Chapter 9
ROOK
When I woke the next morning, PD was still sleeping.
His arm pillowed my head and his chest was flush against my back, face buried in the middle of my shoulders.
Having him so close and being able to sleep in the same bed was nice, but it didn’t stop me from waking up at all hours of the night.
Pain and discomfort burned inside me. Having the man I loved on the mattress beside me didn’t suddenly fix all my problems.
I groaned and shuffled out of bed. I paused as I sat on the edge and rubbed my side, sighing. Finally, I managed to push myself up and walked over to the dresser. When I had on jeans and a simple black T-shirt, I gave the sleeping PD a small smile before I left the room and headed downstairs.
The clubhouse was quiet, but that wasn’t surprising after the night they’d had. Celebrating usually came with sleeping till noon or longer the next day.
The smell of food reached my nose. I sniffed and followed the scent into the large kitchen that we rarely used unless someone volunteered to cook dinner—which wasn’t a common occurrence.
I paused at the doorway and cocked my head at Quain, who sat on a seat at the table with one leg crossed under him and the other dangling.
His attention was on a brochure, his mouth popped in thought.
He looked soft, with dark messy bedhead and loose clothing. The man was pretty with fine features, an unusual thing around the clubhouse. His cheekbones made me want to sketch and his dark brown eyes were almost hypnotic. Right now, he seemed more approachable than usual.
I didn’t know a lot about Quain, other than he wasn’t just a hairdresser. I had a feeling Barber, King, and a few others knew more about him, but I hadn’t bothered to ask. From what I’d gathered, he wasn’t the type of person I should piss off.
Over on the stove was a large frying pan, where bacon sizzled. I couldn’t help but raise my nose and sniff.
“You can have some if you want.”
Quain’s voice startled me, and I glanced at him, stunned to see him smiling genuinely.
“I’m making enough for everyone. Hoping to rouse the drunkards.” His grin widened. “And my mischievous boyfriend. Food usually works.”
“Why are you dating him?” There wasn’t anything wrong with Barber—actually, there was a lot wrong with him. Sometimes I wondered if he ever passed the teen stage mentally.
Quain chuckled. “He’s fun to be around. He’s different at home. Still a comedian, but he’s kinder. Loving.” He paused and his eyes softened. “And he’s good to my kid. Luke takes care of KC, and KC trusts him, which doesn’t happen often.”
I nodded and made my way to the stove. Picking up a plate, I glanced over my shoulder at him.
“He gets into a lot of trouble. You save his ass a lot. Isn’t that annoying?
” I grabbed the tongs and snatched a couple of pieces of bacon, laying them on my plate.
Next, I went to the toaster and slipped in two pieces of bread.
“I want to say yes, but no. It’s entertaining.” He pointed at the fridge. “There’s OJ in there. I went out and bought some this morning. Or you can have coffee. I also got some heavy cream.”
I nodded in thanks and focused on getting my breakfast together. He also had scrambled eggs, which were staying warm in the oven, so I grabbed some of those, too. By the time I was seated at the table, I had a plate full of food and a glass of orange juice.
He’d returned his attention to his brochure, and I snuck a look at it. The pictures were of artwork from a local gallery. My interest piqued. “What’s that?”
“Hmm?” He glanced at me, then back at the brochure in front of him. “Oh, I need new artwork for my salons. I’ve had the same pieces for more than a few years now and it’s time for a change.”
“Do you know much about art?” I laid my bacon over my toast before I picked up the food and took a bite.
He laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Nope. Not a thing.”
I swallowed. “I can help. I’m an artist.”
He frowned at me. “You are? Since when?”
I winced. While it wasn’t an accusation of me lying, it certainly felt like it. “Since I went to college for an art degree. It’s where I met PD.”
“I didn’t know that.” Quain closed the brochure and turned toward me, placing both of his feet on the floor.
“Not many people do. We connected over our love of art. I prefer working with spray paint, which makes a lot of people stick their nose up in the air.” I took a long sip of my OJ and placed it back on the table, running my finger around the edge of the glass as memories resurfaced in my mind.
“Before we joined the Kings, we had these shitty bikes. Old Harleys we found at this rundown secondhand place. But we painted them, created designs on them and made them look new. They were fucking amazing.” I smiled.
We’d restored them together and created adventures with them.
