Chapter Five
The Right Stuff
Dutch
Dutch was in a moderately bad mood at eleven
twenty-seven the next day when he knocked on Georgiana’s door.
It didn’t take long before she opened it, and she did that
with her face happy and eyes alight, a big smile on her mouth.
“Hey!” she greeted.
“Babe, you gave me the code to your building,” he stated
irritably.
Something she did, via text, that morning, half an hour ago,
not at his request.
The smile wobbled. “What?”
“We barely know each other.”
“Dutch, you’ve had your tongue in my mouth.”
“I know.”
“And maybe doing that again would be a better way to greet
your New-Style American Girl You’re Gonna Start
Seeing.”
At the vague but hilarious reference to Sixteen Candles,
and Georgie just being Georgie, he moved fast, hooked her around the waist and
hauled her so hard to his body, she let out a high, adorable squeal.
He then laid a wet one on her, shuffling her back into her
pad as he did it, hearing the door swing shut behind him.
When he ended it, she was visibly dazed and blinking.
He made note of that since, with the way she ran her mouth,
it might come in handy.
“You buzz strangers up,” he ordered.
She recovered and retorted, “You’re not a stranger.”
“We could go bad and I’ve got your code.”
Georgie tipped her head to the side. “Are we gonna go bad?”
“No.”
She got that look he liked way too much, pressed close and
moved her hands so they were curled around either side of his neck. “Dutch. We
have a new building manager and he’s King of Security. He changes the code
randomly and often.”
That made him feel better, and he gave her a squeeze to
communicate that.
“He’s also installed more cameras, which means our HOA
payment has gone up, and I’m down with more security. The rise in HOA fees,
though, bites,” she went on to share.
This surprised him.
“Your landlord makes you pay the HOA?” he asked.
“Since I’m my landlord, yes,” she answered.
This surprised him more. “You own this place?”
It wasn’t tactful, but she didn’t take offense and showed
him that by busting out laughing.
Through it, she said, “I don’t know where that comes from,
either you don’t think my pad is all that hot and don’t understand why I bought
it, or you don’t think I have it together enough to be a homeowner.”
“Babe,” he muttered, lacing that word with apology.
She ran a finger along the stubble at his jaw and said
softly, “This pad isn’t all that hot, but it was what I could afford when I got
a bee in my bonnet about getting on the property ladder. It took a lot of
scraping money together, a couple years of seriously frugal living, and a loan
from my dad, but I managed it. Though, I continue to manage it by having a
roommate who was in med school when I found her, then took off to save the
world, somewhat literally, but still pays half the mortgage.”
“I haven’t seen it, still know it’s a good investment.”
That made her look surprised. “Sorry?”
“You’ll move on, but you can rent this until you die. It’ll
be a tidy source of income. I got the same. Two rental properties. My brother
Snap makes a mint off stuff he owns, I followed that road.”
More surprise from Georgie. “So you own a house and two
rental properties?” She didn’t let him answer, but quickly said, “And that
isn’t about you being a biker. It’s about…” She didn’t finish that either, in a
way. She also did by asking, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Now she looked stunned. “And you own three properties?”
“I’m patched in, so I take full cut of monthly earnings from
Ride. But Ma got Dad’s cut the whole time after he died, until she got hitched
to Hound, who’s also a Chaos brother. She set some aside for Jag and me. And
when they sold the house we grew up in, they split that in half, and gave it to
Jag and me. Though, not right away. She held on to it until we were old enough
not to blow through it doin’ stupid shit. But when
she did hand it over, it was substantial, and to make it work for me, I
invested it.”
“So you’re Wise Biker and Real Estate Mogul Biker?”
He grinned down at her. “Snap’s the mogul. I’m not there
yet.”
“You’ve got more than me,” she mumbled.
“Georgie,” he called.
She refocused on him.
And blurted, “I’m thirty-one.”
She said that like it was a dirty little secret.
When she didn’t say more, he prompted, “So?”
“You act older than twenty-eight.”
More prompting from him. “And?”
She was watching him closely when she asked, “Does it bother
you that I’m older than you?”
“Did it bother you when you thought I was older than you?”
Her bright smile came back. “So my New-Style American Biker
I’m Starting to See is Wise Biker, Budding Mogul Biker and Enlightened
Biker.”
He grinned again and gave her another squeeze. “Yeah.”
“Awesome,” she whispered, pressing close.
He was about to kiss her again when they both heard, “Mwrrr!”
She jerked in his hold, looked down and cried dramatically,
“Baby!”
She then pulled free of Dutch’s arms and Dutch watched her
bend down and pick up a cat that was sitting at the sides of their feet.
