Chapter Five #2
I should’ve argued. The smart thing, the self-respecting thing, was to plant my socked feet on his hardwood floor and demand a list of the rules, the timeline, the exit strategy, and any small print I’d unknowingly agreed to by sleeping in his bed.
Instead, my stomach clenched, my mouth watered, and my feet carried me past him onto the patio like he’d put a leash on me made of charcoal smoke.
The back patio was bigger than I’d expected.
It was a long wood deck with mismatched chairs and a picnic table that was longer than any normal one.
Two grills were going, one with ribs, one with what looked like a mountain of burgers.
String lights crisscrossed overhead, not lit yet, waiting for the sun to finish its slow drop behind the trees that pressed up against the back fence.
Beyond the fence, the woods stretched on for what looked like forever, dense and dark and lightweight scary.
Crowbar lifted his beer in salute the second he saw me. “He lives.”
“Barely.” I tugged at the hem of my T-shirt, suddenly aware of every wrinkle. “Sorry about the fainting.”
“Princess fainted right into Prez’s arms,” Crowbar announced to nobody and everybody. “Should’ve seen it. Carried you in like a damn bride.”
“I will end you,” I told him, with all the menace of a wet kitten.
Crowbar grinned around his toothpick. “You can try.”
A man at the grill, broad-shouldered with a beard you could lose a fork in, glanced up and lifted a pair of tongs in greeting. “You eat ribs, kid?”
“I eat anything not currently breathing.”
“Good answer.” He pointed the tongs at the picnic table. “Sit. Plate’s coming.”
I sat. The bench creaked under me, which was insulting, since I weighed approximately as much as a damp paper towel.
Preacher slid onto the bench across from me, close enough that our knees almost knocked under the table, and set his bottle down between us.
He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched me with those amber eyes like he was waiting for me to notice something I hadn’t before.
I noticed plenty. None of it was helpful.
A plate landed in front of me with a clatter. Ribs, a pile of coleslaw, a hunk of cornbread the size of my fist, and a baked potato that had been split and loaded with enough butter to clog a horse’s arteries. My eyes prickled, and I made the mistake of looking up.
“Thank you.” Don’t you dare cry.
The bearded guy shrugged like it was nothing. “Drift,” he said, tapping his chest. “Nice to officially meet you, Trent.”
He knew my name. Every single one of these men probably knew my name, address, social security number, and what brand of coffee I drank.
“Eat,” Preacher said quietly and slid a fork across the table to me. “Slow. You’re gonna make yourself sick if you go at it like you want to.”
“I don’t want to.” I picked up the fork.
His eyebrow arched but didn’t bother calling out the lie.
I tried to eat like a civilized human being, with cutlery, pacing, and dignity. The attempt lasted exactly one bite. The rib hit my tongue, and my brain whited out. I made a sound between a sigh and a whimper.
Across the table, Preacher went very still.
Ignoring him, I focused on my plate like it held the meaning of life, because if I lifted my eyes and caught whatever expression he was wearing, I was going to combust in front of his entire pack of leather-clad mechanics.
“Drift,” Preacher said, voice rougher than it had been a second ago. “More cornbread.”
“On it, Prez.”
I chewed, swallowed, then reached for the cornbread before Drift had even placed the basket.
“Guy hasn’t eaten in a week,” Crowbar muttered from somewhere behind me.
“I ate yesterday,” I protested around a mouthful.
“What?”
“A… granola bar… I think.” I waved my fork vaguely. “And, you know. Caramel in a stranger’s truck. Wait. That was today.”
“Jesus Christ,” somebody said from the second grill.
“Look.” I set the fork down because my hand had started shaking again, and the last thing I wanted was to fling rib sauce across the table at Preacher’s handsome face. “I’ve had a lot going on.” Understatement of the century.
“Yeah.” Preacher’s eyes hadn’t moved off me. “We’re aware.”
The “we” landed harder than it should’ve. Like I’d missed a meeting where my entire situation had been laid out on a corkboard with red string connecting all the worst parts. Maybe I had. Maybe I’d missed it while I was unconscious and drooling on his pillow.
I picked the fork back up. “So.” I cleared my throat. “Let’s circle back to my kidnapping.”
“Eat first.” Preacher’s knee knocked gently against mine under the table. I wasn’t going to let his flirting derail me. Much.
“I am eating.” I gestured at my plate, eyebrows raised. “I can eat and ask questions.”
“You can.” Preacher took a slow pull from his bottle. “Doesn’t mean I’m answering ’em on an empty stomach. Yours, not mine.”
I pointed the stripped rib at him. “That’s manipulative.”
“That’s me wanting you to finish a meal.” His mouth tilted. “If it bothers you, file a complaint.”
“With who?”
“Me.”
I stared at him. He stared back, annoyingly calm. The string lights above us flickered on, somebody having flipped a switch I hadn’t seen, and the whole patio went soft and gold around the edges. The trees behind the fence had grown dark, the music dropping to something slower.
It should’ve been romantic.
It was, in fact, romantic, which was the part that was making my hands shake worse than the hunger had.
“Fine.” I stabbed a piece of potato with more force than necessary. “I’ll eat your barbecue. But after I develop a food baby, you’re answering questions.”
“Deal.”
“And I want a beer.” I grabbed another cornbread from the basket and dropped it onto my plate. It was moist with a hint of honey and now my new addiction. Whoever made them deserved a gold star.
“No.”
My head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
“You’re running on caramels and a granola bar.” He didn’t even blink. “Beer’ll knock you sideways. Water.”
“Water’s boring,” I huffed, already starting to feel full. But I kept eating, unsure when I’d be fed like this again. Too bad I wasn’t a bear readying for hibernation. I would eat everything on my plate, and everyone else’s, in preparation for the bare cupboards at home.
“Water’s hydrating.” Preacher reached across the table, resting a hand over mine. I was eating way too fast.
“You sound like a PSA.” I chewed more slowly, aware he hadn’t pulled his hand away.
“I sound like a man who carried you inside two hours ago.” His thumb skimmed across the inside of my wrist before he drew his hand back like nothing happened.
He’d carried me. Like in his arms and placed me on his bed.
I shoved coleslaw into my mouth so I wouldn’t have to respond.
Wouldn’t have to think about him loosening my belt and removing my shoes like I was special in some way.
I was special to no one. Not even my father who couldn’t live a clean enough life to stick around for his kids.
Crowbar picked that exact moment to swing a leg over the bench beside Preacher and drop a full glass of water in front of me with a smirk.
I was not going to admit he was growing on me.
My lips were sealed. I also refused to acknowledge Preacher, the messy feelings I had about him, and whatever else he was doing to my insides.
“Drink up, princess.” Crowbar scooted the glass closer.
“I will fight you.” I dug in, emotionally compromised by cornbread. It was the food turning me into a hot mess, not my fucked-up life.
“Bring it.”
“Right after I finish eating.” No one was separating me from my food.