Chapter Four
Phoebe
To call Tucker’s home a house would be like calling a semi truck a car. It’s more like a mansion. No, not a mansion. It’s a fortress.
“You have a very nice home,” I say, taking in my surroundings.
There’s a gate that goes around the property, and it requires a code. A code I doubt I’ll ever get, but it’s not like I’ll be staying here all that long. It’s only a matter of time before this blows over.
I mean, who would be after me?
For a big, burly man, the place is very well decorated. A feminine touch wouldn’t hurt to help soften the sharp edges a bit, but it fits him.
And so not what I expected.
He followed me to my one-bedroom apartment to get a few things to stay at his house for a few days, but he’s said almost nothing to me since the bakery.
“Yeah, thanks,” Tucker says gruffly.
He’s a very confusing man to read. Perpetually grumpy. Exactly the type of person I make it my mission to brighten their day when I meet them.
“Tell me about yourself.”
He turns and glares at me with bright blue eyes that stun me. I’ve never seen such gorgeous eyes on a man before, and I’m not sure how I missed the way they shine when I first met him. “No.”
Okay, he’s obviously not going to make this easy. “Okay, I’ll tell you a little about myself,” I say, running a hand gently over the spines of various books I can tell were strategically placed.
This really is a nicely decorated house. A little dark and very masculine, but it’s not filled with thrift store furniture like I imagine most bachelor pads consist of.
I don’t know much about bikers, but I’m also impressed with how pristine this place is. So organized, and everything has a place. There’s nothing that looks like clutter, and there’s almost no dust.
Personality. That’s what’s missing. This looks like it popped right off the page of a magazine. Staged. Cold.
“I really wish you wouldn’t do that—”
“I’m twenty-nine, and as you can probably tell, I love to bake. I’m a cancer, so take that as you will.”
“And you’re just going to do it,” he mutters.
“Originally, I’m from the Midwest, but I moved to Nevada with my grandma when I was twelve.”
Tucker rolls his eyes. “That’s… nice.”
Usually, this would be a perfect opening for the other person to offer up something about themself. Keep the conversation flowing. But not Tucker.
“Can I ask how you got your scar?”
“No.”
Most people would probably give up, but that’s just not in my nature. Something about Tucker sucks me in, and I want to know everything I can. Or, at least, everything he’ll allow me to.
“Then I can’t call you Pacino. I don’t know much about motorcycle gangs. What does being sergeant at arms mean?”
This must be a safe subject because he visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop slightly, and his neck muscles no longer show the vein. I have a strong suspicion that he’s never fully relaxed, though. He seems like the type to be high strung. All the time.
“First of all, it’s a motorcycle club. We’re not a gang.”
Holding my hands up, I nod. “Sorry. Motorcycle club. Got it.”
“And my role is to make sure my men are safe and that the rules are followed. I’m also the club enforcer.”
“Two questions: Are there a lot of rules? And what does being the club enforcer mean?”
Even as annoyed as he looks, he still answers. This gives me hope.
“We have laws and bylaws, but I don’t know what you’d consider a lot. And being the enforcer basically means I’m the big guns. I handle the shit others can’t or don’t want to. Brute force. That type of thing.”
This intrigues me. Makes sense why he looks like he lives in the gym. “You have your own little nation of sorts. That’s cool. I was never allowed in clubs.”
“You don’t say.”
I choose to ignore the swipe. “Yep. I didn’t have many friends. Still don’t, actually.”
“Why’s that?”
“I moved a lot when I was little, and then I didn’t quite fit in when I moved to Nevada.”
Snorting, he shakes his head. There’s almost a smile on his face. “Desert living isn’t quite the same as cornfields?”
“It’s always been hard for me to make lasting connections for some reason, but I hope having a popular business in town will help with that.”
I can’t quite make it much more high level than that, but since he doesn’t want to give up anything personal, I won’t either. Not that I’m willing to get that personal with a man I barely know.
Again, he just stands there. I want him to speak. His voice is so deep that I can feel it vibrate when we’re close enough, and I like it. A lot. I want to keep him talking.
“Will your girlfriend mind that I’m here?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
I find that unbelievable. Who wouldn’t swoop this guy up? “Really?”
“Really. I don’t like people in my space.”
Well, insisting I stay at his house contradicts that statement. “A guy like you must have… needs. Oh, wait. You guys own a brothel, right? You can satisfy the craving without a commitment. Smart.”
