52. Candy
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CANDY
“ G oddess,” Butch grumbles, looking down at me where I scrub his lower half in the shower.
“Don’t argue with me. I’m taking care of you. You’re hurt. I’m fine. Let me wash you.” I don’t mean to sound bossy—it’s in my nature when I want things my way.
Acts of service aren’t my norm, and not something Butch is used to receiving. He’s probably a little uncomfortable with my pampering treatment of him.
Too bad, so sad. My biker went through hell last night protecting me. I’m going to take care of him the way he deserves.
Butch sulks. “I’m healthy enough to return the favor.”
I roll my eyes at him. “You just want to touch me.”
He’s quick to reply. “That, too.”
Unfortunately for my biker, I’ve already scrubbed down. A frown tugs at my lips. I wouldn’t have minded Butch running his hands over me.
Later.
It may be mid-morning, but we need rest. Last night was no joke. We’re bruised, sore, and mentally exhausted. All the way home, Butch kept insisting he wanted to talk once we got back to headquarters. I’m sure he was panicking a bit with what he said near the old mine shaft. It’s not every day one’s subconscious thoughts are spoken out loud.
He said I was his wife .
In the eyes of biker law, I am. He claimed me, moved me into his space, and made me his old lady. To the guys in the MC, I may as well be his wife.
Glancing at my naked ring finger on my left hand, I sigh. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care.
The truth is, I care— a lot .
I may not want the picket fence or two-point-five kiddos. But I want Butch to be my husband. I want to share the rest of my life with this man, grow old together, and live a simple life surrounded by our MC family.
Finished washing my man, I stand. My breasts brush below Butch’s wet pecs, where an angry purple welt grows in the center of his chest.
Flay poked around his sternum when we were still back at the house of horrors. He didn’t believe Butch had any cracked ribs, yet he insisted he get an X-ray right away before we returned home. Lucky for us, the local hospital in Fort Collins knows our crew well and got him in and out fast. No broken bones, but the doctor prescribed him rest, something I intend to make sure he gets.
While Butch was getting X-rayed, another doctor examined my feet for frostbite. I have some superficial frostbite on the pressure points of my feet and will most likely develop blisters in the coming days, but it’s nothing I won’t fully recover from.
We were lucky. I place my palm tentatively over Butch’s injury, so close to his heart. It could’ve been significantly worse. I lift my chin, looking into the handsome face of my quiet biker.
Butch is giving me his smoldering hazel bedroom eyes, the ones that turn my insides to jelly and make wet heat form between my legs. He makes it hard to resist him .
Nope. He needs to sleep. We both do. Hanky-panky can come later.
When he realizes I won’t give in to his charm, Butch moves into the stream of the showerhead, letting the hot water run over his injured shoulder. A content groan rumbles in his chest. He’s proving my point—he needs tender loving care.
“Relax, baby. Take your time and enjoy the heat.”
Closing his eyes, Butch nods, doing exactly what I suggest.
While he relaxes, I slip out of the shower and dry off. Tucking my towel around myself, I pad barefoot into our bedroom. Comfort is the only thing on my mind as I dress, opting for a pair of black leggings and off the shoulder mint green sweatshirt—colors Butch likes on me.
A quick brush through my hair yanks the snarls out. I should dry it, but it requires more effort than I’m willing to give at the moment, not when our space looks like a bomb went off.
Upon returning home, we dropped everything in our room. Shoes and coats clutter the floor and furniture. Our bags crowd the front sitting area, needing to be put away. And our laundry needs to get thrown in the wash.
My biker is meticulous with our space. Everything has a place. Items are promptly put away after use. No doubt, he’ll walk out of the bathroom and start cleaning. Butch needs to rest his body after last night’s battle. Our bed may call to me, but this is one thing I can do to ensure my man climbs into bed sooner rather than later.
Grabbing our laundry, I add it to our empty hamper. I move our bags to the closet to make unpacking easier. My arms are filled with our shoes, boots, and coats when I pick up Butch’s leather cut hanging off the back of one of the accent chairs. I add it to my pile, turning on my heels for the closet.
In my mission to get the room tidy, I’ve overestimated the carrying capacity of my scrawny arms. The first to fall from my pile in Butch’s cut.
At all times, a Mercy Ravens MC cut must be respected. Leaving it in a crumpled mess on the floor is a big no- no.
“Gah,” I grumble, dumping the rest of the load in the closet before returning to retrieve the cut from the floor. Bending over to recover the leather vest, I ignore the aches in my body as I lift the heavy leather material from the bottom side up.
A folded piece of heavy stock paper falls out from the inside pocket of the vest. With a sigh, I bend over again to retrieve the paper.
