Chapter NineteenReeseAinsley
In my adult life, I never particularly saw myself as a caregiver. When Bolt and Ma Siller’s kids needed me, I never turned them down. I considered them family, and families looked out for each other.
By the time of my mother’s death, she’d taught me to cook. The only woman I ever cooked for was Jinx with the singular goal of fucking her. It worked like a charm, too. She was so impressed with my meal, she considered that foreplay.
But actually cooking for her because she needed tender, love, and care? Never. It didn’t cross my mind, not even when she came down with the flu.
Ainsley was different. She’d gone through so many emotions over the past two days, I didn’t want her to worry about anything but rest and relaxation. I definitely didn’t want her hunting for a meal or toiling in the kitchen.
Once I convinced her to take another nap, I called Louisiana to see how things were. I was concerned that neither Jinx nor he had left a message for me, but they’d stopped in Natchez, MS and would reach Baton Rouge tomorrow. He sounded thoroughly dejected, so I figured it wasn’t going well.
I’d tried to talk her into giving him another chance. It was up to him to convince her it was worth a shot.
Then, I called Ma Siller. I needed her to hear from me about Ainsley’s pregnancy. Once Bolt found out, he’d fly off the handle and spin shit in a completely different direction. He’d have her hating me.
The call went better than expected. She congratulated me and sounded truly happy. I hated to capitulate to her demand that I bring Ainsley around to meet her, but she wouldn’t let me hang up until I promised her. If Bolt forbade me to bring Ainsley around his wife, children, and grandchildren, I couldn’t go against his wishes. It wasn’t necessarily a club matter, but it was about respect.
Once I finished with those calls, I checked the refrigerator. There wasn’t a lot of food. Jinx spent most of her time at the club since she ran the bar for us, so it made sense she wouldn’t have a lot of food on hand. I’d always wondered why Louisiana didn’t buy a place for them closer to the club. I don’t think he’d ever fucked over his wife before, but it made it a helluva lot easier if their home base was over an hour away.
I awakened Ainsley long enough to ask her if she wanted anything special to eat. She’d murmured strawberries and went back to sleep. She still hadn’t awakened when I returned from the grocery store. I bought enough food for several days, though I knew she intended to go to work tomorrow. Hopefully, I changed her mind. If I didn’t, the food wouldn’t go to waste.
Because of Ainsley’s morning sickness, I didn’t want to make a dish too spicy or flavorful, so I settled on chicken soup. I’d never made it from scratch, so I decided to follow Ma Siller’s recipe to the letter.
While the chicken boiled to make the broth, I tossed a coin to choose if I called Bolt first or Razor. As the president, it should’ve been Razor, but as the man who took me in, I couldn’t discount Bolt.
News like this would spread faster than my fingers could dial. No matter who I called first, everyone would know before I got the other man on the line.
The quarter had landed on the coffee table. I leaned over and saw it was heads. That meant Razor.
Fuck.
I wasn’t looking forward to this call, so I didn’t press number ‘4’, Razor’s speed dial placement. When I got to the second to last number, Ainsley paused at the edge of the hallway. She looked adorably rumpled.
“Something smells good,” she murmured.
“The beginnings of chicken soup.”
“You cook?”
I nodded.
“I’m starving,” she said. “But I’m also gross. I’ve been in these clothes for over twenty-four hours.”
“You reek,” I teased. “I can barely stand it.”
She flipped me off and I laughed.
“Do you mind if I clean myself up? I’ll be out in time to finish our food.”
“I’m cooking, babe. I want you and the little one to rest.”
“Okay,” she said shyly. “I’ll just get my stuff for my hair and…and stuff.”
“Take your time, sweetheart.”
I waited until I heard the shower running before I finished dialing.
Razor answered on the second ring. “Where the fuck are you, Reese? Louisiana asked for emergency leave and now you’re MIA. What the fuck’s going on?”
“It’s a long story, Prez.”
“Start at the fucking beginning. I come to the club last night, expecting to tell you about my winning streak at the track and you’re nowhere to be fucking found.”
The prospect hadn’t ratted me out. I’d remember to thank him.
