BAZZI - MINE #2
“She’s a bitch but not in that sense,” I muttered, my fingers tightening around the seat again. He somehow knew because his hand settled on mine. His warmth was… Goodness. I blew out a breath. “And she’d help me if I told her. I had clothes and stuff delivered today and she didn’t say anything.”
“Why haven’t you told her? And why the hell didn’t she say anything when you practically moved in?”
“Because she’s pregnant, which is super stressful for her, and then there’s this situation with Bear and Rex and everything. Business is crazy right now.”
“She shouldn’t be too busy for friends.”
My nose crinkled. “You don’t understand what being pregnant means for her. She’s terrified of the doctors—”
“You bonded over phobias, didn’t you?”
“Jerk.”
He chuckled. “Couldn’t resist.”
“And we did talk about my staying. She told me I could have the spare room for as long as I needed.”
“Do you think she meant for the next decade though?”
I couldn’t stop myself from laughing, but I jolted when his fingers pried mine off the chair, and he soothed, “There.” He gently squeezed them. “Let me help you.”
“Why would you even want to?” I questioned weakly.
“Because I’ve been in bad spots and I’d have liked someone to help me out.”
“You’re a Good Samaritan?”
“The very best kind. I wear leather.”
Snickering, I tugged on my hand. “You don’t need to—”
“What? Wear leather? Trust me, it suits me.”
I couldn’t stop myself from grinning. “You know what I mean.”
“I know I don’t have to help you out. Doesn’t mean I won’t.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “It’s not safe.”
“Why isn’t it?”
“They weren’t…” I swallowed. “They weren’t like agents from the bank.”
He paused. “Loan shark?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
I could sense his mind racing, but the first thing he asked was, “Did they touch you?”
“No. They broke down the door and went straight into her room. When I realized what was happening, I was too scared to confront them, and when they were removing the TV, I grabbed the things I need to work and got the heck out of there.”
He gently squeezed my fingers again—it was a soft pulsation that was oddly reassuring.
“Workaholic, huh?”
“What?”
“You didn’t grab clothes or pictures of your family or your first dog—you saved ‘the things I need to work,’” he quoted.
My brow puckered. “I need to work to pay for the things that were taken.”
Though he hummed, and that felt like a judgment in itself, he only said, “Fair point. Are you scared I’ll get hurt or are you too scared to leave the veranda?”
I exhaled softly. “Both.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about my being hurt. They might call me Sweet Lips but not every part of me is sweet.”
“Good to know.”
He chuckled, and it was low, and deep, and dark, and… I gulped.
“Now, the getting off the veranda thing, lemme see, have you ever been on the back of a bike?”
“No,” I yelped. “And I don’t want to either.”
“Sure you do,” he said easily. “You can never feel freer than when you are on a hog.”
“I don’t like feeling free. I like feeling—”
“Caged in?” He scoffed. “I don’t think so. Your fear is a cage, and your apartment, or whatever place you’re trapped in, is a construct of that fear.”
Huffing, I muttered, “You a therapist or something?”
“Nah, just watch a lot of daytime talk shows.”
“You’re a strange kind of biker.”
“Honey, we’re all strange.” If it were daylight, I figured he’d have winked at me. I almost resented the darkness because it meant I missed it. “Will you let me help you?”
The interest of moments ago faded to be replaced by soul-sucking fear. “I-I don’t think I can,” I whispered, feeling the panic overtake everything else.
I didn’t realize I was breathing hard, that I was on the edge of an anxiety attack until he was on his knees in front of me, breathing with me, both his hands on mine now—when had I let go of the chair entirely?
My body tensed with the urge to get up and run inside, but he was there, and he smelled good—leather and aftershave—and his breath scented of vanilla, and his hands were rough but warm, and—
My breathing edged out.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Come on, just breathe with me. Take it easy, take it easy.”
His soft words settled deep inside me, in a place they had no business settling, in all honesty, but settle they goddamn did.
The gentle pressure of his fingers, the softness of his words, the praise in them, the desire to help—who was this man?
The spots in my vision stopped dancing, and my heart slowed down so I didn’t hear the rushing of my pulse in my ears.
“—doing so well, Parker,” he repeated. “Just take it nice and easy. We’re in no rush—”
I choked out, “Who are you? Why are you being so kind?”
“Ah, honey, that you even have to ask me that tells me you’re used to men being fuckers.” He graced me with another gentle squeeze. “Can I bribe you with Cow Tales to get you on my bike?”
The bribe didn’t work even though we both gave it our best effort—I was actually feeling sick of candy by the time he ran out.
But for an hour, he tried to get me off the veranda. He really tried. He didn’t lose patience once. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. I was annoyed with myself. And as I cried through my exasperation, that was when I found myself sitting on his lap, being held by him.
This was insane.
Crazy.
Lunacy.
And it was also the start of something I could never have anticipated when I’d rushed out of my apartment two days ago in a fit of terror so strong that it blanketed my agoraphobia, making me do what would have been impossible a week earlier.
Fate, I’d realize later, had a weird way of working out…