CHAPTER 25
LARA
When I step through the door of Ridge Tattoos, Jettson looks up at me. The way his eyes brighten and his lips curl into a smile is completely involuntary. It’s the kind of reaction you can’t fake. But it’s not a test.
He has already passed his test. Part of me was so disappointed in myself for even needing to see what he would do at that moment.
But I needed it. And now I know.
Then he said he loves me.
I haven’t said it back, even now, days later. I’m not ready. But I don’t feel like he’s putting any pressure on me. He’s not rushing me.
And it only makes me fall in love with him even more. I just can’t give voice to the feeling yet.
I push those thoughts aside because I came over here on a mission. These people have come into my life and they’re messing up all my plans and expectations.
It’s frustrating and I don’t know what to do with that feeling. I’ve found there’s only one person I can vent to who will still look at me like I’m adorable.
So, here I am.
Damn it.
“Hey, Cupcake,” Jettson calls out to me. He keeps sanitizing his tattoo chair, but his eyes are on me. “What’s up? I wasn’t expecting to see you until dinner.”
“Well,” I throw my hands up, “that’s why I’m here.”
“You’re here about dinner?”
I march right up to him and point at his chest, the motion incredibly accusatory. As it should be.
“No,” I snap, “I’m here about your father.”
“My father?” He looks a little taken aback as he asks the question. His eyebrows pull together and the befuddled look on his face takes some of the wind out of my sails. But not enough.
“Yes,” my head swivels slightly and I imitate his deep voice, “your father.”
“Okay,” he holds the word out before throwing out the last of his trash and closing the distance between us. “How about you tell me a little more information? What, exactly,” he arches an eyebrow as if I’m prone to hyperbole, “has Rumble done?”
I step back before he can touch me and slap at his arms. “Don’t touch me. I’ll get all melty and I don’t want that right now.”
Jettson holds his hands up in surrender, but the amusement in his eyes is clear to see. He doesn’t even try to hide it. Why is there not more throat punching in this world? It should be socially acceptable. And not illegal.
“Rumble just showed up at the bakery just now, out of the blue.” Jettson’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, but now that I’ve started, I’m on a roll and the words start to come fast. “I was just about to lock up and he knocked. Vanessa saw him and practically levitated over to him. He told her to grab her jacket and helmet out of his saddle bag because he was taking her for a ride.”
“Is that not okay?” His confusion makes me narrow my eyes at him.
I get it. It’s not the first time it’s happened. If rides on the back of motorcycles had a punch card, she’d be well on her way to a free book, or ice cream, or whatever the prize is for such a thing.
I keep talking like he didn’t attempt to ask a logical question.
“He told me he’d call us—us,” I exclaim as my hands gesture wildly between us as if us being an us is normal, “when he gets back or he’ll just take her back to his house if that works.
Then he informed me that he has now, officially and completely, turned your old room into a room for her.
He said the bedding they picked out had come in and is already washed and on the bed. ”
It was the sweetest thing I had ever heard in my life.
I didn’t even know Rumble and Vanessa had been planning it together.
Honestly, I suspected they were up to something because Rumble has been stopping in the bakery and not just to talk about sourdough with me.
He and Vanessa always have their heads together.
Still, he put a room together for her. At his house.
Not because he had to. Because he wanted her to feel welcome and comfortable. He didn’t even have to explain why he did it; I just knew.
The weight of it, this feeling, of how this hits me, is strange. Probably because while it’s heavy in a way, it’s also light.
It’s care.
It’s support.
It’s protection that has nothing to do with possession or duty, and everything to do with choice.
Rumble just did it.
Just like he showed up and took my daughter on an adventure because she loves it.
I also know it’s for me. He’s trying to give me a break, a beat, a breath. His care, support, and protection wrap around me just as much as they do Vanessa.
Rumble’s son is exactly the same way.
The tears come suddenly and pitifully. Uncontrollably.