“I’m waiting, Reese.”
“Once you hear the current status, the beginning will be easy enough to figure out.”
“Tell me something because I’m losing patience.”
“Ainsley’s pregnant.”
Uproarious laughter floated through the phone, the last reaction I expected. My tension eased.
Razor’s laughter abruptly died. “Now, tell me the fucking truth. I’ll admit that was a funny joke. Bullshit’s over. Where are you and what’s going on?”
The words killed my relief, and I scratched my jaw. “I’m with Ainsley, Razor. She’s carrying my kid.”
“How many times did you fuck her?”
“I was with her only one night. It only takes one fucking time, Prez.”
“That kid isn’t yours. It can’t be. That little cunt is up to something. Roman Mac put her up to this.”
“The baby’s mine,” I said flatly.
“You can’t be fucking sure.”
I was sure thanks to Louisiana. I knew Ainsley hadn’t been with anyone else. But since Louisiana was such a motherfucking sneak and liar, fucking around with Nova for whatever goddamn reason without clueing in Razor, I couldn’t admit the truth.
“I think it is mine,” I said evenly. “And Roman Mac didn’t put her up to anything. His level of anger when she talked to him about the baby couldn’t be faked.”
“Get to the fucking club, motherfucker.”
“Ainsley hasn’t been well, Prez. Let me look after her tonight and come to the club first thing in the morning.”
“What do your colors mean to you?” he growled.
“They’re everything,” I said without hesitation. “But Ainsley’s all alone in the world right now. Roman Mac cut her off. I’m dropping her off at his house so she can get her car. After that, I’m not even sure she’ll be allowed back there.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting that little twat stays in your room at the club?”
I gritted my teeth, hating the fucking names he called her.
“If you are, then you’ve lost your fucking mind.”
As president, it was his call to make. Attempting to change his mind would only make shit worse and put me under further suspicion. My next words couldn’t be helped if I wanted Ainsley safe from my club members’ retribution. “Ainsley’s mine, Razor,” I said fiercely. “That baby is mine. I claim it and her. She’s off-limits to anyone who thinks she’s a Scorpion spy. She’s mine .”
I couldn’t have been any plainer.
“I can demand you choose between that cunt and our club.” Based on his tone, Razor intended to beat the fuck out of me just as I suspected. “Are you a Royal Bastard or a Scorpion wannabe?”
“I resent that,” I snarled, jumping to my feet. “You know I’ve dedicated my fucking life to our club.” The water abruptly stopped and I drew a deep breath. Ainsley would be out soon. She didn’t need to hear this. “I wanted to do the right thing and tell you what was going on, Prez. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Before he responded, I disconnected. Things couldn’t get any more fucked up between us and my future was no longer guaranteed.
Not wanting to consider what I might face at the club tomorrow, I went to the kitchen just as the bathroom door opened. The distinctive scent of a woman, of Ainsley, wafted to me. A steamy combination of her body wash and her shampoo that hardened my cock.
Our disagreements were brushed aside, not settled. I wasn’t sure how she’d respond if I approached her. Maybe later, when I was calmer, and she was fed.
For now, I focused on the soup and shoved everything else to the back burner. Reality would intrude soon enough.
Reese’s chicken soup would win first place in a cooking competition. Thick and hearty with chunks of chicken, diced potatoes and onions, and sliced carrots and celery, it was the best I ever tasted. It soothed my belly and filled me up, aided by soda crackers and ginger ale.
I wanted to call Roman again, though I knew it was a bad idea. Reese’s steady conversation about football, one of my favorite topics, my work, and comparing our different recipes for several dishes, kept my heartache at bay and distracted me.
Tomorrow morning, I’d know if Roman had forgiven me. If he called as usual, then it was a yes. If he didn’t, I knew what that meant, too.
“Ready for dessert?” Reese asked, breaking into my thoughts.
“You bake, too?”
“You’re either a baker or a cook. Not both. If you excel at one, you’re shit at the other.”
“That isn’t true,” I protested. “My mom was excellent at both. Of course, she was a New Orleans girl. She was born knowing how to make good food.”
