Chapter 10
10
Amelia
T HE MESS HALL was brimming with families this morning, and nobody sat alone. Laughter, shit-talking, and genuine affection filled the room, making it clear this was one tight-knit group of leather vest-obsessed people. It was easy to see why Morse had built a home among them, but I huddled by the entrance, sticking out like a sore thumb in my leggings, sneakers, and long, baggy T-shirt.
Despite my earlier bravado about mingling, I was doing my best not to make eye contact with anyone when an adorable little boy stopped in front of me, meeting my gaze through his shaggy brown hair. Hooking his hair behind his ears, he flashed me a crooked grin. The kid couldn’t have been more than ten—all knobby knees and elbows—and man, he was cute.
“Hey.” I nodded in greeting.
“Hey, babe.”
It had been ages since anyone had called me that, and I bit back a laugh. “Babe, huh?”
His grin widened for a split second before he seemed to remember that he was trying to play it cool. He not-so-casually checked me out. “You look like a babe to me. You lost?”
“Nope. I’m right where I need to be, waiting for a friend.” I extended my hand. “I’m Amelia, by the way.”
He gave me a too-cool-for-school head nod and shook my hand. “Trent. I’m the man your daddy warned you about.”
A bark of laughter slipped free before I disguised it with a cough. “Oh?” That was unexpected.
Before he could answer, one dark-skinned, tatted-up arm slid around the kid’s shoulders, holding him in place. A second hand connected with his head, sliding knuckles across his scalp as he squirmed and laughed, trying to wiggle out of the hold.
“Hello again, Amelia. I apologize for this hooligan’s mouth. Sometimes he requires a little lesson in manners, but we’ll get him sorted, isn’t that right, twerp.” The newcomer’s rich baritone was as recognizable as his massive size.
“Havoc, right?” I asked.
“Good memory.” He stopped delivering the noogie punishment long enough to shake my hand. “How are you? You have everything you need?”
“Yes. More than we need. I can’t thank you guys enough for letting us crash here.”
He dipped down, grabbed one of Trent’s legs, and turned the now squealing kid upside-down. “We take care of our own around here.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m beginning to see that.”
He gave the boy a gentle shake. “Apologize to the nice lady, Trent.”
When the kid didn’t immediately respond, instead folding his small arms across his chest in a comedic show of defiance, Havoc shook him harder.
Trent screeched and laughed. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Geez. Let me up.”
“I will, as long as you behave yourself, kid.”
Havoc turned him right side up, lowered his feet to the floor, and softened his hold.
Trent immediately wriggled free. He stumbled back, a triumphant smile stretching from ear to ear. Once he was well out of reach, he patted his chest and announced, “I’m not a kid anymore, I’m a man. I got hair on my balls.”
I choked on air.
Havoc lunged for him. Trent bolted, and the big man missed. The boy only made it three steps before his sneakers screeched to a halt, and everyone turned to stare. A woman had stepped between him and the door. With a baby on her hip and fire and brimstone in her eyes, she stared Trent down. A familiar blond biker squeezed her shoulder and whispered something in her ear. Wasp, the club’s vice president, was another one I’d met during last night’s meeting. Kissing her forehead, he slid the baby from her arms before reaching his free hand out to Trent.
“Come on, boy. We need to have a chat.”
Trent’s shoulders drooped, but he stepped forward and took the proffered hand. Wasp tugged him out of the door. When the two disappeared around the corner, the woman approached me, shaking her head.
“I’m so sorry for whatever inappropriate nonsense came out of my child’s mouth. He turns twelve next month, but that boy already thinks he’s grown, and I am at my wit’s end.”
“Say no more. I raised a son and remember the pre-teen stage. It was brutal.”
“You raised a son?” She slid closer. “And you survived? Please teach me your ways.”
“The secret is maintaining a sense of humor, drinking plenty of wine, and keeping a solid support team you can commiserate with.”
“Wine, laughter, and friends might not be strong enough for my situation. You know what I caught him doing this morning?” She leaned closer and dropped her voice before continuing. “Returning my kitchen scissors to their drawer.”
The look of absolute horror on her face indicated this wouldn’t be a happy story, but I was far too curious and invested to bail now. Leaning in, I gestured for her to continue.
