Chapter 19
Eight Days Later
I peeled my eyes open to find the sun pouring into the bedroom.
The blinds were doing their best to keep the light out, but it was late enough into the morning they were almost useless.
With a sigh, I reached for my phone and immediately smiled.
For the first time, I didn’t have to fold myself over the side of the bed to find the device which laid charging on my newly acquired nightstand.
Now, I didn’t care what time it was.
I sat up and scanned the room, pleased with how it was coming along. I convinced Riley we needed a couple of things on the walls to bring my entire vision to completion; I simply needed to figure out what, exactly, I wanted to hang.
Thinking I could do some online inspiration research on my phone over my morning coffee, I got out of bed, grabbed my device, and started for the kitchen.
I barely made it out of the hallway, stopping short when I found Riley stretched out along the sectional, his gaze aimed on the television in front of him.
He was in a faded black muscle shirt and gray sweatpants, his feet bare, looking as relaxed as I’d ever seen him.
The volume on the TV was low, almost like he didn’t want to wake me, and Reaper dozed on the floor nearby.
I was still processing the sight of him when he looked right at me and said, “Got donuts. They’re in the kitchen.”
Donuts.
He was in sweatpants, watching TV, and there were donuts.
I wasn’t quite sure what was going on—the tempo of the morning suddenly one I didn’t recognize—but I was curious to see what might happen if I went with the flow, so I ventured to the kitchen.
As promised, there was a box of donuts on the counter.
I went about making my coffee first, lifting the lid of the box only after my caffeine fix started to brew. What I found made me laugh.
What once was a box of twelve donuts now held six. What remained was one glazed, one chocolate frosted, one strawberry frosted sprinkle, and one jelly filled, along with a plain cake donut and one covered in powdered sugar. It didn’t take me long to figure out he already ate one of every kind.
My Stallion had a sweet tooth.
It was another one of his soft spots, and I loved knowing this about him.
My coffee finished brewing. I doctored it the way I liked then grabbed a paper towel on which to place my glazed donut and returned to the living room.
I situated myself cross-legged in the spot next to Riley, taking a bite of my breakfast as I tried to figure out what he was watching.
It looked like a cooking show—of the competitive variety—this one apparently focusing on barbecue dishes specifically.
“What kind of workout earned us Sunday morning donuts?” I wondered aloud.
“None. Had a cravin’. Satisfied it. Leg day tomorrow. I’ll make up for it.”
Even as I took another bite, I furrowed my brow in deeper confusion.
While I chewed, I shifted my gaze between the show and Riley, still trying to make the present moment make sense.
While I understood we were only a couple weeks into knowing each other, this version of him seemed so foreign.
He was rarely home. Between work, and shit with the club, not to mention his workout routine and regular breakfast runs, the house felt more like a pitstop than a destination for him.
As far as I could tell, when he wanted to kick back and relax, he did that at the clubhouse with his brothers.
“Angel, you got somethin’ to say, say it, babe,” he ordered, his attention still directed at the television.
My stomach fluttered in that way it always did at his term of endearment, but I took it in stride as I finished my bite. I then enjoyed a sip of my coffee, stalling before I blurted, “Are you feeling okay?”
He turned his head to look at me. “Yeah. Why?”
“I guess…” I paused and offered him a shrug. “I’m used to seeing you move at one speed, which is nonstop.”
“Doesn’t happen often, but when the mood strikes to sit around and do jack shit, I don’t fight it. Don’t think I’ve stopped to come up for air since I got back. Nothin’ I gotta do today that can’t wait until tomorrow.”
“Oh. Okay. Um—would you rather veg alone, or—”
“Don’t mind the company.” He paused, glanced down at my pastry, then met my eyes before he continued, “Would prefer if you ate your fill of donuts so I can polish off the rest.”
I grinned and barely contained a chuckle.
I liked how I didn’t know which donut was his favorite because he left behind one of every choice; and how even now, he wanted to make sure I got the ones I wanted before he got greedy.
