Chewie (Time Served MC: Nomads #8)

PROLOGUE

TWO YEARS AGO

CHEWIE

I looked at my phone and frowned when I saw the title of the book my daughter had requested, and I leaned against the shelf to respond.

I’m here to get the book you need for school, not that porn shit you read that you think no one knows about.

I do need that book for school, but I just saw online that my favorite new author is going to be in the store today! Plz plz plz get me a signed book. Plz!

I’m not sure I like you enough to wait in line for that.

Come on! Think of all the opportunities you missed to get me that one gift that I really wanted for my birthday or Christmas.

Are you really gonna play that card, little girl?

Did it work?

You’re adopted, and your parents don’t love you.

Dodgeball! Drink, bitch!

So, is that a yes?

I’ll see what I can do.

My phone started buzzing with incoming texts. When I saw that it was just Samara bombarding me with emojis and GIFs, I slipped it into my pocket.

Of course I was going to get her the book. She’s right - I didn’t raise her, so I missed all the little girl requests, but even if I had, I’d probably still spoil her rotten now, even though she was old enough to vote.

I’d moved back to Oregon at Samara’s dad’s request - a man I’d known most of my life.

He and his wife had adopted Samara at birth since her mother and I were going to be incarcerated for years.

I’d gotten to know my daughter relatively well in the process.

We didn’t have the usual father-daughter relationship since she’d had that relationship with Vincent before he died.

Instead, we were more like friends with a very large age gap, although I was happy to see that Samara was learning to lean on me more now that he was gone.

I had missed out on her childhood and the majority of her teenage years but was there to help her work through her father’s passing only a few years after her mother’s and keep her on track to go to college like she had planned.

It was a relationship I never thought I would have, but I was proud of the young woman she had become and excited to see what the future had in store for her.

So, I would make a run to a bookstore I wouldn’t normally frequent to find her the book she needed for class while she studied with her friends .

. . although I wasn’t sure how much studying would really get done with four young women alone in my house with access to unlimited snacks and half a dozen streaming services.

I finally found the section with the book Samara needed and was nearing the end of the aisle when a woman sprinted around the corner and ran right into me. She slammed into my chest as I was thrown back a step, but I was able to catch her before she hit the shelf beside us.

I saw there was fear in her eyes, and I felt a surge of frustration that reaction always caused me. I was old enough not to care what people thought about my looks or style, but it still irritated me when someone judged me at first sight rather than getting to know me like people should.

Yes, I had long hair, and yes, it was unruly most of the time.

I blamed the weather. Oregon didn’t exactly have a dry climate, which meant that my hair quite often got wet and then dried a little wilder than it had been when I started my day.

It didn’t help that I wore a helmet when I rode my motorcycle, rain or shine, and ended up with what Samara called “helmet hair,” with a rat's nest of damp curls trailing over my shoulders.

Samara insisted that I needed to use “product to tame the wild mane,” whatever the fuck that meant, but I wasn’t that kind of guy. Years of five-minute showers had trained me to be efficient with my time and not waste it on unnecessary bullshit.

My choices in artistic expression, namely the tattoos that covered most of my body, also put some people off, and my preferred clothing - comfortable jeans, soft T-shirts, and motorcycle boots - didn’t help matters much.

I looked like a biker because I was a biker. It was an easy lifestyle that I appreciated because it granted me the freedom to be myself without the strictures of current trends and the inability to give a fuck about what people thought about me.

I was often judged on sight, with people assuming I was a criminal. This always genuinely pissed me off, despite the fact that I wasn’t exactly a law-abiding citizen and had several years of prison experience.

As soon as the woman opened her mouth, I knew that the sight of me wasn’t what had scared her.

“They’re here!” she whispered frantically as she clutched at my biceps.

“Who is here?”

“There’s a whole crowd of people! Why are they here?”

Okay, maybe this beauty had popped the top off a can of crazy. That was not something I wanted to be a part of. However, it wasn’t in my nature to abandon a woman in distress, so I asked, “Do you need help?”

“Yes! No!” She shook her head and then nodded before she said, “I can do this, right?”

“What exactly are you doing?” I asked.

“They’re here to see me, but he’s here too! Why is he here?”

“Who?”

“That fucking asshole!”

“Okay. You’re gonna have to be more specific, babe. There are a lot of those out there in the world.”

