Chapter 28 #3
“Allow me to introduce you to one of my absolute favorite trucks. This is Black Betty—she’s an oldish girl, 2003 Ford, Harley-Davidson special edition. I had her done up with matte black everything. Ain’t she dainty?”
Dainty, she is huge…
Trey opens the passenger door for me, the morning light slanting across the underground garage.
I climb the steps into the cab. He rounds the hood and slides in beside me, settling into the driver’s seat with lazy confidence.
The backward cap, grey sweatpants, and tight black tee shouldn’t look so good—but on him? Devastatingly, they do.
The engine rumbles to life, low and smooth, and sunlight spills through the ramp ahead, lighting the veins in his forearm as his hand curls around the wheel. His other hand drops to my thigh, casual and possessive.
“She’s… big…” I finally manage.
Trey snorts. “Like I said, she’s my ickle-girl. Seatbelt, please.”
He pauses, then reaches across and fastens me in. My heart starts pattering, nervous and a little too eager.
He doesn’t say anything for a while, just drives, the soft morning hum of L.A. filtering through the windows. The streets are still half-asleep—coffee carts steaming on corners, joggers with earbuds, a few cars sliding past.
“Let me queue up a song before I open her up a little.”
A pulsing beat fills the cab, the instrumental thump bouncing against my chest. Then a coarse voice cuts in, strained but full of energy.
“Whoa, Black Betty, bam-ba-lam
Whoa, Black Betty, bam-ba-lam
Black Betty had a child, bam-ba-lam
The damn thing gone wild, bam-ba-lam”
I can’t help it—my feet thump, my fingers drum against my legs, excitement building with every note as Trey accelerates. A nervous smile creeps over my face, twisting into laughter as the truck pushes me deeper into the seat.
When the song ends, he turns the music down. His smile is slow, casual, devastatingly handsome.
“I was going to tell you over breakfast, you know…about prophylactics.”
“Baby, I know all about…wait—prophylactics? What are you, from the nineteen-sixties?” I can’t help but smile at that.
“You know what I mean,” I say, voice soft but teasing. “I wasn’t hiding it from you.”
“You really were going to tell me over breakfast?” he says finally, glancing at me, one brow raised.
I shrug, fighting a smile.
“It seemed…appropriate. I mean, what goes better with toast than mild panic?” He laughs, low and rough, head shaking.
“Fuck, you’re just like me for real, baby.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He shifts gears, before his hand returns back to my thigh.
“It’s not bad. It’s just dangerous.”
The light changes. He slows, glances over at me again—just long enough for my pulse to skip. “You’re sitting there looking all freshly fucked and bright eyed in those jeans, and you expect me to focus on the road?”
“Maybe you should keep both hands on the wheel then,” I say, smirking.
He hums.
“Maybe I should. But where’s the fun in that?”
His thumb presses a little firmer, tracing over the seam. It’s nothing and everything all at once—the kind of touch that makes breathing an effort.
We pass a row of palm trees swaying in the early light, and I glance at him—the cap turned backward, his jaw shadowed, his lips curved just enough to make my stomach flip.
He looks too good.
Too tempting.
Too Trey.
“Relax,” he says quietly, his voice losing the teasing edge for a heartbeat. “We’ll get you squared away, fill you up with yummy drugs, like the pill, then grab some coffee and a bagel, yeah? No big deal. I’ve got you.”
It’s the softness that undoes me—the way his tone dips like he means it.
The chemist sits on a quiet corner of Melrose, the glass front glittering in the morning light. From the moment Trey pulls into the parking lot, I can feel eyes turning our way—a few people pausing mid-step, double-taking, whispering.
Trey just grins. “Guess it’s too early for subtle.”
He slides out of the truck, moves around to open my door before I can even reach for the handle. The movement is casual, but the way he looks at me isn’t— it’s sharp, like he’s staking a claim before we even hit the sidewalk.
As soon as we step out, someone gasps his name. A phone lifts. Then another. He doesn’t even flinch.
Instead, he slips his arm around my waist and tugs me against him, palm settling at the small of my back.
“Smile, Dove,” he murmurs, low enough for only me to hear. “They’re watching.”
I glance up. He dips his head, brushing his mouth over mine in a kiss that’s all heat, the kind that says mine without words. My breath catches. The world narrows to the taste of him and the sound of his name being called from somewhere close.
By the time he pulls back, his grin is wicked.
“Well,” he says, voice rough, “guess the news just got their morning headline.”
My cheeks burn, but his hand stays firm on my waist as we head inside. A few people follow with phones out, whispering, but Trey doesn’t care—he walks like the world belongs to him.