“They broke down on us eventually. You can make something look new, but it won’t last long if the inside is fucked.
” I laughed at the irony. “Bit like me, I guess. I look fine on the outside, but my insides are a mess.”
He made a sympathetic sound but didn’t touch the topic. Smart man. “Can I see some of your artwork? Do you have a portfolio?”
A lightness spread in my chest and I grinned. “Yeah, absolutely.” I dragged out my phone from the pocket of my jeans and scrolled through my gallery until I found a folder I’d made for artwork I’d done years ago.
After college, PD and I went in opposite directions.
He became a tattoo artist, using his skills to create masterpieces on people’s bodies, while I wandered for a while, lost until I finally settled in construction and learned to weld.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I’d thought I might work on metal sculptures eventually.
Now, I was jobless and drifting again, a lost soul merely existing.
I found the photos I’d taken of our bikes all those years ago and gave Quain the phone. “You can scroll through. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything, but that’s the pictures we took of our bikes and all the pieces we did.”
Quain hummed as he flicked through the photos, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
I watched him, a weird sensation prickling through my chest, almost as though I craved his acceptance, which was fucking stupid. I hadn’t painted seriously since I’d started construction, and I missed it, but between King’s work and my actual job, I’d never had the time.
Finally, Quain smiled as he handed back the phone. “You’re talented, Rook. Why don’t you still do it?”
I paused, taking in the sound of my nickname on his lips. Why was it so easy for him to acknowledge me as a King, but my own brothers struggled with it? I brushed aside the thought. Instead, I made a face. “Never had time. I had stuff to do with the Kings, then nine-to-five work.”
“And now?” He raised his perfect eyebrows. Even this early in the day, he was still put together. I had no idea how Barber had landed him. Sometimes life was a mystery.
“I miss it. Probably should give it a shot again.”
He clapped his hands. “Brilliant. You can start by creating art for my salons. I can buy you the tools you need and the canvas.”
I winced and grabbed my glass, finishing off my juice. “I don’t know, man. I can’t promise I can make something like these guys.” I gestured to the brochure.
He laughed. “They’re pretentious. I think you can create what I need to spark my clients’ minds with possibilities.”
I snorted out a chuckle. “You’re weird, you know that?” I took another bite of my bacon and toast. “All right, I’ll do it. But I’m not going to charge you or any of that bullshit.”
He sent me an incredulous look. “With all due respect, Rook, you will, and I’ll pay you a generous amount. Art is more than slapping something together. It’s years of training your skills and honing your techniques. That’s worth a lot. Plus, check out these prices.”
He tapped one of the paintings from the art gallery, and I nearly choked on my food. Ten thousand. Fucking hell.
“And no offense to these artists, but I prefer yours.” He winked. “So, I’d like to hire you to make me eight pieces at nine thousand dollars each. How does that sound?”
My eyebrows furrowed. “That’s like . . . .” My brain wouldn’t function and adding together the amount was a fizzle.
Quain smiled and must’ve decided to save me from embarrassment. “Seventy-two thousand dollars, yes.”
I nearly fell off the chair. Blinking at him, I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I held up a finger to him. “That’s only one grand less than the professionals.”
He rolled his eyes. “Like I said, I prefer yours and you are a professional, are you not? You went to college for it and you’re talented. I’ve made up my mind. I’d love for it to be done in about six weeks. Do you think that’s possible?”
“Fuck yeah,” I said without missing a beat.
His grin widened. “Great. We have a deal.”
There was a rustle outside the kitchen and the door opened. Barber stepped in, yawning widely, and I eyed him and his dick swinging in the wind in displeasure. He rubbed his eye with his fist and smiled at me.
“Hey, Will.” He wriggled his hips and his dick slapped his thighs. “Like what you see?”
Quain sighed. “Luke, really? Go put on clothes. Nobody wants to see that first thing. I made breakfast.”
“You want to see it.” He winked at Quain before howling with laughter and turning around to leave the kitchen again.
I glanced back at Quain. “Him? Really?”
He shook his head. “Yeah, sometimes I wonder why, too.”
I laughed and finished off my food before I took the plate to the sink.
I washed it and laid it on the drying rack, then gave Quain a final nod and headed back up to my room.
Ascending the stairs took a toll on my lungs, and by the time I arrived, my chest ached again, reminding me it was time to take more pain meds.