Chapter 11
KNOX
Ijust came on Maren Caldwell. And I would give my left nut to do it again.
In my post-come addled state, there are no other thoughts beyond that one. Because one sexual encounter with this woman won’t be enough.
I work through the tremors that follow, continuing to thrust my cock into her palm, even as I ease our grip.
“Jesus,” I mutter and press my lips to hers.
It’s softer this time. Gentler.
Like the light rain that follows a hurricane.
Maren eases her grip but works me slowly down.
When I’m done, I rinse my hands beneath the water. Stepping in and out of the spray in silence, we wash our hair and faces and bodies. My cock stings a little at the soap given what we just did.
I step out first and grab a towel off the rack to hand it to Maren.
She starts squeezing the water out of her hair with it, so I grab a second towel and wrap it around her body.
Not because I want her to hurry up and get dry, but because if I have to look at her tits and that pussy, I’m gonna want to dip my cock in her, condom or no condom.
“Thank you,” she says, then a faint smile crosses her lips. “For all of it.”
“Seems like I’m the king of bad ideas, today.”
Then, the smile becomes a grin. “Long may you reign.”
I roll my eyes and grab a towel to run through my own hair. Once it’s secured around my hips, I leave the room, so she has a little more space.
The little camera thing she has is handy. I can see how choppy the water is getting, but it hasn’t broken the surface level of the wet dock the airboats are tied up in.
I grab my phone off the floor and hurry downstairs.
The signal is shit in the boathouse, but I find a spot near a porthole-style window that I can squeeze a bar or two out of. The noise of the storm rattling through the boathouse doesn’t help. It’s like someone is shaking massive, corrugated sheets of metal.
After three attempts, the call I’m trying to make goes through, and North answers on the second ring.
“Thank fuck, Prez. Where the hell are you?” His voice is steady and alert, so very much like him to stay sober when there could be an emergency. Someone needs to be able to think or ride or do whatever is necessary. It’s not the time to be pitting your alcohol tolerance against Mother Nature.
“I’m safe. Realized I left my laptop at home, so I went to pick it up,” I lie. “Saw a truck. Two guys like Ridge described in it. Decided to try and follow it.”
“What the fuck, Prez. Shouldn’t be doing that alone. You should have called one of us.”
He’s not wrong; that’s what I would have said they should do. “Truth is, I thought about it, but they were headed north of the club, and by the time someone caught up to me, they’d be long gone.”
I hear Havoc yelling something in the background, and unlike North, he sounds one beer shy of too many.
“That’s fair. Did you recognize them?” North asks.
“Only in so much as they matched Ridge’s description. Never seen ‘em before. Got a partial plate, though.”
I give him the details from memory. One thing I’ve always been good at is remembering details when it matters. He’s got a contact at the DMV who runs plates for us. Hopefully, the partial plus the description will yield a name. Someone we can follow.
“You follow them far?”
“‘Bout a mile,” I lie.
“They didn’t stop anywhere?”
A large crack of lightning hits a tree across the bay and splits that fucker in half. “No. Weather got too bad. They were in a truck; I was on the bike, having difficulties keeping it upright. Needed to find shelter because I knew I wouldn’t make it back.”
“Where are you now? I can try to come get you, and we can recover your bike later.”
“No, don’t risk it. I’m secure.” I look around the dim boathouse.
Guess the generator only stretches to two lights that mark out the pathway to the exit door.
It’s a clever design. Unshakeable concrete, airboats tied up inside but technically still in water, a water-tight staircase headed to the upper level.
The water is clearly higher than it was, occasionally splashing over the edge of the concrete.
Wait, what if the water gets higher than the room? Are we stuck in there with no way out, like an underground bunker? Then, I remember what Maren said about an exit onto the roof.
The silence stretches a second. North finally sighs. “Are you deliberately not telling me where you are?”
“Storm’s getting worse, must be near the eye of it,” I say. “Gotta go. Had to move somewhere less secure to get a signal to call you.”
