CHAPTER TWO
DREAD
“I got a hundred riding on the Heat tonight,” Reign says, kicking his feet up.
I look over my shoulder at him sprawled in the worn-out recliner I salvaged from the clubhouse when Cora decided to redecorate. “You still betting on basketball?”
Reign shrugs, his eyes not budging from the ESPN highlights playing on the TV mounted on the wall. “Drafter Kong gave me two hundred bucks to bet with just for signing up.”
I shake my head and turn back to my Harley. “Dumbass. Those apps are designed to take your money.”
“Not if you win,” Reign counters, taking a swig of his beer.
The wrench in my hand clangs against the concrete floor as I reach for the new spark plug. My garage is my sanctuary. I’ve got a fridge stocked with drinks, a big screen TV mounted on the wall, and a comfortable recliner to kick back in. It don’t get much better.
I glance out the open garage door at the piece of shit minivan now sitting in the driveway next door. Faded blue paint, a dent in the bumper, and what looks like half of someone’s life packed inside.
“Have you met your new neighbors yet?” Reign asks, following my gaze.
“Nope. They just moved in today.” I turn back to my bike, twisting the spark plug into place. “Hoping they’ll take better care of the place than the last tenants.”
“That wouldn’t be hard,” Reign snorts. “The place looks like something from one of those hoarder shows.”
“No shit. Bringing down property values on the whole fucking street.” I tighten the plug. “Landlord’s a real piece of work, too. Said he’d fix that shithole up after the last people moved out. All he did was slap some paint on the front door and—”
The words die on my lips when my phone on my workbench starts ringing and vibrating against the metal surface. I groan and rise from my stool, wiping my hands on a rag before I walk over to grab it.
Killer’s name is lit up on the screen.
I sigh. The club’s enforcer has been blowing up my phone lately, worried about me. Like I’m some little bitch who needs looking after.
I’m fine. Sarah started dating some prick she works with. So the fuck what. It is what it fucking is. If everyone would leave me the fuck alone and stop asking how I’m doing, I’d be able to stop thinking about her.
The phone stops ringing, then immediately starts again.
“You gonna answer that?” Reign asks, not taking his eyes off the last night’s game highlights.
“It’s Killer.” The persistent bastard doesn’t know when to quit.
Sliding the bar across the screen, I put the phone to my ear. “Yo.”
“About fucking time you answered your phone,” Killer grunts in my ear, his deep voice reverberating through the line.
I walk to the opening of my garage, leaning against the frame. “I’m busy.”
Killer snorts. “Yeah. Busy jacking off.”
A grin tugs at my lips as I stare at the minivan next door. “Motherfucker, I don’t gotta jack off. Bitches line up to ride my dick.”
Reign snorts from behind me, and I lift my hand, flipping him off without turning around.
Killer’s deep laugh rumbles through the line. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, brother.” There’s a pause. “You coming to the Christmas party this weekend?”
“Maybe.” Maybe not. I haven’t decided yet.
Killer growls. “You better fucking be there. The ol’ ladies have been worried about your grumpy ass. Especially Mac. She feels responsible for you being a sad fucking sack—“
“I ain’t no sad fucking sack,” I cut him off. “I’m fine.”
Another snort comes from behind me, and I turn my narrowed eyes on Reign as he climbs out of the chair and heads for the door, beer bottle dangling from his fingers.
“Fine is something bitches say, motherfucker,” Killer chuckles.
“Whatever,” I mutter as Reign tosses his empty into the trash and gives me a half-assed wave over his shoulder as he heads for his bike parked in the driveway.
Reign fires up his Harley and then proceeds to cut across my perfectly manicured lawn as he leaves.
Asshole rode on my fucking grass.
As I watch him turn off my street, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. That unmistakable feeling of being watched is hella’ strong, and my shoulders stiffen.
“Gotta go. Someone’s watching me.” I push the button, ending the call before Killer can ask me a hundred fucking questions.