Not pretty tears. No, this is something so deep that ugly is the only type of crying possible.
“Holy shit,” Jettson closes the distance between us, his hands hovering over me like he’s afraid to touch, “are you crying because you’re sad that he used my old room?
I haven’t slept there in years,” he’s quick to explain as if that could possibly be why I’m crying.
“I think it’s wonderful and I’m glad she has a place where she can stay and feel safe and happy. ”
The tears only come faster now and when I look up at him, his face is a mask of pure panic. In any other situation it would be hilarious.
But right now, I’m having a small breakdown.
“You should have seen Vanessa’s face,” I’m able to get out once I force myself to calm down a little. “She was more than happy. She was glowing. She’s never really had that.”
“I thought your parents helped you?” He asks the question so gently; it only makes the tears stream faster and his eyes widen again as he starts shaking his head.
“They did help me,” I whisper, “and they did the best they could. I think.” I close my eyes and try not to let all the old hurts, all the old grievances, turn me bitter.
It would be so easy. “But they had their own guilt and fears. They didn’t want to hold Vanessa too close or get too involved because they were afraid anything they said or did would make her turn out just like Lola. ”
“Cupcake,” the word falls from his lips filled with pain.
Not pity. Pain. For me. For Vanessa. Maybe even for my parents.
They’re the ones who lost out. I know they love Vanessa, but they can’t be the grandparents she needs.
“I couldn’t stay with them. Once I got out of culinary school and started working, I got a place. They would still babysit and help around my schedule, but we needed the distance. They spent less and less time with her, especially after she started school,” I explain. “They’re not cold.”
I’m not sure why a tiny part of me feels the need to find some sort of defense.
“You don’t need to defend them. They have no idea what they’re missing,” he sounds so sure.
“Honestly, it’s hard for me to offer them more. They cosigned on Lola’s crap for so long and far too often I was the one she targeted. I’ll ever trust them, even though they helped. It was the least they could do.”
I’ve never admitted that to anyone. I’ve never said it out loud. I always thought it was too vindictive. Too petty.
But I harbored those feelings in my heart.
“I’ve never told anyone this,” I murmur and Jettson’s brown eyes sharpen. It’s intense. “In the beginning, even though Mom was relieved when I stepped up, I was waiting for them to accuse me of being selfish.”
The chuckle that comes out of me is not pretty. It’s rooted in pain so deep that ignoring it feels like survival.
“Not long before the adoption was finalized, my parents asked me if I was sure about making it fully legal. They asked if it wouldn’t be better to treat it as a family arrangement.
I told them I wasn’t going to sit around and wait for Lola to come back and decide to be a mom only to treat Vanessa like an accessory while handing me some IOU written on a paper napkin,” my voice is bitter.
I hate this feeling. It rises up from my gut and makes me swallow hard against it. It’s poison, those memories, those feelings.
“I knew then that I could use their help because I needed it and they owed me that much, but there was really no changing them.” I sigh, “Not in any truly meaningful way.”
I brush my tears away; the movement is angry. Now I’m more annoyed at myself than at Rumble. Jettson brushes a few tendrils of hair away from my face. His eyes are filled with love.
He’s here. He’s not running. He’s steady.
“Then Rumble showed up like its normal with a room ready for Vanessa. I don’t know what to do with that,” I admit. “I don’t know what to do with you either.”
I look down and my gaze fixes on his chest. I’m not sure I can look at him.
“I’ll keep earning your trust and we’ll keep going slow but let me help you with the load you’re carrying,” he gently coaxes me. “We can figure out the logistics of it all in the next couple of months.”
“The next couple of months?”
“It’s going to take a couple of months for the house to be finished. When it is,” he tips my chin up and looks into my eyes, “I want you and Vanessa to move in with me.”
I look at him like he’s lost every bit of sanity he had left. Poor guy.
