8. Quinn
8
QUINN
“ O kay, I think it needs to go up a little.”
I direct Shane, one of the newer prospects, to raise his end of the new washing line a little higher.
“You sure? This doesn’t look even at all.”
I grin, because I have been a bit of a pain in the ass about its placement.
First, I thought it could go from the brick building that I think serves as a workshop, from the brief look I took inside.
Then, I thought it could go from the porch pillar out to the garage.
But then, I worried that was far too long and would droop in the middle, even with a pole to keep it up.
But now, I’m happy that it goes from the porch to a large tree at the perfect distance down the property.
It means the things I hang on there will be in full sun all day.
Things will dry quicker, and they won’t block the sun on the original line that only holds about twelve things.
My mom always used to tell me that the sun is better than anything antibacterial.
Leave an item of clothing in the sunshine, and it will come in whiter, brighter because the UV rays can act as a natural bleach.
It’s wild I remember that, because the back of the bakery never had much of a garden, and to the best of my memory, she rarely hung clothes out there.
“That’s going to be perfect. And you should probably just put that bolt into the tree now before I change my mind.”
Shane grins.
“Hallelujah. A man would die of dehydration doing chores with you.” He secures the bolt into the tree before tying the end of the line to it.
And, voila, I can now hang more items outside.
On the existing line, Smoke’s bedding flaps and snaps in the breeze.
It occurred to me that he’s been away for a large portion of the summer, and it might be dusty, even though he slept in it since he came back.
Bones races up with his ball in his mouth and drops it at Shane’s feet.
The prospect patiently picks it up and tosses it way farther than I ever could.
Letting the two of them play, I dash inside and grab the laundry basket full of wet clothes.
Smoke and I should have discussed ground rules in a little more detail.
But laundry was a part of my help, so I went into his room and gathered everything I could.
Going through his pockets was probably a violation, but I didn’t find anything especially interesting.
Cigarettes and three silver lighters, all square, with different patterns on them.
One had an engraved skull, another a red firetruck, and one had the name Smoke on the front, and the Iron Outlaws logo on the back.
But I’ve read enough motorcycle club romances that I was a bit disappointed.
I thought there were going to be worn panties, used condom wrappers, and at least two weapons.
Although, how would I have felt if I’d found some other woman’s underwear in his pockets that wasn’t mine?
“You would have been just fine,” I mutter beneath my breath as I step out onto the back porch.
Because I refuse to catch feelings for a motorcycle club road captain.
I think I need to stop reading Mafia and motorcycle club romance books because they’re putting ideas in my head that don’t belong there.
Or maybe it’s all the testosterone I’m surrounded by and the absence of any real dating possibilities.
“You want some lemonade, Shane?” I ask as I pass him on the way to the washing line.
He wipes a hand over his brow.
“Would love some.”
“Give me two seconds to put this down, and I’ll go get you some.”
Shane puts the portable drill he just used back in its case.
“You deal with that.” He tips his head in the direction of the laundry.
“I can pour my own, if you don’t mind.”
I shake my head.
“Not at all.”
I reach into the basket and grab the first T-shirt.
It’s black with the name of some band I don’t recognize on it.
I shake it out and hang it on the line using some pegs I brought from home.
Nothing quite instills the feeling of being a household goddess like pegging clothes out to dry in the sunshine.
Tires on the gravel driveway make my heart race in panic.
I have no recollection of the sound of tires the night my bakery was broken into, but now I’m obsessed with the early warning I shouldn’t have missed.
And the sound of them sends so much adrenaline careening through my veins that my hands shake violently.
“It’s just Smoke.” The voice shouts from inside the house, and I take a deep breath, grateful for Shane’s words.
He’s gotten used to my need for early warnings.
At some point in the future, I hope I will stop overreacting to everything, but today isn’t that day.
I focus on the leaves of the tree and the way the sun is falling through the dappled shade in miniature rays to calm myself.
“Thanks,” I yell, forcing myself to reach for the next T-shirt.
I fumble the peg, and it drops to the ground, so I bend to collect it.
When I stand, Smoke marches around the side of the house, his face like thunder.
His eyes are narrowed, his brow furrowed.
And he’s scanning the garden like he’s looking for a grizzly bear.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Where is the fucking prospect?” His words are filled with venom.
There’s a cut across his cheek and dirt smeared into sweat on his face.
He’s holding his side with his palm spread wide open.
I can’t tell if he’s holding himself together or holding his dressing in place.
My heart rate escalates.
Again.
I’m not sure whether it’s him or the intensity of his arrival.
“I’m here, Smoke. What’s up?” Shane says as he steps down from the porch.
He has a big smile on his face.
It’s the same one he had when Atom and Ember came over one night.
He’s slightly in awe of the patched-in members and wants to be useful.
When he takes the last step, he takes a sip of the lemonade I made this morning.
It’s smooth and sweetened with just the perfect amount of simple syrup.