At the counter, he keeps his tone light, charming, teasing the clerk into laughter as he pays for the small paper bag. When he turns back to me, there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes.
“Handled,” he says, waving the receipt. “Now coffee before anyone decides to ask for autographs?”
I can’t help it—I laugh, shaking my head.
“You’re kind of incredible, Trey.”
He leans down, brushing his lips against my temple.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice soft enough to make something inside me melt. “Just know…I’m buttering you up, so you let me in through the backdoor.”
He winks, and my brain short-circuits. My cheeks heat, my pulse spikes, and a shiver runs down my spine as I try—and fail—to process what he just said.
Trey threads his fingers through mine as we leave the chemist, sunlight spilling across the street. L.A. is already awake—car horns, laughter, the distant hiss of espresso machines from the cafés lining the block.
“Come on, Dove,” he says, tugging gently. “Coffee calls.”
We walk hand in hand, his thumb brushing slow circles against my skin. People glance our way. Trey doesn’t seem to notice or care. He’s humming under his breath, relaxed, easy, like the world’s noise can’t touch him.
We stop outside a small coffee shop with wide windows and a chalkboard sign that reads Sun & Grind. The smell hits me first—roasted beans, butter, something sweet baking in the back.
Inside, the line moves slow. Morning chatter hums around us.
I’m about to tell him what I want when he shifts behind me, pulling me back gently until I’m flush against him.
His tattooed arms slide around my waist, locking me in place.
He’s warm and solid, every inch of him pressed close.
I can feel his breath against my neck a second before his lips find it.
“God, you look good,” he murmurs, voice a low growl only I can hear. “We should skip breakfast, go home instead.”
My breath catches.
“Trey,” I hiss, trying to sound firm, but it comes out breathless. He only hums, brushing lazy kisses along the curve of my neck. The girl behind the till gasps, one hand flying to her chest as recognition dawns on her face. Trey doesn’t even lift his head.
“Whatever my wife wants,” he says, voice muffled against my skin. “I’ll have a coffee, black, and a breakfast bagel please.”
Still red and trying to recover my composure, I manage, “I’ll have the same, please.”
The girl nods quickly, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. Trey finally lifts his head, utterly unbothered, flashing her a grin that could probably power the whole city. He presses a kiss to my temple, voice low enough that only I can hear.
“Relax, Dove. It’s Just breakfast.”
“Breakfast doesn’t usually come with an audience,” I whisper, still flustered. He chuckles, handing over a card.
“Get used to it, baby. World’s gonna know who you are now.”
I look up at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and something that feels dangerously like falling. “Who is that, exactly?”
He smirks, leaning close again, his breath warm against my ear. “Mine.”
The plates hit the table with a soft clatter—halo rings, filled with meats and egg, a red bottle is pushed forward.
“Yes, I love this place’s hot sauce.” Trey beams, “Thank you!” He thanks the waitress with that lazy charm that seems to come so naturally to him.
His voice is rough from sleep and cigarettes, and it does something to my pulse every time he speaks.
He doesn’t touch his food right away. Instead, he leans his elbows on the table, fingers drumming against the edge of his plate as his eyes trace over me.
“You sleep okay, baby?” I watch as he picks up the small bottle. Unscrewing the cap, he lifts the top of the bagel and sets it aside, steam curling lazily into the air.
He notices me watching and turns the bottle toward me. The label is… intense—satanic imagery, boldly named Dante’s Inferno Hot-Hot-Hot Sauce. Honestly, it makes me feel a little uneasy, the casual blasphemy glaring from the bottle.
“It’s fine—damned anyway, right, Dove?” He gives me a sly smile, holding my gaze as he flicks a few drops onto the cheese topping his bagel. The sauce seeps into the artificial-orange layer before he replaces the top half.
I try to fight a smile. Fail. It creeps across my face anyway.
“You want any?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
“Fair. Might’ve made your hair redder or something,” he snorts, lifting the bagel with that goofy grin. He bites into it and groans, and I can’t help but find it endearing.
I pick up my knife and fork, cutting into my own. The savory, warm, slightly stodgy bite lights up my senses. I don’t think I’ve ever had a breakfast like this before. It’s…gorgeous. Swallowing, I watch him take a sip of his coffee and sigh in contentment.
“Sorry—so, sleep. Did you sleep alright? I kinda got distracted before you answered,” he asks, finally looking back at me.
I finish chewing, lifting a hand to cover my mouth. “Yeah. Better than I thought I would.”