Not thinking, I unfold the folded lump of card stock, smoothing it out in case Butch wants to file it away somewhere safe in the room.
My intentions were never to read it. However, it’s a little hard ignoring my legal name in dark italic bold font scrolled under the words Marriage License .
What the?
My hands shake, gripping the paper tighter as I read the unthinkable.
This is to certify that the undersigned joined in lawful wedlock—Penn Lawson and Leslie Williams.
My eyes blink rapidly, like it’ll somehow change the names on the certificate, or at the minimum make it make sense to me.
How? When?
An earlier memory of me standing in front of the hotel Vegas bathroom mirror, one where I thought I was having errant thoughts about standing at an altar with Butch and a Ring Pop on my finger, comes to the forefront of my mind.
“It wasn’t a random thought,” I say out loud, my free hand kneading my forehead.
“What wasn’t a random thought?” Butch asks from behind me, his voice sounding extra gravelly from exhaustion.
Startled, I spin to face Butch with his leather cut draped over my forearm and the marriage license— our marriage license —clutched in my hand.
Standing in front of me, in only a towel hanging low on his chiseled hips, Butch looks at me with an arched brow. Whatever he sees on my face has his eyes dropping to my hand. He takes less than a second to spot what I’m holding. His hazel eyes jump back to mine, panic clear as day in them.
He swallows loudly. “Goddess?—”
“What is this?” My voice quakes as I hold out the certificate. “And why were you hiding it?”
Butch’s shoulders slump. He runs his hands down his face, looking at me with a mixture of shame and alarm.
“It’s our marriage license,” he answers in somber gruffness.
“I can see that. When the fuck did it happen?” I already have a pretty damn good idea of when it went down, but I need the confirmation from him.
“On the eve before we left Vegas, the same night we first got together.”
“And you knew of this?” A tear sneaks out of the corner of my eye, rolling down my cheek. I don’t bother brushing it away—I’m too hurt to care. “You knew this whole time we were married?”
He nods with another hard swallow. The look of humiliation on his face hits a little differently this time. What I thought was embarrassment for hiding a marriage from me feels an awful lot like embarrassment for being tied to me at all.
“Why would you hide it from me?” My voice raises an octave, anger leaching into my tone. “Were you ashamed to be married to someone like me, a former bunny and sex worker?”
The worry on Butch’s face dissipates, replaced with a livid glower. “What? No. Of course not. You’ve done nothing in life to merit shame from me or anyone.”
Frustrated, I snap. “Then why, Butch?”
“Candy,” Butch pleads, reaching for me.
I back away from him, our marriage license still in my grasp. Hot tears spill down my face. I scrub them away furiously with the back of my hand, irate to be losing my cool in front of Butch.
He hid this from me. He doesn’t deserve my tears, to see how much he’s wounded me.
The air in the room becomes too heavy to take into my lungs. I need air, space, and to be away from Butch while I work through my emotions.
As I turn for the door, Butch is on me. His arms wrap around me like a constrictor, making it harder to breathe than it was already.
“Goddess, please. Stay. Let me explain.”
Choking back on a sob, I say, “Butch, let me go. I need a moment alone.”
He spins me to face him. His chest rises and falls rapidly with his ragged breath. “Then stay. I’ll go. You deserve the privacy right now.”
As sweet as his gesture would be under any other circumstance, the idea of being alone, surrounded by Butch’s things, isn’t my idea of getting space from him.
“What I deserve is a partner who doesn’t hide shit from me,” I snap, tossing the cut his face. He grimaces when the leather smacks him, catching the vest before it falls to the floor.
“Butch, how could you?”
“Baby, I’m sorry,” Butch says, with a hitch in his voice. His hazel eyes are red-rimmed. “This wasn’t how I wanted you to find out. I wanted to tell you. But the timing was never right.”
“And me finding this out for myself is better?”
Dropping to his knees, Butch clings to my hips. “No, it’s worse. I told you I wanted to talk to you when we got back home. I planned on coming clean, informing you we got married in a drunken haze, that I proposed to you with a Ring Pop like it was a fucking joke. I hate how I took advantage of you at that moment.”
Drunken haze? Fucking joke? Sounds like he regrets our marriage alright.
It’s too much. Butch, not wanting to be my husband, is not something I can handle.
Prying Butch’s hands free of my body, I rush to the door.
Butch reaches for me, his voice hiccupping on the tears he lets freely fall. “Goddess?—”
“No, Butch. You stay here. Don’t follow me.”
Dropping his outstretched hands to his sides, he balls them into tight fists. His head lowers and shoulders shake with silent tears. Seeing him hurt, vulnerable, kneeling, and mostly naked, I want nothing more than to go to his side and comfort him.
Yet I can’t, not when I need to have a moment to regroup. I pull the door open and flee.