“Bullshit. You learn to cook good food,” he said, subtly correcting me.
“Boo on you,” I replied. “She made groceries, went round the corner by her mama and them—dem actually—was a Who Dat, drank Hurricanes, feared hurricanes, walked on the neutral ground, second-lined, sucked the heads and ate the tails, screamed throw me something, mister and didn’t show her tits, ate seafood on Fridays and beans on Mondays, said novenas and kept holy water even though we weren’t Catholic, distinguished the two buildings on each side of the Cathedral—the Cabildo and the Presbytère, loved Tabasco, po’ boys, and anything Zatarain’s put out, had a bunch of wodies, tried her best not to use the Crescent City Connection, enjoyed the Natchez, and cursed anyone who said New Orleens . It’s New Orluns .”
“Goddamn, all that in five breaths. Impressive, even if I don’t know half of what the fuck you mean. Fuck, most of what you mean.”
I smirked. “Only thing I’ll tell you tonight is what it means to be a Who Dat.”
“This should be good.”
“You know how we’re part of the Chiefs Kingdom?”
The suspicion in his eyes tickled me. What the hell did he think I’d say?
“Yeah,” he said, his tone matching his look.
“A Who Dat is a Saints fan.”
His perfectly arched eyebrows lifted. “The football team?”
“Certainly not a religious saint. Yes, the football team, Reese.”
“Well, goddamn. And that’s the only thing you’ll clue me in on?”
“I’ll answer one more question.”
“Two.” He batted his lashes at me and I giggled. “Pretty please, babe. I cooked you a delicious meal.”
“Fine, two ,” I conceded around laughter.
“What the fuck is a wodie?”
“A wardie.”
“Ainsley!”
“Wodie is derived from wardie.”
He glared at me.
“It means friend, pardner, road dog. Usually from the same ward as you.”
“Got it.” He smiled at me, the tenderness in his eyes morphing into desire. “Should I be happy when you tell me you want to suck the head and eat the tail?”
“If you want to watch me eat two or three pounds of boiled crawfish, sure,” I said with a straight face.
“I hate fucking crawdads,” he said. “Even when my father hosted boils, I couldn’t take them. I’d help cut the mushrooms and onions, Measure the kosher salt and vinegar. Shit like that.”
“What foolishness is this?” I demanded. “Mushrooms? Vinegar?”
“The recipe for boiled crawfish. You know? The usual shit.”
“You’re delusional,” I said with a disapproving snort. “I’ll admit that you had some better recipes during our comparisons, but this definitely isn’t one of them. To boil crawfish properly, wodie, you need andouille, bay leaf, garlic, potatoes, corn—”
“Our recipe calls for potatoes and corn.”
“Cayenne pepper, salt, crawfish boil, onions, lemons, celery, and whatever other seasoning you’d like.”
Reese pushed back from his seat at the table. “No matter, babe,” he said, gathering our dishes and bringing them to the sink. He walked to the freezer and pulled out a half gallon of vanilla ice cream. “Those little suckers aren’t for me.”
“I love them.”
He scooped ice cream into two bowls, then put the container back in the freezer, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, and brought everything to the table, setting it down. He got two spoons before he sat down again.
“Thank you,” I said, accepting the spoon he handed me.
“You’re welcome, babe,” he said, and took a hardy sip of beer.
We enjoyed our dessert in comfortable silence, until Reese poured some of his beer over his ice cream and shoveled it into his mouth.
“I can’t fucking believe you did that.”
“Kills two birds with one stone. Sometimes, I don’t have time for dessert and a drink. Instead of choosing, I combine it, then get to whatever I have to do.” He shoved more of that foamy brew between his lips. “This is one of my more delicious concoctions.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I grumbled.
He winked at me, but I couldn’t look while he ate his beer cream without gagging. My stomach was so easily upset nowadays. As much as I hated the vomiting, sometimes the nausea was even worse. It was usually relentless and only subsided when it was good and ready.
“Do you like to dance?” Reese asked once we finished our dessert and settled on the sofa.
“I like music, but I don’t have rhythm and I can’t carry a tune.”