“My ex-husband is here to watch me fail. He always said that’s what was going to happen if I ever put myself out there and tried to do this.”

I had no idea what she was about to try, but there was only one solution in my mind.

I told her, “Then don’t fail. Do whatever you’ve got to do to succeed at whatever the fuck it is he said you can’t do.

Prove him wrong. Better yet, do it for yourself, and consider irritating the shit out of him just a bonus. ”

“You’re right!”

“I usually am, but most people won’t admit it.” That got a little smile out of her. For some reason, I had the urge to get a bigger one out of her, and I was only half joking when I asked, “Want me to go beat up your ex?”

“Would you?” she asked with an even brighter smile.

We were almost there, but I wanted more. No, I needed more. What was up with that?

“Sure. I’m sure I could do at least a little damage if it would make you happy.” I winced before I asked, “He’s not built like John Cena with skills like Chuck Norris, is he?”

That did it! I got an actual laugh before she said, “God, no! He’s been working behind a desk for so long that he couldn’t win a fight with a drunk squirrel.”

“I’ve never seen one drunk, but I think I can take one sober,” I assured her.

She looked at my chest as she ran her hands up and down my arms. Under her breath, she whispered, “I bet you could take a lot more than that.”

It was all I could do not to puff up my chest with pride, but I managed to restrain myself as I asked a question that changed the entire vibe. “Who else are you running from?”

“Hmm?” she asked, still focused on my T-shirt.

“When you came around the corner, you said, ‘They’re here!’ like an angry mob was chasing you.”

“They are here!”

“Who?”

“There are a lot of them, and I don’t know why. Surely, there’s some confusion. They probably think I’m someone else.”

“I need a little more information than that to make a plan to rescue you.”

“You can’t rescue me. I’m stuck here! I signed up to be here, but when I did, I was worried no one would show up.

Now that there are actually people here, I’m wondering what in the hell I’m doing!

What if they hate me? What if they think I’m ugly?

I shouldn’t have posted that damn picture that was taken almost two years ago!

” She was spiraling, and I wasn’t sure how to fix it.

“Maybe they won’t recognize me! I should have taken my daughter’s advice and had someone do my hair and makeup.

They’re going to think I’m a blah and boring middle-aged frump! ”

I put my hand on her shoulder and slid it behind her neck, rubbing my thumb against her jaw as I said, “There’s nothing frumpy about you, darlin’.”

That got her attention. She stopped rambling long enough to ask, “There’s not?”

“You know what I see?” I asked her as I took a step closer so our bodies were pressed together.

I turned us so that her back was to the bookshelf before I answered my own question.

“I see a gorgeous woman with a smile like sunshine, who’s got a body like a goddess that artists through the ages have been trying to capture on canvas, eyes that are full of life and passion, and lips that are so kissable that I’m not sure how much longer I can resist feeling them on mine. ”

“Whoa.”

I chuckled darkly before I asked, “Can I feel them? Just once?”

When the woman slowly nodded, I leaned forward and touched my lips to hers, gently at first, hoping she’d let me know how far I could take this.

I had to consider that we were in a busy bookstore, and she might not be the kind of person who was comfortable with public displays of affection, especially from a perfect stranger.

Apparently, I was wrong. She didn’t seem to mind at all.

Her hands on my arms pulled me even closer as she tilted her head and deepened the kiss. She tasted like mint and vanilla, a combination I’d never forget, and her lips were silken and pillowy.

I heard someone coming, so I pulled back and whispered, “Now, go face whatever fear you’ve got right now with the knowledge that you are the most beautiful woman here. You’re funny and fantastic, and they should bow to you.”

“Wow. You’re really good at that.”

I wasn’t sure if she meant the kiss or the pep talk, but I’d take it.

Suddenly, a woman’s frantic whisper sounded from just a few feet away. “Holy shit!”

The woman and I stayed as we were, with my body covering hers, but turned our heads to look at the intruder, who looked shocked to see us together. She giggled before she said, “What’s up, Jade?”

Jade, who seemed to have something to do with the crowd the lady was worried about, hissed, “What are you doing? They’re waiting for you!”

“Shit!”

I ignored this Jade person and whispered in her ear, “You’re strong and beautiful. You’re going to face whatever it is with your chin held high and fire in your eyes.”

“Thank you!”