Chapter 3
Beau
Two Months Later
“That’s it baby, take my cock.” His fingers bite into my hips as I rear back into him, meeting his thrust as he rams his cock inside me. “God, you’re perfection,” he growls.
I jerk awake in bed, sweat coating my skin. I force myself to sit up and do it while swearing I can feel Hunter’s hold on my body, branding me.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
It has been five months since I had sex with Hunter.
Why I still fucking dream about him, I don’t understand.
I may have thought I loved him—and okay, maybe I did love him—but we didn’t share what I thought we shared.
I was just being stupid. The fact I’m dreaming about the bastard just makes me feel like I’m even more of a fool than he made me feel after our night together.
Hell, I feel so bad after this dream that I wish I could go back to having nightmares about …
I shake my thoughts away. No, I may wish I could erase all memory of Hunter from my brain, but I do not need to invite any of the shit that has plagued me for years to make a reappearance.
My gaze moves over to my nightstand. I have to strain to see the time displayed because my eyes are refusing to fully focus.
It’s just a few minutes past five. I’ve got to drag my ass out of bed, get up, take a shower and clean up.
Then, I have to make potato salad, pasta salad, baked beans, and my sweet and spicy meatballs for the cookout to celebrate Slider’s—Gordo’s kid’s nickname—birthday.
Incidentally, we call his boy Slider because he’s really good at baseball and slides those bases like he was born to do it.
Gordo is one of our lead body men and his son turned eleven last week.
Gordo only gets to see him every other weekend, so he rented a shelter at the Laurel River picnic area and is throwing his boy a party.
I’m going all out to help because I love my family at the garage.
Gordo is an extra great guy, though. His ex is kind of a bitch.
I keep hoping he’ll find a good woman, but sadly, it has never happened.
Today should be fun, though. All my guys will be there—even if they don’t have kids, they still all claim the title of uncle to Slider.
Callum will probably bring whoever he’s banging this week, and Billy will bring his wife Rella.
Every one of them love my cooking—especially Slider.
So, despite the fact the boys will be grilling up burgers and dogs, I’m making enough of my junk to feed them all three times over.
This is why I needed to get a move on. What I did not need is to have dreams about Hunter.
That man is not for me and that’s fine. Callum has been on me to start dating again.
It hasn’t been something I’ve wanted in my life.
Yet, maybe now is the time. If it will help me to stop dreaming of Hunter, then it definitely is.
As much as I really don’t want to even think about going on dates, I have to admit I need something to make me stop thinking of Hunter.
I mean, he hasn’t tried to see me again since I laid the law down with Torch and Skull.
Not once. That should be a good thing. It really should.
Yet, to show how much of an idiot I am, I’m actually upset he stopped coming by the garage to see me.
Damn it.
With a sigh, I shuffle into my bathroom. I’m going to keep Hunter out of my mind and concentrate on enjoying my day with my family. I’ll worry about dating and my weird obsession with a man who thought I was a whore and kicked me out of his bed some other day. I refuse to do it today.
It turns out I was right. It did take me all day to get ready.
I hate being late, especially when I’m bringing a heck of a lot of food for Slider’s party.
I pull into an empty parking spot across from the rented shelter.
I shut Amie down, patting her dashboard.
God, I love my baby. You might think you can’t have a love affair with your car.
You’d be wrong. If you aren’t in love with your chosen vehicle, you have the wrong one.
That’s an indisputable fact. I have four vehicles.
Two I don’t use that often. I have my old truck that makes me happy to see.
I drive it to work every day, but that’s about it.
Since I can be at work in ten minutes, that’s not much at all.
It’s a 1965 Ford F-100. It’s cream colored on top and cherry red on the bottom.
Depending on the light, sometimes it looks like the top is cream and sometimes white.
There’s also metal flake in it that makes the truck shine.
I have my new truck—a 2025 F-150 with all the bells and whistles.
It came in a deep red color that is pretty, but I didn’t paint it, so I can’t say much about it.
It barely gets driven unless I’m heading out of town somewhere.
It’s four-wheel drive and sometimes you need that here in Kentucky.