It’s not smart. It’s sad, actually, but I want him to say something. Baiting him seems like the best option for that outcome right now.
“We don’t fuck the working girls.”
“That’s a really good business strategy. How do you—”
“Queenie manages the girls and isn’t off-limits. She knows what I need, and she respects my boundaries. I have particular tastes, and I don’t vary in what I like.”
He glares with annoyance, but it’s not new. It’s a common look with most people before I wear them down. He’s talking to shut me up, and now I’m going to know more than he planned to tell me.
We will be friends.
“I’m glad you have someone to give you what you need.”
“Do you want me to ask you about your sex life now?”
Smiling, I shrug. “Don’t have one. But that’s okay.”
His brow lifts. “It is?”
“I’m not one who has a lot of needs in that area. I enjoy conversation over sex.”
“Then you’ve never had good sex.”
He has no idea. “Yeah, probably.”
I know he wants to ask. I can see it in his eyes, but he won’t. And I wouldn’t answer even if he did. But I like that he’s contemplating how personal he wants to get tonight. Tit for tat.
The debate waging the war in his mind about whether or not to ask shows in the way he studies me, and I just take the time to watch him.
Take in the sharpness of his jaw, his slightly crooked nose I assume has been broken once or twice, and muscles that make me wonder if he can lift me in the air and toss me around like pizza dough.
He’s tall and imposing, but he doesn’t scare me.
“It’s time for bed, Yellow Crayon,” Tucker says rather than ask the question I know he’s dying to know.
“Yellow Crayon?”
That’s a new one. I’ve been called many things—most of them not very nice things—but not that. I’m not sure if the reaction should be flattered or insulted. It doesn’t sound terrible.
Unless he has a strong hatred for the color yellow or something.
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but there’s a small smirk on his lips. “Yeah, you’re like a fucking ray of sunshine, but that’s too cliché. So, you’re the brightest colored crayon in the box. I’m a rain cloud that falls on the darker side of the spectrum.”
“You’re the black crayon while I’m yellow?”
“Something like that. Now, let’s go.”
Usually, people tell me I’m not the brightest crayon in the box because I’m not great at picking up on social cues. But he sees me differently. And I’ve never been given a nickname before. Not an affectionate one, anyway.
I suppose Mom called me Phoebs, but that’s just a quicker way to say my name. I don’t think that really counts.
I smile and nod, my stomach fluttering in an unfamiliar way. “Okay.”
We walk to a door just off the living room, and I see the stairs leading down into the basement. My feet plant where I am, unable to move. Most houses in Nevada don’t have basements. It’s one of my favorite things about places around here. But of course, he has one.
“Come on, Yellow Crayon. I have a safe room in the basement—”
“I can’t go down there.”
My voice comes out just above a whisper, and my eyes stay locked on the stairs. Even though he turned on a switch to illuminate the basement, all I see is the darkness. Darkness and memories I keep locked away to never relive.
“Why the hell not?”
“You know how I said I can’t ask how you got your scar? This is my scar. The same thing. I can’t go down there.”
My heart races, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the staircase. The struggling in my head to keep the vault door locked up tight makes me feel faint, and I back up until I hit a wall, sliding down to hug my knees to my chest.
“It’s just a basement, and it’s the safest—” Tucker finally turns and his annoyance disappears as he hurries over to crouch in front of me with concern on his face. “Holy shit, Phoebe, are you okay? You’re white as a ghost.”
“Please don’t make me go down there,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes as I rock slightly.
My spine hits the wall behind me, and I don’t mind the small jolts of pain it sends through at the way I’m arched. It’s a nice distraction as I stare at the open doorway.
“Please, Tucker. Please don’t make me go down there. Please don’t make me go down there. Please don’t make me go down there. Please don’t make me—”
“Okay,” he says and stands, hurrying to shut the door.
As soon as the door shuts, the spell breaks, and my senses come flooding back. It’s almost overwhelming, and the tears slip down my cheeks as I feel like I can finally breathe again.
He walks back over and crouches in front of me again, but he doesn’t touch me. I’m grateful because I don’t know if I could handle it if he did.
“Hey, relax. No basement. Forget it even exists.”
If only that were possible. I’d give anything to forget about all the basements in the entire world.
Especially the ones in my world.