I move casually back over to my workbench, eyes scanning the yard through the open garage door. There isn’t a soul in sight, but the feeling persists. Grabbing my gun, I chamber a round just in case as I scan the road again.
I’m fucking losing it.
Tucking my gun into the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back, I move back over to the stool beside my bike and sit down. I grab the wrench off the floor, and again my hackles stand on end.
What the fuck?
I turn my head slightly, looking out of the corner of my eye, and that’s when I see them.
Two little boys peeking around the corner of my garage.
One looks about eight or nine, and the other five or six, both with reddish-brown hair and big blue eyes.
Where the fuck are your parents?
I scan the area behind them, but don’t see any adults.
“Your momma or daddy know you’re over here?” I ask, keeping my voice calm despite my irritation. The last thing I need is some helicopter parent accusing me of something.
The littlest boy shoves past the bigger one and walks right into my garage like he owns the place. “Our mom is moving the boxes, and our dad lives far away with his girlfriend.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Tiny Tim ain’t got no filter.
“Didn’t your momma teach you about stranger danger?”
The older boy follows Tiny Tim, his eyes glued to my bike. “Yes. She did.”
“She might should tell you boys about it again.”
Big brother shrugs his shoulders again like it ain’t no thing. “And our dad doesn’t live far away anymore. He lives in Daytona, and his girlfriend’s not his girlfriend anymore.”
Damn. These kids are spilling all the beans.
“Y’all like motorcycles?” I ask, watching them carefully.
The bigger boy shrugs, trying to play it cool, but I see the spark in his eye. He likes them a lot.
Tiny Tim, on the other hand, isn’t trying to hide a thing. “YES!” he shouts, head bobbing up and down like one of those bobblehead Jesus dolls my Gran used to have stuck to her dashboard.
“So it’s just you and your momma in that house, then?” I nod my head toward the run-down rental.
“Yep,” the little one confirms.
Single mom with two boys. That’s a tough gig.
“What’s your names?” I set the wrench down on the concrete.
“Jackson,” the little one offers first.
“Tommy,” the older one says with reluctance, like he’s not sure he should be telling me. Which is comical ‘cause it’s a little late to be cautious now. They’re already in my garage. If I wanted to kiddynap ‘em, it’d be all too easy at this point.
“I’m Dread.” I extend my hand to them. Tommy hesitates, then gives me a firm shake. Jackson giggles when he takes my hand, his tiny fingers disappearing in my grip.
They’re cute kids. Not that I know all that much about kids, but they seem alright.
Jackson turns back to my bike, his big blue eyes wide with excitement. “How fast does it go? Do you ride it when it’s raining? Do you wear a helmet? Will you take me for a ride? Is it super loud? Did it cost a million dollars?”
The questions come rapid-fire.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I chuckle. “Slow down, speedy.”
The little guy giggles. “I’m Jackson. Not Speedy.”
I shake my head and actually smile. This kid’s something else. “Yes. It goes pretty damn fast. No, I don’t ride in the rain if I can help it. Sometimes I wear a helmet. Maybe I’ll take you for a ride if your momma says it’s okay. It’s pretty loud. And no, not a million.”
Tommy moves closer to the bike, his eyes tracing the chrome pipes. I can recognize a gearhead when I see one.
“Wanna help me out?” I grab the wrench and hold it out to him. “This bolt needs tightening.”
Tommy’s eyes widen. “Really?”
I nod, and he takes the tool, dropping to his knees beside the bike with a smile that transforms his serious little face.
“Here,” I guide his hand to the right spot. “Give it a turn clockwise. That means to the right.”
Tommy nods, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on tightening it down.
“What’s that thing do?” Jackson points to the fuel line.
“That brings gas from the tank to the engine,” I explain, surprised at my own patience. I’m usually not one for explaining shit to anyone, let alone kids.
“How does the engine work? Is it like a car engine? Can I touch it? Why does it have those shiny things on the side?” Jackson keeps firing questions, bouncing from one foot to the other.
