3. Shay
SHAY
Judge doesn't miss a single visit.
For the next three weeks, he arrives when he says he will, usually a few minutes early.
He doesn't bring more presents after the crayons. He asks before giving her anything and never tells her who he is. Whenever Evie asks a question that sounds dangerously like a promise, he looks at me before he answers. I hate how much that matters.
On the third Tuesday, I come out of the salon and find Judge waiting beside his bike. His cut hangs open over a black T-shirt, tattooed arms folded across his broad chest while he speaks to Gray.
I've seen Gray around town a few times since coming back. He's quieter than most of the Kingdom Come men, watchful in a way that suggests he's already noticed every person, vehicle, and possible exit on the street.
Judge says something low. Gray glances toward a dark sedan parked across from the diner, gives one nod, and swings onto his motorcycle.
Judge turns toward us. The hard set of his face changes the moment he sees Evie. Not much. It doesn't need to. His shoulders loosen. His eyes warm. The dangerous vice president who had Gray listening without interruption crouches as Evie walks toward him.
“You came!” she says.
“I said I would didn’t I?”
She holds out her hand as though there was never any question he would take it. His large hand closes carefully around hers, and something inside my chest twists.
Evie swings their joined hands once. “Mommy says we have to get groceries.”
Judge rises. “Sounds dangerous.”
“It is. She believes every cereal box with a cartoon animal is essential.”
“They have prizes,” Evie tells him.
“They have lots of sugar.” I remind her.
She looks up at Judge. “Mommy doesn't like fun cereal.”
His mouth twitches. “Your mom never liked anybody telling her what she should enjoy.”
The words land differently than he intends. His expression shifts. Mine closes.
Evie keeps walking, unaware of the air sharpening between us. Judge doesn't explain. He simply falls into step beside us, Evie between us and the sedan across the road sitting heavily at the edge of my thoughts.
When I glance toward it again, it's gone.
The sedan returns on Thursday.
It's parked half a block from the salon beneath a sycamore tree, its windows too dark for me to see who's inside.
Dottie notices it before I do. “That car was here Tuesday too.” She says while peering out of the salon window.
“Maybe it’s somebody works nearby.”
“Nobody with a car that expensive works anywhere on this block.”
I clip another section of my client's hair and force myself not to look again. Judge and Gray noticed it too. That should reassure me. Instead, it reminds me what kind of world follows the men of Kingdom Come. When my client leaves, the sedan is gone again.
At five twenty-five, Judge's bike rolls to the curb. I step outside before he can enter.
“Was somebody watching the salon Tuesday?”
He removes his sunglasses slowly. “Why do you ask?”
“Because the same car was here again today.” His entire body stills. I recognize that stillness now. This is calculation.
“What do you mean?”
“A black sedan with tinted windows.”
His jaw tightens.
“Judge?”
“I'll find out who it belongs to.”
“And then?”
“Then I'll deal with it.”
“You could try telling me what's happening.”
“Right now, I don't know.”
Before he can answer, another motorcycle pulls in behind his. It’s Cash and he kills the engine and crosses the sidewalk with a folded piece of paper in one hand.
His gaze moves over me, as if remembering me from years back, before returning to Judge. “Mercer sent another message.”
Judge takes the paper. “Same demand?”
“More attitude.”
Judge reads it, folds it once, and puts it inside his cut. “Tell Kane I'll be there in twenty.”
Cash nods. He looks at me again, offers a brief dip of his chin, and returns to his bike.
“Who's Mercer?” I ask.
Judge glances through the salon open door. Evie is inside with Dottie, choosing a sticker from a basket near reception. “Later.”
The word lands badly. He sees it happen.
“I mean when she isn't anywhere where she might hear,” he says. “I'll tell you what I can.”
It's a small correction. It shouldn't matter as much as it does.
The following Thursday, a color correction appointment runs two hours late.
Dottie takes Evie home with her and promises to bring her back in the morning. I almost refuse, but Evie is delighted by the prospect of pancakes and sleeping in the room Dottie calls the guest suite, even though it's barely larger than a closet.
By nine, Main Street is empty. Rain taps against the salon windows while I sweep the last damp curls into a pile.
The front door rattles and I look up sharply. Judge stands on the other side of the glass.