He tugged one of my curls. I’d just shampooed and conditioned my hair, then put some oil in it. I didn’t bother with the flat iron.
“Shouldn’t you have at least a little rhythm, babe?”
Rolling my eyes, I elbowed him. “Fuck off. Roman can dance,” I blurted.
He grunted and dropped his hand.
“Can you dance?” I said, trying to cover my blunder. Unplugging from the outside world meant laying our disparities aside for now. Bringing up Roman reminded us of our differences. “What’s your favorite genre of music?”
“Country,” he said, relaxing a fraction. “I dance when I’m drunk.”
“Do you ever slow dance?”
“Fuck no! I don’t do that sappy ass shit.”
“Of course not.”
“It shouldn’t matter if you can’t dance, babe.”
“It doesn’t. Not really,” I amended. “In our situation, it doesn’t matter,” I decided.
“Explain.”
“Let me preface by saying this doesn’t fit us, but I always thought I’d slow dance once with the guy I was involved with.”
“Aren’t we ‘involved’?” he asked, using air quotations.
“Not in the strictest sense.”
His look softened again, and he leaned closer, brushing his lips over mine in a gentle kiss. “We’ll get there, Ainsley,” he promised.
I was afraid to believe him, but for now I kept my thoughts to myself, opening my mouth to his probing tongue and sinking into his kiss. With all that stood between us, I shouldn’t give in to him. Yet my attraction to Reese Sinclair burned as brightly as ever. I wanted his hands and mouth on me. I longed to taste him. He hadn’t tried to get me to suck his dick. Probably because of what I told him about Dayton. I appreciated Reese’s consideration. I was ready now, though.
He stood up and held out his hand. Instead of taking it, I dropped to my knees and brought my hands to his belt.
“Babe—”
“You’ve been more than generous to me. I want to do this.”
“You’re going to fucking kill me,” he murmured, unbuckling his belt and opening his fly. He shoved his jeans down slightly and his cock sprang free. Precum glistened on the tip, and I swiped my tongue over it.
“Ainsley,” he groaned.
Lifting my gaze to him, I wrapped my lips around his girth and took him into my mouth. Although I wanted to block out my experiences with Dayton, I drew from that knowledge, taking Reese as far down my throat as I could. When I gagged, he eased back, but didn’t rush me, allowing me to take my time. Slowly, I fell into a rhythm, dragging my tongue along the underside of his cock, licking the tip when he slid almost completely out of my mouth, and taking care with my teeth when he pushed back in.
His taste and scent aroused me. Humming low in my throat, I lost myself to his moans and the way his fingers tightened in my hair. Towards the end, he let loose.
“I’m about to come, baby,” he said in a strangled voice. He tried to pull away, but I sank my fingers into his tight ass cheeks. “Fuck!” he snarled, holding my head in place and fucking my mouth until he burst on my tongue and his knees buckled.
He plopped onto the sofa, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in hard pants.
“Did I do it right?”
Disbelieving laughter burst from him and he popped one eye open. “You did it perfect, sweetheart.”
I slapped my palm against my forehead. “I forgot to fondle your balls.”
Lifting his head, he threw me a dark look. “Whatever that motherfucker told you to do, throw it out the goddamn window.”
“You don’t like your nuts touched during oral?”
He growled and leaned forward, grabbing me by the waist and plopping me on the sofa. “I love it, Ainsley,” he said harshly, plundering my mouth with a sweeping kiss that stole my breath and almost made me forget my name.
I was so glad I wore a simple romper. He was an expert at seduction, removing the onesie and kissing me as if he couldn’t get enough.
Guiding me back onto the sofa, he didn’t move his lips away from me as he buried himself in me and I gasped. He felt so good, thick and heavy, sliding in and out of me, and grinding his pelvis against my pussy.
I hadn’t realized how much sucking him off would turn me on, but it did, and I was so hot and ready for him that I came quick, drawing another orgasm from him. We didn’t stay joined long after we finished.
“Don’t leave me,” I whined.
He stole another kiss. “I’m too heavy,” he said gruffly, bending and scooping me into his arms and carrying me to the bedroom.