Chapter 11
eleven
DANE
I’m a fucking mechanic. I will not let something as simple as a child’s car seat get the better of me. My shoulders dig into the upholstery as I wedge my large frame further into the cab to better position myself. I can work on a complex diesel engine, but whatever you have to do to secure this piece of molded plastic with only a rayon belt is beyond me.
With a gentle pull, the bubble indicator on the side of the car seat base swings in the opposite direction, showing that it isn't level with the truck’s back bench.
Six months ago, I went to an event to give my “look out for bikers” lecture. I’d been wrangled into helping a state trooper give a demo on car seat installation. Did I pay attention? Absolutely not. After all, I took great lengths to ensure that I was never put into this position by fate. Well, I used to.
That won’t be happening again. I’ll only have one woman in my bed from now on, and welcome children as they come.
“Not so easy, is it,” taunts Yogi. Since I’ve refused his help, he’s watching from nearby while eating his lunch, enjoying every second of my misery.
As I lift my head to shoot him a warning glare, the elder biker smiles daringly before shoving a sandwich into his mouth. “I just need to move it over a little more,” I answer through gritted teeth.
Yogi brushes crumbs off of his beard, ignoring the string of curses I let out as my knee jams straight into the hard plastic divot. You’d think the hours of caring for a child would be a chore, even if it is one of love. But putting in this car seat is the first act of parenthood I get to do.
I’ve missed six weeks of doing these mundane tasks for Owen. It’s my job to carry the heavy diaper bag and carrier. Darcy’s time to get used to the idea of us is quickly dwindling. I’m missing out on too much, and precious time we could be spending together as a family is being lost.
The interior door that leads into the office closes, and I hear my father’s voice say, “He’s still at it?”
“He don’t want no help,” Yogi replies.
“I need to know how to do it for myself so that it can be switched out between cars,” I grit out without looking back at the pair through the open truck door.
Sticking his head into the passenger side of the truck, my father says, “You can’t install it in the middle of the truck because of how the seat is indented.”
That fucking manual specifically said the middle is best.
“Pull the base toward you,” he instructs. With Owen’s seat now on the driver’s side, he discards the seatbelt and picks up one end of the special webbed restraint that loops through the bottom. With one fast movement, he attaches it to a metal anchor hidden inside the seat’s crevice. After repeating my father’s actions, I pull the belt that’s securing the seat until it’s sufficiently tight. With a glance, the indicator bubble lays exactly in the middle, safely installed. “Thanks,” I say.
“I’m happy to help. You and Darcy have a lot of learning ahead of you still,” my father says.
“Doesn’t seem that hard to figure out. You change their diaper, feed them, put them back to bed when they’re tired,” I reply with all the confidence I feel. Reaching over, I give the seat one last tug. It barely moves, more than okay. Dad and I both climb out, slamming the doors behind us. It’s unbelievable that after all that effort, it went in that easily in the right spot.
Yogi laughs like what I’ve said is the most hysterical thing in the world. “You don’t even know what’s headed for you.”
“Owen is an amazing baby,” I answer defensively. They seem to think all sorts of hell is coming my way, but I see nothing negative. If the baby cries, it’s because he needs something.
My body stills as Yogi reaches into a plastic container and pulls out a quartered round sandwich, opening his mouth wide to shove it inside—a muffuletta.
This better be a fucking coincidence.
Stalking over, I shoot him a warning glare before I glance at the remaining contents of the container. The bread’s toasted. The only place in town to get a muffaletta is the diner and they serve it cold.
This son of a bitch. Grabbing a hold of the fabric of his shirt I demand, “Where did you get that?”
Yogi’s hands go up in surrender. “Picked it up at the grocery store in Lafayette. The cashiers at the store in town rat me out to Bobbi Jo. A man can only eat so much turkey.”
He expects me to believe this shit? I can’t even get Darcy to sit down with me to eat a meal without a fight, and he’s having her prepare food for him? Fuck no. He’s not getting away with this shit. I hold onto his shirt so long that my knuckles turn white, jaw clenched tight. I narrow my eyes in his direction before pointing out the obvious, “That isn’t a grocery store container.”
“I put it in Tupperware from home so Bobbi Jo wouldn’t notice it in the fridge. She has me on fifteen hundred calories a day. I’m starving over here!”
Somewhat mollified by Yogi’s answer, I release his shirt, shooting him one last warning glare. I’m watching him.
“It’s just a damn sandwich, son. Even if she had made it for him, she’s just acting like family,” Dad placates.
“Not happening,” I say as I turn away.
When someone calls my name, I turn to find Flinch jogging toward me. His feet are hitting the pavement at a clipped pace. Something’s off.
“You changed the lock on Darcy’s office that quickly,” I ask the prospect.
Rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, he says, “Yeah, I got it replaced, but there’s…a problem. Darcy was in the bathroom most of the time, but when she came out she was crying. A lot. And pissed.”
My father lets out a low whistle. “Never seen Darcy mad. You must have messed up big.”
“Crying and angry? Yeah, you fucked up,” Yogi answers.
“Who says I did anything!”
With a pained look Flinch remarks, “She might have said something about Dane and his stupid magical fingers.”
Moving over to the sink I quickly wash my hands, ignoring the round of snickers from my father and Yogi. Okay, so I got her to kiss me. Guilty as charged. Women have been angry at me more than a few times in my lifetime, but the thought of my brave girl crying shatters my heart.
“Start by admitting you’re wrong. Whatever it is, just say you’re sorry,” Dad advises.
My father and Yogi’s continued words of wisdom are drowned out by the overpowering image of my Sugar crying. I’ve waited for my dream girl my entire life. I’m not messing things up with her.
Other than Presh, my relationship with women for the last seventeen years has been of the “let’s go to your place so I can leave as soon as we’re done” variety. As amazing as my childhood was, growing up without a sister—and for much of it, a mother— did nothing to help me understand women. Handling a crying woman makes about as much sense to me as Mary Grant’s attempts to teach me Calculus.
Tossing Flinch the keys, I fire off instructions for him to wash the truck and park it by the storefront. The closer it is to the door, the less room Darcy has to try to run tonight. As I turn to leave, my father and Yogi call out partially unheard reminders to not yell, and to be patient. The last thing I hear is Dad’s ominous, “Do not run her off again.” That hits home, straight to my heart. She won’t leave. I won’t let her.
The trek across the street is longer than it’s ever been, until at last I reach Darcy. She’s on her knees in front of the office door, sheer determination on her blotchy face. Her phone is on the floor, playing some sort of instructional video. My woman’s on her knees in front of me for the first time, and I don’t get to enjoy it. Somehow I don’t think the obvious blowjob joke will help lighten the mood. In an airy tone, I ask, “What’s with all this?”
Her chin quivers before she sets it into that stubborn expression of hers again. “I’m changing the code to unlock the door. You had it replaced just so that you can walk in whenever you want to,” she accuses before turning her full attention back to the digital pad.
“I did, but a little lock isn’t ever going to stop me from getting to you,” I say with a firm gentleness.
“If I lock the door to my office, it means I want privacy. Now turn around. I need to put in the new code,” she says petulantly.
“Absolutely not,” I scoff.
As Darcy’s red-rimmed eyes shoot daggers at me, my father’s warning to be gentle with her comes to mind. I purse my lips and wished I used different wording. Would I have still told her no? Absolutely. I could have said it a little bit nicer though.
Wearing a determined expression, Darcy angles her body to partially block my view of the keypad. She leans in, as if to better see, and presses six buttons. Turning around, she gives me a satisfied smirk. I’m not worried. As I told her before, nothing can keep me from her. I watch without interference, holding my face blank, arms crossed around my body.
A confirmation beep signals the code is changed, and she moves to stand brushing off her knees.
After shooting me a haughty look, she saunters into the office without looking back at me and marches straight for her desk. Intent on ignoring me, her lips quiver, the threat of impending tears a breath away.
Let me tell you, the way I adore this woman. She is absolutely perfect in my eyes.There are many, many things I’ll let her get away with that no other woman would. Ignoring me isn’t one of them.
In the privacy of the office, I close the door behind myself. With larger steps than hers, I catch up to her, hooking my arm around her waist to stop her retreat. Her face is red and blotchy, eyes still watery, chin shaky again. She looks genuinely hurt. “Sugar? What's wrong?”
“You. You’re what’s wrong,” she accuses. The words are a bullet straight to the heart. Her chest moves with tears that dampen my t-shirt. My brave girl’s crying. Her body is rigid in my arms, her anger not allowing the comfort I’m trying to give her. I hate it.
I let her words sit for a moment. For her to break down like this, it has to be bigger than the way I left her earlier. “Darcy, baby, you’re going to have to tell me a little bit more.”
She lifts her head from my chest, her eyes watery. “This game you’re playing. You’re treating me like a toy, and it hurts. Plus I’m waiting for Seth to just show up again. I’m on edge at work, then at home. I’m at my limit.” Her voice is choked with tears, her shoulders sagging against my chest.
Lifting her chin with my hand, I bite back the censure in my tone and say, “I tried to come over Saturday so we could talk about some things. Including Seth.” I’ve been waiting ever since for her to give some hint that she’s ready to talk, to accept she’s my property. Looking into the depths of her eyes, I run the pad of my thumb across her cheeks to brush away the tears I caused.
With her confused expression, I give her a reassuring squeeze and say. “Grab your purse. We’re going to get some shit straight.”