“I asked why he had them, and he said to cut his hair. I immediately freaked out, lecturing him about combining food and hair as I scanned that mess on his head. He’s been trying to grow it long like Wasp’s, so I was confused, but there were no missing chunks or bald spots.”
“What hair did he cut?”
“I asked the same thing, and he pointed to his shorts.”
The answer hit me, and I had to fight back my laughter. This poor woman looked rightfully traumatized. I couldn’t laugh at her. “Well, he did just inform the entire mess hall that he has hair on his balls.”
She grimaced. “Not anymore because that little shit manscaped with my kitchen scissors.”
Unable to hold it together any longer, I lost it, laughing so hard I snorted.
“And he was putting them back!” she continued, making me laugh harder. “If I hadn’t caught him….”
A full-body shudder ripped through her that I felt in my soul. Despite the laughter I couldn’t seem to bottle, my belly curdled in sympathy. Boys could be so gross.
“Kitchen scissors are sacred,” she said, her expression distant and mournful. “They should touch nothing but food products and dish soap.”
“And bleach,” I added when I could speak. “Lots and lots of bleach.”
“Not this time.” She shook her head. “I threw those babies away. Some things not even bleach can fix.”
“Smart woman. Also, I have several follow-up questions, but I’m not sure I want the answers.”
“Me either,” she said. “Some truths are best left unknown. If I’ve been opening salads and packages of meat with pube scissors, I don’t want to know.”
We both gagged a little at that.
“Or why he thinks he needs to manscape at twelve,” I added. “Who does he expect to see it?”
She blanched. “Oh, God, I’m not ready to deal with any of this.”
“We’re never ready, but I’m changing my recommendations. Therapy is the best answer here. Preferably a hypnotist who can scrub the whole interaction from your brain.”
She perked up. “That’s actually an excellent idea. Thank you.”
“Motherhood,” I said in solidarity. “May we forget that which we cannot handle.”
She laughed and offered her hand. “I just realized I haven’t introduced myself yet. I’m now the mom who traumatizes people with my child’s antics before even giving them my name. Carly. Wasp’s ol’ lady. Please excuse my over-sharing. I grew up in a small town and can’t seem to help myself. It’s in my DNA.”
I shook her proffered hand. “Don’t worry about it. Amelia. I’m?—”
“Morse’s friend. I know who you are. I’m sure it’s spread all over the club by now. These guys are nosey as hell and live to get up in each other’s business.”
“Good to know.”
“I better go find my guys.” She started to turn away but paused. “You know, a bunch of ol’ ladies get together every Friday at six and talk. You’re welcome to join us.”
Before I could commit to taking her up on the offer, Morse returned and waved at me from the door. My breath hitched as the rest of the cafeteria faded into obscurity.
Levi had been attractive. He was a respectable guy. Observant, a bit awkward, and… sweet, he always jumped to bring in my groceries, help me around the house, and mow the pathetic patch of weeds I called a lawn.
Now Morse… he was something else. All muscles, masculinity, and protective vibes. The leather cut, the beard, and the intensity in his blue eyes were all working for me.
There’s still eight years between you. Look away!
I forced my eyeballs to find Carly. Her gaze flickered from Morse to me, and I braced for a snide comment about my weight, age, or inappropriate leering. She didn’t necessarily give off those vibes, but growing up with critical parents had left its mark.
Carly’s smile seemed genuine and welcoming as she said, “So, Friday night….”
“Thanks for the invitation, but my friend and daughter are with me.”
“Bring them. Your daughter just turned eighteen, right?” At my nod, she said, “Perfect. We meet on the sofas in the common room. Won’t be able to miss us.”
Before I could respond, she slipped away, and Morse’s proximity tugged at my senses.
“Hey,” he said, sidling up to me, his gaze on Carly’s retreating back. “What was that about?”
“I met Trent.”
“Ah. Say no more. That kid’s a menace.”
“Menaces make for great stories.”
His lips twitched. “You have no idea. He’s a bit of a legend around here. Wanna grab a table and chat?”
I glanced around the busy room, noting that we’d have to share whichever table we squeezed ourselves onto. “Actually, is there somewhere more private we can talk?”