“Okay,” North says. “Call me as soon as you can, though, yeah?”
“Will do. And get me an update on who that truck belongs to as soon as you can.”
“Get some sleep, Prez.”
The line goes dead, and I look at my phone. I just lied to my vice president. And I haven’t ever lied to one of my men. That should bother me a lot more than it does.
But very slowly, my brain catches up. I look down at myself. Bare chest. Bare legs. A towel wrapped loosely around my hips. Water still dripping down my spine.
Tell me if you want me to stop.
I will. But don’t. Please.
“Goddamnit.” I’m standing in Maren Caldwell’s boathouse, half naked, by choice, thinking about what just happened in the shower and all the ways I want to violate the sheriff’s daughter.
I drag a hand down my face. This is all a clusterfuck.
Except maybe the part where I came all over the tanned skin of her stomach and hip.
“Because that felt pretty damn spectacular.”
In spite of my predicament, my cock starts to stir again.
“Jesus. And now, I’m talking to myself.” I push away from the wall and head for the stairs, making sure the door is properly sealed behind me.
Halfway up, I catch the smell of food. Something savory. And my stomach immediately reminds me that the last thing I ate was a gas station sandwich on the way back from the run I made with the cash.
When I reach the top, Maren is standing in the kitchen. She’s humming some song, but it’s her hips I can’t stop watching.
Her back is to me; her hair is damp and drying slightly wavy. She’s changed into some soft gray lounge pants and an oversized T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder.
Her feet are bare, and there’s something intimate about that.
When she turns slightly to put a tin of spices away in the cupboard, the T-shirt stretches across her chest, and I can tell she isn’t wearing a bra.
Christ.
I must cough or grunt or something, because she turns to face me, and for a second, we just stare at each other.
There’s that awkwardness in the air when you just did something intimate with a near stranger but neither of you has any idea what happens next. Like two teenagers who made out on the bleachers and now have to avoid each other for the rest of spring term, if not forever.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I repeat awkwardly.
“Steak fajitas.” She tips her head in the direction of the skillet.
“I stocked this place yesterday when I knew the storm was coming. Sadly, I only planned the meals for one, but this should stretch. I’ve thrown in a few extra fresh veggies, and we can split what there is out over a few tortillas.
But there’s guacamole and salsa and cheese. ”
“Didn’t know you could cook.”
Maren shrugs, but the smile drops from her face a little. “You don’t know anything about me.”
She looks back to the skillet, and I feel like an ass. Even worse, when I notice that she’s hung my wet clothes over a rail to dry.
“Fuck. Sorry. I’m grateful. Thanks. Can I do anything to help?”
Maren shakes her head. “I got it covered. I found a couple of hoodies from the store in the closet and popped the biggest of the two on the table. It’s gonna be tight on you but might be better than sitting in…well…nothing.”
I look at the hoodie. It’s pale blue like the store polo shirts. I can’t remember the last time I wore anything pastel. But, grateful, I tug it on.
Maren is right. It’s a ridiculously snug fit, and the cuffs are about three inches above my wrist. Combined with the towel, I must look like a disaster.
“Thanks,” I say when I pull out a chair at the small round table.
“It looks good on you.” Maren doesn’t even try to hide her grin when she sees just how tight the hoodie is.
I flip her the bird, and she walks back to the kitchen laughing. It’s a pretty sound.
Once all the food is on the table and our glasses are filled with water, Maren sits. For a moment, we just look at the sizzling platter of steak. Finally, Maren breaks the silence. “Well, this is weird.”
“Not gonna disagree.”
“We should probably talk about it.”
I shake my head. “I think that is possibly the worst idea. I think it’s best if we aim to forget all about this as soon as it’s safe for me to leave.”
Her eyebrows lift as I grab a tortilla and begin to fill it.
“Let’s pretend we don’t know each other,” she says.