“I also want you wearing my cut,” he keeps talking like what he’s saying is completely normal. “I already have it for you. I’ll give it to you and when you’re ready, you put it on. Don’t do it until you can trust it all—me, the club, and Dogwood Ridge.”
I’m completely at a loss. He already has a cut for me?
I’ve already been let in on just how important it is for him to give me a cut. I would be considered his property. As much as I want to rebel against any such insinuation, I’ve seen how the Old Ladies of the club are treated.
When I don’t say anything, Jettson keeps talking. “You can keep the apartment above Bunz Out as a parachute, or you can rent it out. Whatever you want to do, we can do. Just,” he pauses and takes a deep breath, his voice going hoarse, “give me some hope, woman.”
“Playboy,” I blurt out and his eyes darken, “when the fuck did you make me fall in love with you?”
His smirk is devastating. When he kisses me, it feels like a branding. I melt into him, my fingers clutching his shirt and pulling him closer to me.
It’s not the words. Not yet. But it’s close.
He doesn’t kiss me like he cares about the difference. It makes me fall a little harder for him.
With his hands on the backs of my thighs, he lifts me and I wrap my legs around his waist. His strides are long and fast as he carries me to his office.
“I’d take you on my tattoo chair right fucking now, Cupcake,” he growls against my lips, “but I don’t want to waste time later sanitizing it again.
I need you right fucking now and then I’m taking you home and having you again.
” He sounds like he’s in pain as the door slams behind us and he closes the distance to his desk.
“I can’t fucking wait to bury myself inside you. ”
“Less talking,” I moan.
Our hands scramble for our clothing, every movement jerky and driven by desire. I wrap my fingers around the base of his cock once we’re both naked while my ass is perched on the edge of his desk. Looking for purchase as his mouth attacks my neck, my other hand knocks a box off the edge.
Jettson jerks back from me and scrambles over to the box, his cock bobbing, and his eyes wide with worry.
“Oh no,” I gasp, starting to stand up, “I’m so sorry. Is it a part or ink or something? It won’t explode right?”
Jettson opens the flaps and pulls out a figurine nestled in brown paper—a cluster of irises. He lets out a relieved breath and tucks it back away before putting it safely on the floor.
“It’s for Ariel’s tank,” he rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish smile on his face. “I couldn’t find one, so I worked with someone to have it custom made for her.”
This time the tears that fill my eyes have nothing to do with old wounds and everything to do with this man. I reach for him without hesitation and with an open heart. My hands find his shoulders and pull him closer.
When he reaches for a condom, I hold his gaze and shake my head slowly. “I’m on birth control. I trust you, Jettson. I want to feel all of you.”
His mouth finds mine in a tender kiss. It’s full of love and promises of tomorrow. When he slides inside me, I feel every single inch.
With nothing between us, the sensation of his piercings dragging along my walls has my thighs tightening around his waist and my head falling back. I don’t worry about holding myself up. Jettson slides an arm around my back, and his fingers wrap around the nape of my neck to support me.
I give myself over to him. To every thrust that fills me. To every slow drag back out.
Our mouths stay fused and he only gives me enough room to breathe when necessary. It’s intense. The intimacy of being so close.
His thrust are deep and shallow. The roll of his hips is hypnotic and I match his movements. We’re groaning and moaning, the sound filling the small office.
With his forehead pressed against mine, he looks down between us. I follow his gaze and watch how my arousal glistens on his shaft.
“Fuck,” he groans, “never seen anything hotter.”
He slams home harder, his control fraying, and swallows down the sounds I make. When he starts rotating his hips while buried to the hilt, my orgasm hits me out of nowhere. My nails dig into his shoulders, and he grunts against my lips.
“Just like that, Lara,” his words are slurred as he fills me one more time.
The warmth of his cum hits my walls and I shudder. I feel every jet and it only heightens my pleasure.
This man.
Am I ready to stop making him prove the truth of who he is to me and, instead, build a life with him worth every single moment it takes to build it, even the hard ones?