmured with a nod. “Okay. Okay…”

I turned on my heel and started for the door.

I knew I shouldn’t have been, but I couldn’t help it.

I was disappointed that hadn’t gone as I’d hoped.

Mustang

His dick got hard just looking at her face.

Fuck , she was beautiful—with those golden-brown eyes and plump, sweetheart lips.

Her hair was pulled back, save for a strand she hadn’t captured by her ear, but he could tell it was dirty blonde—more dirty than blonde. He wondered what she looked like with it down, and what she looked like out of her uniform.

Though, she worked those fucking cotton-candy pink scrubs just fine.

She’d tucked her short sleeve top into the thick, elastic waistband of her pants. This meant he knew she had a subtle hourglass figure with breasts that appeared just large enough to fill the palms of his hands. The pants weren’t baggy, like the nurses he’d seen on TV, but fit her legs down to the elastic bands wrapped around her delicate ankles. Never would he have imagined he could be turned on watching a woman walk away from him in a pair of white, New Balance sneakers, but there he was.

He didn’t like the reason she’d walked into his bar.

He didn’t like she was leaving so soon.

But he sure didn’t mind the view of her nice ass as she left.

She was at the door, pushing her way out into the late afternoon sun, when he thought about what she’d told him. He didn’t give a damn his old man was dying, and he sure as hell had no intention of dropping in to say his last goodbye. He hadn’t said goodbye twenty years ago and didn’t see the need to do so now. He thought that bastard deserved to die alone.

Mustang did wonder what sob story Ed had fed Tess to get her to walk into his bar.

Wrangler whistled, pulling Mustang from his thoughts.

“Shit—I sure wouldn’t mind a checkup if it meant I got a piece of that.”

Rodeo chuckled, but Mustang shifted his gaze back toward the door.

No way in hell he’d let Wrangler get anywhere near her.

She’d come in looking for him.

Tess was his.