Lifting her head from my chest, she answers in a wobbly voice, “I haven’t seen or heard from Seth since the last time you asked, I swear.” Is she scared?
“And you won’t,” I answer with no further explanation. There are too many civilians around to overhear, and gossip spreads like the clap in a whorehouse.
Her eyebrows jerk together and she looks up at me, searching for answers. Not willing to wait any longer for her compliance, I drop my hands from her waist and hand her the leather purse left on the desk with impatient movements.
She clutches it against her chest as if seeking comfort from it. “Where are we going?” she asks.
“I have a place around the corner. We can talk in private there.” My heart starts to thrum with excitement. The time has come. I’m finally going to tell Darcy that she’s my property. That this is forever.
She doesn’t fight me when I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her body closer to mine. We walk down the hall and through the store wordlessly, a nervous energy around Darcy. She automatically starts turning toward the employee lot across the street, so I guide her back in my direction. Her long elegant fingers fit perfectly between my thick calloused ones. Bringing her dainty hand up to my lips, I place a gentle kiss on the top of it.
“We’re on foot. It’s not far.” With determined steps, I lead her toward our destination.
At the first cross street, I guide Darcy to the house on the corner lot, and dig my keys out of my pocket to unlock the door.
Folgers’ house mouse, Sutton, came by recently to touch up the place for me. It smells like the lavender floor cleaner she mops with mixed with orange furniture polish. I’m happy for her forethought now that Darcy’s walking into a fresh, clean home instead of a dusty one, especially with her so upset.
With purposeful strides, I point to the sectional sofa. “Wait right there. I need to go grab something.” I try to keep my voice gentle, hoping to comfort her.
Striding into my bedroom, I unlock the safe, retrieve two manila envelopes, and return to the living room to sit next to Darcy.
She eyes her name on the top of the official looking envelope warily, “What is this?”
“You said you haven’t heard from Seth lately.” It’s more of a conversation starter. Since I have eyes and ears on Darcy at all times, and the Miami chapter is keeping an eye on Seth, I’ll know otherwise.
“Not since the last time you asked,” she answers vehemently. She still thinks her ex owes the club a large debt, with no way of knowing she is the payment, in full.
I never want to discuss that with Darcy. Not because I’m ashamed, but because I never want her to feel as if there’s a monetary figure that defines her worth.
Pulling out the first stack of papers, I start the speech I’ve practiced a thousand times in my head. “I’ve known Seth since kindergarten. By high school, we’d stopped talking completely. I do not like him one bit, and I do not trust him.”
“Yeah, I learned that one the hard way,” she answers wryly.
Ripping off the band-aid, I lay it all out. “Last week, I picked Seth up at the jail and put him on a bus headed out of state. One way. He knows not to come back, ever.” I study her face searching for any lingering affection, but only see relief.
“But he didn’t pack his things,” she says, confused.
“I didn’t let him. I told him the only option was to go straight to the bus, and out of town. I made it very clear he’s not welcome back. Camille was with him, though, so I’m sure she’s taking care of him.”
“His ex?” Darcy asks with a full belly chuckle. “Whenever her name came up from time to time, he always said what a lying psychopath she was!”
“His wife,” I correct. My eyes study her stunned expression as she blinks at me.
“What do you mean?” she asks, her forehead wrinkled with confusion.
“My guy looked into Seth with…everything,” I say vaguely, alluding to Seth’s debt. “Camille and Seth were never divorced. We searched for a marriage license for you in Texas and in Louisiana, but there wasn’t one.”
“We went to the courthouse, but he must have made sure it was never filed,” she says the words quietly, as if to herself. She sits for a moment processing before asking again in a daze, “Are you sure? Seth never mentioned they were married.”
“Certain,” I say, handing her the first envelope. “Had him sign this on his way out of town just to cover things.”
She practically rips it open, eager to see the contents. After scanning the document, she shutters her eyes for a long hard minute, and I wait for the rage of a woman betrayed. Instead, she shakes her head slowly, “Well at least that's over and done with,” she remarks dryly. I examine every microexpression, reading into whatever deeper emotions she may be hiding under the surface. Only indifference and annoyance are evident as she sits in silence, processing such a shock. “I feel so stupid.”
“Don’t. You trusted him and he betrayed you. I also got this signed before he left. I thought it best Owen was protected.”
Handing her the custody papers, she quickly opens the envelope, but like the amazing mother she is, Darcy takes her time reading every single word of the multipage document before placing it down on the coffee table.
There’s a long pause in between questions, a dazed expression on her face. “He’s gone? For good?”
“It took a little coercion, but he knows not to come back,” I swear.
Her voice is quivering with confusion when she asks, “Why? Why did you do all of this? The divorce, making sure I have custody, bailing him out of jail just to get rid of him…”
“Because I protect what’s mine.”