Chapter 3
Chapter three
Melissa
My house came into view, and I felt suddenly so sad.
The elation of my first motorcycle ride faded with the ugly reality that loomed ahead of us.
I clung to Shane’s waist and inhaled the scent of leather and the cheap Irish Spring soap he used.
I fought the urge to bury my nose against his tanned neck, to breathe him in and saturate my lungs.
Girl, calm the fuck down.
My heart raced like I had just finished one of Nataly’s workout circuits. My thighs quivered from holding onto his hips and maintaining my balance. I tried to blame the heat between my legs on the bike engine burning fuel beneath us, but it was all him.
What the hell is this man doing to me?
I knew exactly what I wanted him to do to me. Nasty, filthy, wild things. Rough, hard, dirty things.
He pulled into my driveway and killed the engine. My raging lust died with the purr of the machine between my legs. For a moment, I sat there, feeling strangely bereft. It wasn’t until Shane reached back and patted my thigh that I finally moved.
I stood next to the bike while he dismounted.
He loomed over me, and I felt a little thrill as his big fingers unbuckled the helmet clasp under my chin.
He removed the helmet and then combed his fingers through my hair, smoothing it back into place as if he’d done it a million times.
The intimate gesture sent another wave of need through my core.
I wanted him to touch me again so badly.
“What happened there?” His brow furrowed at the sight of the hole in my lawn and the broken wooden post next to it.
“Oh, my library fell over,” I said, experiencing a fresh wave of sadness and frustration.
“Fell over?” he repeated with disbelief. “Looks like someone took a damn winch to it and hauled it right out of the ground.” He glanced around my street, and he scowled when he noticed the ridiculously kitted-out Jeep a few houses down the road. “Your neighbors have a problem with free books?”
“It’s really complicated.” What wasn’t complicated was how hot it was that he was defending books and reading. Between saving me during the fight, bringing me home when I was stranded and now being outraged on my behalf over my library, he was quickly working his way into my heart.
“Doubt it,” he muttered unhappily and glared at Wilma and Garth’s place.
“Do you want to come in for a drink? Or something to eat?” I glanced at my watch and saw that it was ten. “I planned to have a late dinner after drinking. You could join me? As payment for the ride home?”
I hoped I didn’t sound too eager, too pathetic.
“All right.” Shane smiled, devastating me with his lopsided grin. He followed me up the sidewalk and onto the breezy porch of my historic home. “Nice place,” he remarked, sliding his hand over the wooden scrollwork there. “You live here long?”
“About three years,” I said, trying not to think to about what his hands would look like moving over my curves instead.
“I got it for a steal, but it’s been a bit more work than I anticipated,” I admitted while trying to unlock the door.
“My dad warned me when I wanted to put an offer on it, but I kept seeing all the potential.”
“Any house this old is going to have a lot of hidden problems.” He watched as I fought with the tricky lock. “You need some help?”
“Um, well,” I glanced back at him and smiled nervously, “sometimes it’s a bit hard to turn, and I have to kind of wrestle with it.”
“Let me.” He gently shifted me aside and took the key. He grabbed the old handle and gave it an experimental lift. When he did, it seemed to realign the door. Hefting it up, he inserted the key and unlocked it easily. “Needs replacing,” he said gruffly.
“Yeah, well, it’ll have to join the list on my refrigerator,” I said with an embarrassed laugh. “I’ll get to it eventually.”
“You should make it a priority.” He eyed the door with mistrust. “Your safety is important.”
“Fair point,” I agreed, thinking he sounded an awful lot like my dad.
“I’ve done a lot of carpentry work on houses in this part of town.” He trailed me to the kitchen, the one space I had actually completely upgraded and renovated. “I can suggest a good handyman if you need one.”
“You’re not going to recommend yourself?” I teased, thinking most men would have.
“I couldn’t give you the time you deserve.”
“Busy schedule?” I avoided his heavy gaze as I dropped my purse on the counter and turned on some more lights. The way he talked about giving me what I deserved had me thinking decidedly unclean thoughts.
“Very,” he said, proving himself to be a man of few words.
“Are you allergic to anything? Or dietary restrictions?” I asked as I opened my refrigerator. “I meal prepped pasta salad this afternoon. It’s got bacon in it, and also dairy and some fresh veggies from Lulu’s garden.”
Bowl in hand, I turned to find him staring at me with amusement. “I think you’re the first person who has ever asked me about food allergies in my life.”