More than that, I liked how he didn’t mind my company, and how we were about to spend a slow Sunday morning at home together.
“I kind of want half of the chocolate and half of the powdered sugar.”
“Deal,” he said as he knifed off the couch, immediately starting for the kitchen.
Reaper’s head lifted in excitement while I burst into laughter. Before either of us could even think of trailing after him, he was on his way back with the box of remaining donuts in hand. He settled back into his spot, we ate our donuts, I drank my coffee, and we vegged.
By the time a third episode of the barbecue cook-off show started, I found myself stretched out in the opposite direction of Pistol, my cheek propped up on the back of one of my closed fists, and my feet in his lap.
If I thought about it too hard, the ease at which we’d fallen into this moment felt far too good to be true—so I didn’t think about it. Instead, I decided to merely enjoy it.
“The woman with the dreads is really good. Like, does she ever screw up? But, I’m rooting for the Filipino guy. He’s like a quiet powerhouse.”
“Dreads is gonna win,” he replied, his hands casually reaching for one of my feet.
“Have you seen this already?” I asked as his thumbs went to work.
“Nope. Just bettin’ on it.”
It took me a second to find my words again, his massage somehow nonchalant but incredible. I had the presence of mind not to moan in delight, hoping not to distract him or give him any reason to stop.
“How’d you get into this show, anyway?”
“Random search. Cookin’ shows are mindless entertainment without bullshit drama. Got enough goin’ on in real life. Don’t need to get sucked into some twisted plot that’s got nothin’ to do with me.”
“Yeah. I get that,” I said.
I meant it, too.
Thinking back over the last couple of weeks, Pistol wasn’t the only one to keep the TV switched off most days. I’d certainly done my fair share of retail therapy, but my brain was too crowded to pick a show, let alone get lost in it. I was living out my own drama—each day full of the unexpected.
“Do you ever get scared?” I asked, focusing my attention on him.
“Of what?”
He was still rubbing my feet, still watching the show, still engulfed in the chill vibe he managed to create.
“Of getting caught. Of going back to prison—or worse? Do the Copper Kings not scare you at all?”
His hands stopped moving; but as he met my gaze, I didn’t mourn the loss of the massage, too hungry for his answer.
“No,” he stated simply.
I searched his face, hunting for a contradiction in any part of his expression.
I found none.
“I don’t think I’ve been that sure about anything in all my life,” I whispered.
“I said it before—I was careful. Meticulous. It needed to be done. There was no room for fear. And any Stallion who claims to be afraid of a King inherently believes we are inferior to them, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
“Shit they’re into? The way they wield their supposed power? No. Fuck no. They don’t scare me at all.”
Somehow, he said a lot without saying much at all. I was smart enough to be sure, there were layers to his words, but I only knew enough to understand what was on the surface. I wanted to know more. I wanted him to unpack his secrets.
“’67 Ford Mustang.”
I knit my eyebrows together in a scowl of confusion.
“What?”
“Been tryin’ to figure out how you ended up with a ’67 Ford Mustang. She’s a beauty, and you take good care of her, but it’s the only vintage thing about you.”
I opened my mouth to respond then sealed my lips closed, still trying to recover from the whiplash he gave me in changing the direction of our conversation.
It was obvious he didn’t want to talk about the shit storm raging outside the four walls in which we were closed.
Part of me wanted to push, to dig, to get him to tell me anything.
But while he didn’t invite me to explore his darkest secrets, he did invite me to be with him now, on our new couch—me in hardly more than a sleep shirt, him in sweatpants, and his kutte nowhere in sight.
Gathering myself, I rotated onto my back and gave my toes a wiggle, signaling I would follow him into lighter conversation so long as he continued rubbing my feet.
He didn’t disappoint.
“It was my dad’s. My parents didn’t have much when they died, but he did make sure my brother would inherit the car after him.