My pulse stumbles and I unlock the door. “What are you doing here?”
He steps inside and shakes rain from his shoulders. His short dark hair is damp, and his black T-shirt clings to the heavy muscle of his chest beneath his open cut. Want hits me so fast I have to look away.
“You checking up on me now?”
“I'm making sure you get home.”
“I have a car.”
“I know.”
I lock the door behind him. “Then your work here is done, I don’t need you.”
Judge doesn't move. The salon feels smaller with him inside it. The mirrors throw pieces of him back at me from every wall. Broad shoulders, dark eyes, tattooed arms, and the careful restraint that's been driving me slowly insane.
“Was the sedan here again?” he asks.
“No.”
His gaze moves toward the dark street beyond the window.
“What did Mercer want?”
Judge looks back at me, partly surprised that I remember the detail from his conversation with Cash.
“You said you'd tell me what you could.”
“He had an agreement with the club. Kane ended it.”
“That's vague.”
“The details involve somebody else.”
“But that car might involve me.”
His jaw sets.
I fold my arms. “Yeah, I know. The club comes first. I remember.” I sweep some more.
His face hardens. “You don't get to throw those words at me every time I don't answer exactly how you want.”
“They were your words.”
“And I've regretted them every day since.”
The force in his voice makes me retreat before I intend to. My back meets the edge of a styling station.
Judge stops several feet away, but the heat of him fills the distance. “I said them because I needed you to believe I didn't love you,” he says. “It was a lie then. It's still a lie, I will keep telling you that until you believe me.”
“You left today when Cash came.”
“I had a job to do.”
“Exactly.”
“And when it was done, I came here.”
The words hang between us while rain ticks against the glass. I grip the counter behind me. “You don't get points for showing up you know.”
“I'm not asking for any.”
“You think three weeks of being on time changes five years?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You think Evie liking you means I have to trust you?”
“No…Shay, I don’t.”
“You keep saying the right thing.”
His mouth twists. “That pisses you off?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you were always good at knowing what to say.”
His expression goes still. “You think this is an act?”
“I think you can convince yourself anything you do is necessary.” I move to step around him and Judge catches my waist.
The touch is light, but my body reacts as though he's dragged a flame across my skin. “Let me go.”
“Look at me Shay.”
“I don't want to.”
“Liar.”
I shove at his chest. He doesn't move. “Temporary,” I spit. “Wasn't that the word? I was convenient until you were finished with me.”
Pain flashes across his face, good. I want him to feel it like I did.
“You were never temporary.”
“You made damn sure I believed I was.”
“Then tell me what you want me to say.”
“I want you to admit you wanted me gone more than you wanted me.”
His grip tightens on my waist. “No, I won’t do that.”
I laugh bitterly. “Of course not.”
“No, because it isn't true.” He pulls me closer. “I wanted you so badly I could barely think straight. I still do.”
My breath catches.
Judge's gaze drops to my mouth. “I've spent three weeks keeping my hands off you because you asked me to. Don't mistake that for me not wanting to bend you over that chair every time I walk into this place.”
Heat tears through me. “Arrogant bastard.” I reply.
“Tell me I'm wrong and that you don’t think the same.”
“You don't get to order me around, or think about me.”
His thumb presses into the curve of my waist. “Tell me, you don’t want me.”
I should. Instead, I grab the front of his cut and kiss him. Judge makes a rough sound as his mouth crashes over mine. This kiss is nothing like the one on my porch. That was shock and grief. This is fury and heat.
His hands close around my hips and lift me onto the styling counter at the back of the salon. Bottles rattle behind me as I wrap my legs around him and pull him between them.
His tongue drives into my mouth and I bite him. He grips the back of my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it while his other hand slides beneath my shirt. The first touch of his palm against my breast tears a moan from me.
“Still hate me?” he asks against my mouth.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His thumb drags over my nipple, and my body arches.
Judge's mouth moves to my throat, his teeth scraping over the spot that has always belonged to him. I hate that he remembers. I hate that I remember too. His fingers close around my breast, rough enough to send heat pooling between my thighs.
“Evie?” he asks.
“At Dottie's.”
That's all he needs. He pulls my shirt over my head and drops it onto the floor. His gaze lowers to my bra, and the hunger in his face steals what's left of my breath.
