Chapter 16 Carmen #2
Two: Catch the flight to New York and rely on the woodland deer to come to my aid in case of attack.
“Fine,” I huff out, pretending to be burdened instead of relieved.
“Okay, great, I need you to hop on the motorcycle,” Skipper says, already climbing aboard.
“You’re kidding. I have a child. You think Otis looks like he wants to ride on a Harley?”
As if suddenly familiar with every word in the English language, Otis turns around and looks at the bike.
And now Carter is looking at Otis’s face, which is arguably more dangerous than our lift out of here.
“It’s the only way out of here,” Skipper says.
“Ever heard of an Uber?”
“We gotta get back to yours,” Vex says. “Conrad paid us a visit yesterday. He came looking for you. We told him you were no longer staying with us, and he said we just made his life ten times easier. Regardless of whether he’s trying to scare us with petty threats, we need to act.
And since he doesn’t yet know your address… ”
Yet. Charming.
“What are you suggesting? We all go back to mine for tea?”
Skipper pitches an eyebrow.
I sigh. “Sure, invite yourselves in, what the hell.”
“There’s no time for sarcasm. On the bike. Now.”
“We’ll go slow,” Carter adds.
First time I’ve heard him say that.
I bring Otis close to my chest and hop onto the back of Skipper’s bike. I can’t deal with Carter right now, and Vex is being quieter than usual, like this is one big mistake.
Great minds think alike.
I wrap my arms around Skipper’s impressive torso, sandwiching Otis between us.
We disappear in a cloud of smoke and cruise down the highway. And here I am balancing myself, a two-year-old, and my purse on the back of a Harley, doing the total opposite of what I was supposed to be doing today.
Am I thrilled that they’re all about to witness the shitshow that is my house?
No. But when you have a child, you have to set aside all ego and pride in order to protect them.
If that means the bikers see me for hobo Carmen—the Carmen who has mold growing from the ceiling and tinned spaghetti loops in the pantry, so be it.
These are gonna be my last few moments of mysteriousness.
When people don’t know your personal life, they can’t use it against you. Up until now, I’ve valued keeping that to myself. But ever since those red curtains drew back and revealed a ghost from the past, everything has changed.
Even my morals.
I feel my cheeks turn red as I direct Skipper into the neighborhood. The other two follow behind, Carter at the rear.
Is it possible for him to stay this far away at all times? I don’t want him looking at my son and figuring out Otis is also his. Things are already out of control enough.
I give my last direction and brace for the biker’s opinion as we make a right onto the street. As always, it’s desolate. Vultures are the only wildlife we get around here from the roadkill rotting on the side of the road.
I’m still convinced our neighbors have something to do with the dead rabbits.
“This one,” I say, begrudgingly pointing at my house.
It looks even more run-down than usual, especially with the morning sun shining down on it, highlighting every imperfection in the wood, the rubble out front that couldn’t be a bleaker shade of gray even if someone painted over it.
I climb off the bike and try not to let the awkward silence get to me.
Three more seconds left of mysterious Carmen before all is revealed.
Two.
One.
I slot the key into the lock and turn. The door opens with a mighty groan because I misplaced the oil and never got around to buying some more.
“Come on in.” I widen the door and watch them funnel in single-file, ducking under the doorframe because yes—they’re all so much taller.
“Nice place,” Skipper says, darting over to the weathered mantlepiece. He picks up each photo frame individually, scanning. If he’s looking to piece together my family tree, I wish him good luck. He’ll be there forever.
My family has a history of leaving one another. It runs in the blood.
“You should really consider changing this toaster,” advises Carter. “This one is so old it could be a fire hazard.”
“I prefer the term vintage.”
I let Carter roam around the kitchen, picking apart all of my half-broken appliances. The damage is done. There’s no point trying to explain my situation and dig myself into a bigger hole. Living a life based on lies is exhausting. I’ve tried and tested.
I carry Otis on my hip into the next room, laying him down in his cot. The wild ride over has tired him out.
The bikers are talking in the kitchen. I peer through the glass window and realize it must be serious. They look hot when they’re serious, but when the seriousness includes me, I don’t have time to think about sex.
The conversation dies as soon as I enter the room.
“Well, don’t stop on my account.”
They turn to each other and wait for someone to speak.
“Spit it out,” I demand.
“Carter’s staying here,” Vex announces.