Then, I have a trike. It’s decked out with a paint job that makes it look as if there’s an American flag covering it and waving in the wind.
That took some work and a bunch of airbrushing for that effect.
This motorcycle is not mine—although it is.
The bike belonged to my father. I had it redone and painted it for him as a surprise Christmas present.
He loved his trike. He got a three-wheeler because it was easier for him to drive.
Especially once he got older and arthritis had stolen a lot of joy out of his life.
When I painted it and had it souped up, he didn’t just love it.
I’m not sure there was an adjective invented to say what that bike meant to him.
My father spent years in the military. He could be a hard ass.
I’ve only seen him cry three times in my life.
One of those is when I revealed the bike after I did everything to it.
Then, there’s my baby that I’m driving today.
I love her so much that I usually drive her everywhere.
Amie—named after a Pure Prairie League song—is a 1970 Oldsmobile 442.
I love her. She’s a convertible, white soft top, and the body and interior are sea green in color.
It’s iridescent in the sunshine. Sometimes, you could swear it’s metallic opal or maybe cream.
I redid everything in it from what it held under the hood, to the soft green leather interior with matching white and chrome accents.
After I swore off men, I told my dad that I was just going to marry my car—Dad bought it for me and the two of us rebuilt the engine and shit.
He laughed at me and told me I was insane.
I was mostly joking. Lately, I’m thinking it’s a good idea.
Besides, the other day I read about a guy who married his Darth Vader toaster.
So, I figure it wouldn’t be any weirder than that.
“Fuck, Beau.”
I’d been getting out of my car and stretching across the backseat to start getting my food out. I hadn’t realized anyone had come over to me. I freeze and look over my shoulder at Apex and Callum. I frown at Apex. “We’re at a kid’s birthday party. You shouldn’t curse,” I educate him.
“The kids here are all ten or older. Pretty sure they’ve heard the word fuck, darlin’.”
I roll my eyes. “Not the point. Are you and Callum going to help me unload the food I have in Amie or you going to stand over there and stare at me?” I huff.
“Your legs look good in those cutoffs, babe. Thinking I might go for door number two.” This time I flip him off, making him and Callum both laugh. Thankfully, they do it while walking over to me. “How is you flipping me the bird different from me saying fuck?” Apex inquires.
“Mine is a hand gesture. Yours was the actual spoken word,” I grumble, turning back to my car, bending down to pick up the box that has a disposable aluminum pan that is packed full of my meatballs. “You take these, ‘cause you’re being weird,” I tell him.
“Not being weird, Beau. You’re all that’s you, so you look good all the time. In your truck, in this car, but in those shorts and that sweet Harley tank, you’re even better.”
My eyes go round. Apex has never truly flirted with me before. In fact, until today he’s mostly called me Harper. He’s clearly flirting now and the way he uses my name has warning bells going off in my head. Yikes. I don’t know what to do with that.
“Um …”
For some reason my inane muttered sound is funny to him.
I can tell by the way his lips twitch before stretching into a very sexy grin.
That grin is panty-melting and because of that I can feel heat hit my cheeks.
What is wrong with me? I’ve known Apex for a while.
He is part of the Devil’s Blaze MC now, but he and Callum have been buddies for a long time, so when I say a while, I mean a long while.
He’s not flirted with me before. Not even in just a passing manner.
I don’t know what to do with it now. I think ignoring him might be the best option.
“Aunt Beau!” I look up, a smile taking over my face as I hear Slider call out.
“There’s the birthday boy,” I respond with a grin.
Slider is a great looking kid with soft brown hair and green sparkling eyes.
He’s tall for his age. I’m 5’7 and if I had to guess, I’d say he’s five feet already.
If not, he’s not far from it. The kid is already a heartbreaker.
When he gets to be a teen, Gordo may need to lock him up to protect the girls his age from the pain his smile can deliver.
Slider stops in front of me. I miss his hugs.
He’s getting too damn old to do that now.
Which sucks for me because I miss them. “You want to help take some food to the table for me?”
“Sure,” he says. “Hey Ty!” he calls out. “Come help my aunt.”