I raise my fork and point it in her direction. “Now, that’s an idea I can get behind.”
“No. Not like, let’s ignore each other. But, like, if you aren’t you, and I’m not me, and we just met in a bar.”
“What?”
She studies me for a moment. “You know. Fresh start and all that.”
“You’re serious.” No question mark as it’s a statement. I can tell she is.
“Deadly. Hi. I’m Maren Coralie Caldwell.
I’m twenty-eight. I own and run a bait and marine store.
I like painting in all mediums, but particularly love oils, even though it’s sometimes seen as outdated.
My favorite food is a good lobster roll.
I love eighties hair band rock, and my favorite song of all time is the classic, ‘When Love & Hate Collide’ by Def Leppard.
And, apparently, I invite half-naked bikers into my emergency bunker in a hurricane. ”
“In fairness, I wasn’t half-naked, and you didn’t invite me. In fact, I have the distinct impression you wanted to send me away.”
“Details, details.”
I take a bite of the fajita I just assembled, and it’s a fucking taste explosion. Tart salsa and guacamole. Juicy steak, with perfectly cooked peppers and onions that have all been seasoned to perfection. “This is so good,” I mumble through a mouthful.
Maren wraps her precisely made fajita. “Thank you. You need to introduce yourself.”
“This is a stupid game.”
“What else are we gonna do for the next twelve hours, Knox? You want to tell me how your latest illegal deal went and I’ll tell you how my plan to reduce store operating costs is going?”
“Feels like that might be safer.” But I like her mouth.
I like how she doesn’t take my shit. “Fine. I’m Nathaniel Knox Navarro because Mom loved alliteration.
Yes, Knox is my middle name for real. Became my road name because I’m a secret keeper.
Like Fort Knox. I’m forty-four. I don’t like pina coladas.
I’ll walk in the rain, but I prefer the feel of sun on my skin.
And I’m always down for fucking in the dunes at midnight. ”
For a second, Maren is listening, then—
“Did you just…oh, my God, it’s that song that everyone knows the chorus to, but no one knows the verse.”
“It’s Vandal’s karaoke song, annoyingly. He’s the club enforcer and he’ll put it on and sing it, even when no one asked.”
Maren smiles. “Leo worked for my grandfather, but he’ll sometimes sing this song. ‘Quizás, Quizás, Quizás.’ Everyone knows the adapted English version as ‘Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.’ But it’s originally this Cuban bolero from, like, the forties. It’s an ear worm.”
We talk some more as we finish dinner and clean up.
We stay clear of some topics, and we never once discuss her father or what my club does.
But it’s there, an underlying hum between us as Maren tells me that the two men reappeared simply to tell her that they didn’t believe her that she didn’t know where Jackal is.
I shudder to think what might have happened to her if I hadn’t driven by.
By the time it’s obvious we need to hit the sack, the awkwardness has faded into something a little easier.
“It’s been a day,” Maren says, stretching her hands above her head until I see the slightest sliver of skin between her lounge pants and her top. It’s a reminder of what we did in the shower, and my cock stirs, which isn’t helpful, seeing as I’m only wrapped in a towel.
“I’ll take the couch,” I say.
Maren turns back the covers on the bed. “Don’t be ridiculous. The bed’s big enough to share.”
“I’ll be fine over here,” I say, looking at the brown leather couch that is too short for my frame.
“Men your age have delicate backs. I don’t want to have to deal with helping you get down the stairs in the morning when you’re in spasm.”
Silently, I wonder what Maren’s ass would look like with red palm prints on it. I like dishing a spanking when it’s deserved…or needed.
“I sleep naked,” I say, trying to put her off.
“Good for you.” She doesn’t even glance my way. “Click the light off so we don’t waste power.”
Once I do so, I find myself walking to the other side of the bed, where I drop the towel and tug off the hoodie.
And as I climb in, I wonder how my life just veered so far off the rails that I’m going to spend the next few hours naked next to a Caldwell.