I find myself answering each one, watching as Tommy tightens the bolt just like I showed him.
Kid’s a natural.
Then I hear a woman’s voice calling from outside. “Tommy! Jackson! Where are you boys?”
“Think your momma is calling for you,” I tell them, but neither seems the slightest bit concerned.
Tommy just shrugs his little shoulders and keeps working on the bolt, his face a mask of concentration.
“Why do you have tattoos all over your arms? Did they hurt? I want a tattoo of a dinosaur when I grow up,” Jackson continues, apparently deaf to his mother’s calls.
Before I can answer, a woman appears in the mouth of my garage, slightly out of breath.
“There you are!” she exclaims, relief washing over her features before her eyes find mine.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
She’s gorgeous. Auburn hair falling in waves past her shoulders, bright blue eyes the same as her boys, and curves in all the right places.
Her jeans hug her luscious thighs, and even in the plain t-shirt she’s wearing, I can tell she’s got tits that would fill my hands just right.
And those pink pouty lips. Fuck my life. Those lips were made for sucking cock.
My dick twitches behind my zipper.
Down, boy.
My new neighbor steps into the garage, her eyes darting between her sons and me. “I’m so sorry if they’re bothering you. Boys, you know you’re not supposed to wander off.”
“It’s fine,” I say, my voice cracking.
Shit.
Clearing my throat, I try again. “They were helping me with my bike.”
Tommy stands up, wrench still in hand. “I’m fixing the motorcycle, Mom!”
A smile breaks across her face, softening her features even more. “You were, huh?”
Tommy nods, beaming with pride. “Yeah. Dread showed me how to tighten a bolt.”
“Me too!” Jackson pipes up. “And Dread is going to take me for a ride. He promised!”
I didn’t exactly promise, but I find myself not wanting to correct the kid as I watch his mother’s face. There’s something about the way she looks at her sons that tugs at something deep in my chest.
The fuck is wrong with me?
“I’m Honey,” she says, coming farther into my garage and extending her hand to me. “Honey Mitchell. We just moved in next door.”
Honey. Fucking perfect name for her.
I take her hand, hyper-aware of how soft her skin feels against my callused palm. “Caleb Reeves. Everyone calls me Dread.”
“Dread?” Her eyebrow arches, curiosity dancing in her eyes.
I shrug. “Club name.”
“Club?” She tilts her head slightly.
I can see her putting it together—the tattoos, my road name, the Harley. Her shoulders tense almost immediately.
“Motorcycle club,” I clarify, watching her reaction carefully.
“Oh.” Her smile tightens a fraction, but she doesn’t back away. “Well, thank you for letting them look at your bike. They love anything with wheels.”
“No trouble,” I say, actually meaning it. “Tommy was a big help.”
Tommy’s face lights up at the praise, and something warm expands in my chest.
Honey plants her hands on her hips and looks at her sons. “Alright, boys. Time for you to get a bath. We still have a lot of unpacking to do.”
“Awww, do we have to?” Jackson whines, his bottom lip jutting out.
“Yes, you do,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument. Mom voice activated.
“Can we come back tomorrow?” Tommy asks, looking between his mother and me.
Honey hesitates, her eyes meeting mine with a question in them.
“If it’s okay with your mom,” I say, surprising myself. Since when do I want rugrats hanging around my place?
“We’ll see,” Honey says diplomatically, ushering the boys toward the door. “Say thank you to Mr. Dread for letting you look at his motorcycle.”
“Thank you!” they chorus.
“Later, gators,” I find myself saying, wondering when the fuck I turned into a goddamn Disney character.
“Bye, Dread!” Jackson waves enthusiastically as Honey guides them out of the garage.
I watch as they cross the lawn, my eyes drawn to the sexy sway of Honey’s hips in those worn jeans.
“Damn.” I rub at the ache in my chest.
Did fucking Cupid shoot me?
I watch until they disappear around the side of the house, and I can’t stop the smile that breaks out across my face.
I think I’m going to like my new neighbors.