She turned it in her arms, cradled it like it was her child
and started speaking to the animal, sharing big, but doing it in a cooing voice
that was straight-up hilarious.
“You can see, he’s gorgeous, and he’s a good kisser, so
there’s reason I forgot all about you. But I’m so sorry I forgot about you.
I’ll introduce you to him right away.” Her eyes came to Dutch. “Dutch, this is
Murtagh.” She looked to the cat. “Murtagh, this is my New-Style American Biker
I’m Starting to See, Dutch Black.”
“Mwrr,” Murtagh replied.
It took some effort, with Georgiana showing him more of the
good that was Georgiana, to tear his eyes from her to look at the cat.
But when he did, he experienced a sensation he’d never felt
in his life.
Love at first sight.
Big round eyes. Poofy round face. Tons of thick, gray hair.
Folded-over ears.
It was the cutest damned feline he’d ever clapped eyes on.
Not even knowing what he was doing, he took the cat from her
arms and held it the same way Georgie had been doing.
“Yo, Murtagh,” he greeted.
“Murr,” Murtagh replied.
“You’re gonna hang with me
tonight.”
“Mwrr?”
“Yeah. Make sure Mom brings some toys. We’ll live it up.”
“Mwwwwrrrr.”
He turned his attention to Georgie and declared, “We’re all
good.”
He then clamped his mouth shut.
Because she was staring at him in a way no other woman had
looked at him.
But he’d seen that look.
His ma looked at Hound like that.
Tack’s wife, Cherry, looked at Tack like that.
Shy’s woman, Tabby, looked at Shy like that.
Hop’s wife Lanie.
Joker’s wife, Carissa.
Snap’s wife, Rosalie.
High’s wife, Millie.
This list could go on.
Georgiana was similarly frozen, and like two lovestruck
idiots, they stood close, a cat held between them, staring silently into each
other’s eyes.
But so many words were flying, all of them full of meaning,
it was not funny.
Dutch broke the spell.
“You got a bag and coat, baby?” he asked quietly. “We gotta go.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
She then moved awkwardly, like she didn’t know how to use
her limbs, and gave Murtagh a head rub before she moved away.
Dutch started stroking Murtagh’s belly, and Murtagh shared
he dug that by starting to purr.
At the same time, Dutch used that opportunity to take his
first look around.
He didn’t know what he expected to see, but what he saw was
not what he would have thought would be Georgie’s living space from what he
knew of her.
Or what he’d assumed.
Erroneously.
And last night, damagingly.
He had thought, career woman, and ambitious, probably often
on the road or at least out of the house, her space would not matter and that
would show.
He was again wrong.
It was cluttered, but tidy, with a freestanding, open-backed
bookshelf that made one room, two: a living area and a dining area.
The space was roomier than he would have guessed. The couch
had a gallery wall above it that looked interesting enough he knew he’d take a
closer look at what she had up there later. The coffee table had a big wicker
basket under it, probably to tuck away throws. There was a chair that was
definitely there for looks, not comfort, made of clear plastic. And the look
worked, it was sheer cool. Toss pillows that ranged from animal prints to
florals that somehow worked.
The coffee table was completely covered. Stacked with books,
some in a tray. A small decorative bowl, a squat vase with a pink puff of fake
flowers, a single taper candle adding dimension.
The bookshelves were totally books, though artfully
arranged, and not clogged, you could see through to the dining area which was a
small round table with steel-legged, plastic-seated bucket chairs. With those
chairs it was truth, it was kind of a marvel, how she’d made something cheap
look chic.
He’d furnished his own crib, so he knew the cost of shit,
and the scale of quality that money bought you, and none of this was
top-of-the-line or even middle-of-the-road stuff.
But she’d made it work, it had personality, and it stated
plain there was more to Georgiana.
She dove deep into her job, it meant something to her, and
she was good at it.
Her roommate had abandoned her cat, and Georgie had adopted
it.
She’d blown it with Dutch, liked him, and went way
the extra mile to make up for it.
She was loyal to a sister that didn’t deserve it.
She had guts.
She had spunk.
She was hilarious.
She knew how to use her mouth, and almost better, when to
stop using it and let Dutch take what he wanted, and in doing it, give her
more.
And she cared about the space around her, made it hers,
stamped it with her style, and it was interesting.
He turned his attention to her and finally took in what she
was wearing.
Another black sweater, this one a crewneck. A tan skirt.
Pencil, fitting close to her hips, ass and thighs. Black boots, high heels, not
ridiculous drag-queen high, but still hot. She had a little scarf tied around