“I work with kids,” I reminded him. “I keep snacks on the counter and quick meals in the cabinet. I’m vigilant about asking. Don’t want to end up on the wrong end of a lawsuit.”
“I won’t sue you,” he promised. “And I’m not allergic to anything. No restrictions either. You learn not to be picky after spending time in prison.”
At the mention of prison, my head jerked up.
He leveled a steady stare my way. Outwardly, he looked calm, but I could tell he was nervous about how I would react.
He fidgeted with a belt loop, focusing his anxious energy into his fingers.
I recognized the same behavior from my kids who came from not great environments.
The ones who were afraid to admit to any mistake, no matter how small, for fear of the pain and abuse coming their way.
“Can I ask what you were in for?” I figured it was best to get it out in the open.
“Drugs,” he said simply. “Intent to distribute. Not using them,” he clarified, as if that was somehow worse than selling them.
“Oh.” My gaze settled on the patch that said SLINGER on his vest. “Dope slinger?”
He flinched as if I had struck him. To his credit, he didn’t try to lie. “Yeah.”
“How long were you in prison?”
“Seven years, four months, two weeks and nine days.”
“That’s a very precise answer.”
He shrugged. “Figured you’d want the truth.”
“How long have you been out?”
“Ten years next month.” He exhaled slowly. “I haven’t reoffended. I did my bid. I did my parole. I left the club. I started over, built a cabinetry and carpentry business.”
“Is that why you wear the EXILE patch?” I wondered.
He nodded. “There aren’t a lot of ways to leave that life unless you’re in a pine box.”
“But you managed it?”
“Barely,” he said quietly.
I didn’t think I could handle hearing what that meant. I suspected it had entailed a great deal of pain.
“I’m not trying to bring trouble into your life, Melissa.” He seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “I should go.”
“No!” I spoke hastily, sharply, and it startled him. “No,” I said gentler. “Stay.” I motioned to the bowl of pasta salad. “Have dinner with me.”
He hesitated. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” I answered honestly. “I’m not going to hold a mistake against you after you’ve paid your debt to society.” I made sure to hold his gaze, demanding his full attention as I added, “But I’m not in the business of giving second chances to men, not anymore.”
“Understood,” he accepted without argument.
With that awkwardness out of the way, we sat side by side at my kitchen counter and shared pasta and iced tea. Conversation flowed easily which, frankly, surprised me because we could not have been two more different people. We both had family here in Galveston.
“I grew up mostly in Pasadena,” he said, pushing away his empty bowl. “We moved to Texas City for a little while. Dad followed work from one refinery to another during the booms and busts.”
“I was here in Galveston until I left for college.” I gathered up our empty bowls and forks.
“Where’d you go to school?”
“I did my bachelor‘s in Austin at UT and my master’s at UNC.”
“North Carolina?” he asked, surprised. “What took you all that way?”
“A man,” I replied bitterly. “My ex-husband.”
He grunted, and I agreed with the unimpressed sound.
“We met at UT. Perfect guy. All American. My dad loved him.” I remembered Nataly’s constant stink face whenever she was around Cade. “My cousin didn’t. Looking back, I should have listened to her. She’s a damn good judge of character.”
“That bad?”
“He was the worst. Total narcissist,” I said, “and that’s coming from our marriage counselor and my own therapist. Makes sense why he ended up going into surgery. He thinks he’s a god, but he’s literally a demon. Like actually Satan.”
Shane snorted. “Jesus.”
“He needed Jesus.” I put the bowls and silverware in the dishwasher. “You want a popsicle? They’re homemade. Watermelon and lime.”
He seemed impressed. “I’d love one.”
I retrieved two from the freezer and carefully ran the silicone molds under a little warm water to loosen them. Carefully, I tugged them free and handed one over to him. Playfully, I tapped our popsicles together. “Cheers.”
He smiled and sent a new swarm of butterflies through my belly and into my chest. I returned to the stool next to him and enjoyed my popsicle for a few seconds before finally working up the courage to ask, “Are you married?”
He made a shocked sound and quickly swallowed his mouthful of frozen treat. “No. Never.” He shook his head. “No girlfriend right now.”
“Kids?”
“Not yet.” He eyed me in a way that made me squeeze my knees together. “You?”
“Not yet,” I repeated, silently wondering what he would say if I told him about my almost desperate desire to be a mother.
“You’d be a good mom.”
I gulped around the sudden ball of emotion blocking my throat. Glancing away, I muttered, “My ex didn’t think so.”
“We’ve already established he was a psycho so I don’t think his opinion matters.”