“Fuck.”
“Don't stare.”
“I've waited five years. I'll look as long as I want.”
I reach for his belt. Judge catches my wrist, then presses my palm against the hard length beneath his jeans. “Feel what you do to me.”
My fingers curl around him through the denim. Control cracks across his face. I undo his belt and this time, he lets me.
The buckle hits the floor. I open his jeans and push my hand inside, closing around hot, rigid flesh.
Judge groans and drives his hips into my grip.
He drags my bra down, bends his head, and takes one nipple into his mouth as I arch into his mouth. His tongue circles, his teeth catch, and pleasure pulls tight in my belly.
“Judge.”
He releases me and drops to his knees.
The sight shocks me because this man bows to nobody. His hands slide beneath my skirt and grip my thighs as he spreads them wider.
“We don't have to—”
He looks up at me. “Don't finish that sentence.”
Judge hooks his fingers into my panties and pulls them down my legs. His gaze fixes between my thighs with a hunger so raw it makes me ache.
“Five years remember?” he says. Then his mouth is on me.
I cry out and grab the edge of the counter.
He licks through me slowly once, as though reminding himself of the taste, then loses whatever patience he had left.
His tongue drives over my clit while his hands hold me open.
There's nothing gentle or forgiving about it.
He knows exactly how to make me break and proves he hasn't forgotten.
I pull his hair hard enough to hurt. He growls against me, and the vibration sends me higher.
“Don't stop.” I pant, and he doesn't.
Two fingers push inside me. My body tightens around them instantly.
“Fuck, Shay. You're soaked.”
He curls his fingers, and pleasure hits so hard my head falls back against the mirror. His tongue circles faster, his fingers driving deeper until the pressure becomes unbearable.
I come with his name torn from my throat.
He keeps going through every shudder, drawing it out until I'm shaking beneath his hands. Then he stands, his mouth wet and his expression wrecked.
I stare at the man I loved, the man I still want badly enough to despise myself for it and he drives into me.
The stretch steals my breath. He freezes, buried deep, his forehead pressed against mine. For one suspended second, neither of us moves. Then his control breaks.
He thrusts hard enough to rock the counter against the wall. I wrap my legs around him as his hands grip my ass and all that buried anger drives every stroke.
The mirror shakes. Bottles tip over. His mouth covers mine, swallowing every sound.
There's nothing tender about this reunion and It's too late for tenderness now.
My nails rake down his shoulders beneath his cut. He growls, catches my bottom lip between his teeth, and thrusts deeper.
“You feel exactly the same,” he says.
“I'm not the same though.”
“No.” His hand slides between us. “You're even better.”
His thumb finds my clit. Pleasure sparks violently, I tighten around him, and Judge's rhythm breaks.
He drives into me harder, his fingers pressing exactly where I need them until the second orgasm tears through me. Judge follows with a broken curse, his body locking against mine as he buries himself deep.
For several seconds, there's only our breathing and rain against the glass. Judge's mouth brushes my shoulder. The tenderness scares me more than everything that came before.
I suddenly realise what we did and push against his chest. He steps back immediately.
I pull down my skirt and reach for my shirt with unsteady hands.
“That wasn't forgiveness,” I say.
“I didn't think it was.”
“It doesn't change the rules with Evie.”
“No, I know.”
“And it doesn't mean we're together.”
His jaw tightens. “No.”
He fastens his jeans, his gaze fixed on me. “But don't call it a mistake.”
“I didn't.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say it can't happen again.”
Judge picks up my shirt and holds it out. “It will.”
I snatch it from him. “You're unbelievably arrogant.”
“I know what you taste like again.” His voice drops. “I'm done pretending I don't want more.”
Heat moves through me despite everything and I drag the shirt over my head.
Judge's phone buzzes.
The change in him is instant. He reads the message, and all the heat leaves his face.
“What?”
He hesitates before he turns the phone toward me.
A photograph fills the screen. Evie and me outside the preschool that morning, her hand in mine, my face turned toward her as she laughs at something I can't remember.
The picture was taken from across the street and beneath it is a single message.
Everybody has leverage.
Judge goes completely still, not with shock this time, but with murder in his eyes.