A death glare from the chosen one himself.
“I don’t do guests,” I say.
“We need someone here in case Conrad finds out your address,” Skipper says.
“A billion times no.”
“For Otis,” Carter says.
Is this gonna be their way to win me over forever now?
“Why Carter?”
“We thought it would be best. You two have history.”
Skipper is saying it like there were feelings involved. There weren’t. The hookup lasted twenty minutes and Carter couldn’t have been out of there faster. What he actually means is that we had an encounter. A brief one that meant zilch.
I give Skipper a stern look.
“It’ll be just for a few days,” he says.
“A few days?”
“Yeah, until we have Conrad sorted.”
Conrad O’Neill isn’t your average Joe. A few days to nip this all in the bud is optimistic.
“I only have one bed.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Carter says.
I shut my eyes. Is it not enough for them to step into my home and invite themselves to take a look around? The last thing I need is Carter Trescott roaming around the place playing bodyguard.
But for Otis. That’s what it all keeps coming back to.
“Fine,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest. They need to know I’m not happy about this.
Distance is a good thing.
Closeness is not.
And I would rather not live under a roof with someone when I don’t know where I stand with them yet…
I suppose that’s why Vex and Skipper are volunteering Carter as tribute. It’s about time we figured that out.
“We’ll leave you to it,” Vex says.
“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter, heading into the kitchen to fill up the kettle.
Carter joins me after seeing the other two off, positioning himself close behind me, saying nothing.
Having him here is weird. Unnatural. The house wasn’t built for people of his size and girth.
He ducks under doorframes and walks around like he’s stepping on eggshells.
I’m still unsure if he’s doing that in the literal sense, or the figurative one, since we’re sharing the room with a gigantic elephant, and nobody’s addressing it.
I reach up onto my tiptoes to grab two mugs, assuming Carter’s gonna have tea too. I’ve never really done the whole hosting thing, but in the movies they always make tea for the guest.
The tea never gets drunk because the plot is always far too important.
Hopefully my reality is different from the movies in that sense.
Carter takes the mugs off my hands, his warm palms brushing sensually against mine. He places them on the counter effortlessly and inserts himself into the corner of the kitchen bench, a space only half of him can fit in.
“It’s cozy,” he says.
“You don’t have to speak. Don’t worry about entertaining me or making me feel better about a place I already know looks like a rat’s den. You’re my bodyguard. Maybe you could be a silent one.”
“Carmen.” He tips my chin and steers me toward him.
Nope. Too close for comfort.
Thank god for the kettle. It boils at the perfect moment.
I scoot over to the cupboard and drop two tea bags into the mugs. Lemon tea is all I have. I’m not the kind of host with options.
You get what you’re given.
That was what my mother said every time I protested against having potatoes. For the seventh day in a row.
“Here. Allow me.” Carter takes the kettle out of my hands and smoothly pours out two cups.
He glances at my trembling hand, so I quietly stick it behind my back and pray that he thinks I’m weak, not anxious to be alone in his presence.
The time we spent apart has been filled with the thoughts of him and the others. And typically, when you obsess over something, it becomes harder to confront that thing in person.
The in-between of my thighs is burning up, desperate to be felt by one of Carter’s fingers.
Or something bigger.
I clear my throat to start this again.
Fresh slate.
Stop daydreaming about all of the ways Carter Trescott could do you.
Why do his forearms have to clench like that? He’s pouring water into two dollar-store mugs, not erecting a statue or doing anything remotely erotic.
But that’s the issue. Everything is erotic when it comes to him and his friends. I was always keen on the bad boys, but this is different. I can’t fault any of them.
There was always something to fault with the bad boys.
He sets the kettle down, handing me a mug before I can dwell anymore on his tattoos. “I get it,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“It was a last resort for you to invite us back here.”
Invite’s a stretch.
“You don’t like it when things get personal. I can understand that.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Can you?”
He gestures into the next room. “Otis. You’re doing all of this for him.”
“I’m his mother. It’s my duty.”
Something ticks in his jaw. “Yeah, I know. And trust me when I say no harm will come to either one of you.”
Trust. I don’t believe in that word. If I’m unable to trust a man to successfully mend my kitchen sink, how the fuck do I trust a man with Otis life? And mine?
Carter’s eyes turn calculating, like he’s trying to read my thoughts.
Like he gets why I shouldn’t trust him.