Mom always used to say that good lemonade was all about the perfect balance of lemon and sugar.
Smoke strides over to him and smashes the drink out of his hand, sending the lemonade flying and the glass tumbling onto the grass.
“You were getting lemon-fucking-ade?”
I can see the horror on Shane’s face when he realizes Smoke is violently angry.
“Yeah. Is that a problem? I’m sorry. Should I not go in your house?”
Smoke is a tall man, but even though Shane isn’t short either, it still feels as though Smoke has him utterly dominated.
“You should have been keeping watch, keeping her safe. I could have been anybody. But you were busy helping yourself to the shit Quinn made instead of patrolling the front of the property, like you’re some kind of?—”
“Smoke,” I shout, cutting him off.
I throw the T-shirt I was about to hang into the laundry basket and hurry between them.
“I told him to. And he checked from inside the house that the truck was yours. And he yelled out to me to let me know I was okay.”
His chest heaves as he sucks in air.
“He’s supposed to be keeping fucking watch. Being vigilant. Not cozying up to you and walking through my home. Shit happens when you aren’t paying attention.”
“Sorry,” Shane says, raising his hands.
“I promise, Smoke. Won’t happen again.”
I place my hand on Smoke’s chest gently and nudge him back from Shane.
Even though his eyes remain on the prospect the whole time, he lets me move him.
Something tells me this isn’t about the lemonade.
Or his house.
When Melody was taken, there was a lot of therapy in our house, at first. Lots of conversations about my parents’ hypervigilance when it came to me.
PTSD, and how it presents differently in everyone, but often with common themes that link back to the original event that triggered it.
And I see that in Smoke now.
There’s a lack of reasonableness in his response.
It has to be something bigger than this moment.
“I’m okay,” I say, repeating the word until Smoke finally looks from Shane to me.
“It’s okay, Smoke. I’m okay.”
He starts to calm, and I can see the wildness leave his eyes.
“You should go, Shane,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t reply.
But I see him out of the corner of my eye as he bends to pick the glass up from the grass and put it on the first step to the back porch before leaving down the side of the house.
I’m not even sure if Smoke plans to stick around for the rest of the day, but it’s safer for Shane if he isn’t here for Smoke to throw his temper at.
Smoke’s eyes drop to his chest, and he places his hand over mine.
“You’re okay, Smoke. So am I. It’s all okay.” The words are softly spoken.
Soothing, like you would for a frightened child.
My heart hammers loudly in my chest, and it’s not just the adrenaline of the situation.
It’s the way I feel Smoke’s heartbeat beneath my palm.
It’s the way his hand sits over mine, covering it completely, so strong and warm.
It’s the way his thumb rubs over my fingers and the way his eyes darken with heat and arousal.
It’s his presence. The way we feel so…
joined. His eyes raise to my lips as he runs his tongue over his lower lip.
Neither of us moves.
The world continues around us.
Birds chirp, cicadas do their thing, but we’re stuck in a vortex.
Swirling. Chaotic. All consuming.
“The prospects need to be protecting you,” he says finally.
But his voice is gruff, layered with nuance it’s impossible to interpret.
“And he was. Who was protecting you?”
“I don’t need protecting.”
I shake my head sadly.
“I think you do.”
Smoke cups my cheeks before I have time to process, his hold firm.
“Fuck it,” he mutters, more to himself than to me, I think.
Then, he dips his head and kisses me.
And it’s everything I ever read about.
It’s angry yet filled with the kind of passion that sweeps you up and knocks you over into the tumble of a huge wave of emotion.
My treacherous body capitulates to every small movement.
His lips stroke my mouth; I open.
His hands wrap around my waist; I throw mine around his neck.
I struggle to see anything beyond the way he feels against me.
When I step up against him, his cock lengthens and hardens against my stomach.
His whole body envelops me, showing just how disparate our size difference is.
He doesn’t ask. He takes.
But I’m wholeheartedly a willing participant.
If anything, I want more.
Every part of my body meets Smoke.
If he began to strip my clothes to take me on the parched ground, I’d let him.
“Quinn,” he mutters against my lips as his hands roam my body, familiarizing themselves with my shape.
I’m gentle where he’s injured, but I slide my hand beneath his cut, and I’m immersed in the scent of leather and tobacco and him.
“Shit. No,” Smoke says suddenly, lightly gripping my wrists before pushing me away from him.
The shift in his expression from need to disgust churns my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” I say, almost on autopilot, even though I’m not a hundred percent sure what I’m sorry for.
Hell, I’m not even sure how I fell headfirst into that kiss.
Smoke shakes his head.
“Not your fault. Just—we can’t do that again.”
Unable to come up with anything else to say, I blurt one word: “Okay.”
Four letters that do absolutely nothing to convey the storm raging inside me right now.
“Okay,” he repeats.
But as I watch him stride into the house, ignoring the glass Shane left on the step, I know the fragile truce we were building is broken.
And I wonder if we’ll ever truly be okay again.