For a long time, my aunt and uncle—they’re the ones who took us in—they let it sit in the garage collecting dust. They were, well, I won’t get into all that, but it’s a miracle they didn’t sell it to the highest bidder in the middle of the night.
“Anyway, as soon as my brother could, he moved out and took the car with him. He made sure it got the love and attention it needed. I didn’t know until he started riding, but he never actually wanted it. He wanted me to have it.”
Looking up at the ceiling, I brought to mind the memory of the day he handed me the keys.
“He told me it wasn’t fair, how he had more time with mom and dad than me—how he was going to remember them better than me. He thought I deserved to have what they left behind.”
I felt the sadness in my smile as I met Riley’s eyes and admitted, “One of the last nice things he ever did for me.”
This time, it was Riley who wore the scowl as he let what I shared settle.
“Provin’ my point, baby,” he muttered after a long moment.
“What do you mean?”
“Wild Stallions turn boys into men. Copper Kings turn ‘em into fuckin’ monsters.”
In spite of the horrid relationship I now had with my brother, it still hurt to hear someone call him a monster. But it was hard to argue, so I didn’t say anything in reply.
The music coming from the TV caught my attention, and I looked over to see they announced the next eliminated chef.
Another episode was coming to an end. I wasn’t sure how long we’d been on the couch, so I reached for my phone to check the time, cursing when I saw it was nearly one in the afternoon.
“What’s the matter?”
Reluctantly, I sat up, pulling my feet away from his hands as I replied, “I’ve got to be at the diner in an hour for my shift.”
“Fuck that. Play hooky.”
I grinned, and I couldn’t say whether it was because I was amused he thought I could get away with such a thing or giddy he wanted me to stay.
“You remember who my boss is, right?”
He grunted his understanding then tried again.
“Call in sick, then.”
God, he was killing me.
I whined pathetically.
“Much as I’d rather stay in this Sunday bubble, it’s been a weird couple of weeks. Viv has already had to deal with me being out more than usual.”
This time, he didn’t counter my point. Instead, I watched him reach into his pocket for his phone and immediately start tapping on the screen. Before I could even guess what he was up to, he had the device against his ear.
“What are you doing?” I asked, wide eyed.
“Hey,” he spoke, clearly not to me.
“Who is that?” I whisper-shouted.
“You workin’ today?”
He paused as the person on the other end of the line answered.
I stopped trying to get a direct response out of him and listened.
“Alright, who’s not on shift?”
Another pause.
“Get her to swap shifts with Lyla. She’s not comin’ in today.”
I gasped, my instincts taking over as I launched myself at him, attempting to reach for his phone.
“Riley!”
He twisted away from me with ease, winding his free arm around me in order to push me away and simultaneously pin me to the back of the couch.
“Yup. Let me know when it’s done.”
He hung up and loosened his hold around me, a satisfied smirk curling the corner of his mouth.
“Who was that?”
“Max. She’ll get you sorted. ‘Bout ready for lunch? I’m thinkin’ pizza.”
I stared at him, my jaw hanging open, momentarily at a loss for words.
“One meat lovers pie and a supreme,” he continued, pulling up the delivery service on his phone.
He wanted me to stay.
I wanted me to stay.
Shit.
I pinched my eyes closed, pulling my fingers through my hair as I finally replied, “Donuts for breakfast and pizza for lunch…I think there’s a fine line between veg mode and total sloth, and we’re flirting with it.”
“You’re right. We should get breadsticks, too.”
I opened my eyes then, unable to hear it in his voice if he was serious or not. When I found him smiling at me, I realized that still didn’t answer the question—and that somehow made our exchange even better.
“Do we still have beer in the fridge?” I asked as I stood. “I’ll check.”
On my way to the kitchen, I pulled up the ongoing text thread I shared with Max and was quick to type out a message.
Thanks
No sooner did I confirm we did have a couple beers left in the fridge than my phone pinged with her reply.
Have fun!