6. Bobbie
Chapter six
Bobbie
Within minutes, Arrow’s breathing evened out to a steady rhythm. The tight embrace of his arms went slack as sleep took him under, and he slumped heavily against my back.
A small smile touched my lips and I soaked up as much of his sweltering body heat as I could.
During my four years in Juniper Creek, I didn’t date or hook up. I wanted to slip through the cracks intentionally, unattached and invisible. I told myself it was better that way, since I wasn't staying.
Inevitably, I would pack up and leave town. Just like I always did, searching for a home and a place to belong that I never found.
Deep down, I didn’t want to admit that I was scared—scared of ruining yet another relationship, scared to build friendships that fell apart, scared to let people see the real me. Maybe it was better that I remained alone, isolated, where I couldn’t hurt anyone.
I was scared of being unwanted again, just like I’d been unwanted by my family.
But I had to admit…it felt so good to be held.
Bringing Arrow’s hand up to my mouth, I pressed my lips to his knuckles with a kiss. As much as I loved hearing him talk about keeping his promise to me, fulfilling our pact of marriage, the logistics of it were…complicated.
Arrow clearly put down roots here. He found his home where he belonged.
But I didn’t know how to live like that. And hell would have to freeze over before I ever asked Arrow to give up his happiness for my sake, just because I couldn’t stay in one place for long.
With a sigh, I carefully slid out of bed. A strangled noise lodged in my throat when his cock finally slipped out and I felt empty all over again. Arrow frowned, reaching for me in his sleep, but he didn’t wake.
My heart squeezed at the sight of his relaxed features, his rumpled hair spilling over his forehead. He looked so…peaceful. I smoothed my thumb along the familiar wrinkle of stress between his brows.
The day he turned eighteen and aged out of the foster care system, I thought my world was ending. I cried so hard that I nearly puked.
You’re going to forget all about me, I sobbed. Everyone else left me, and now you’re leaving me, too.
We stayed in touch for a while, calling each other nearly every day.
Two years later, it was my turn to leave foster care. But I didn’t pick up the phone when Arrow called to offer his congratulations. Because I couldn’t bear to hear how he had moved on without me.
Life had a funny way of making our paths cross again anyway. In our twenties, Arrow and I ended up in the same psychiatric hospital for a few weeks.
I was riding the high of a manic episode.
And Arrow was in the trenches of PTSD, hallucinating the flames of a fire that didn’t exist. His eyes were haunted with ghosts from his past. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and he spent most days in a medicated haze to calm his restless agitation.
But when he was lucid, we would end up like this—skin to skin, chasing the euphoria of an orgasm that no pill could provide.
I tiptoed to the adjoining bathroom to clean up, then raided his closet for a shirt, tugging it over my head. Closing my eyes, I bundled the fabric to my nose and breathed in Arrow’s scent—heady and masculine, with a hint of sharp black coffee, woodsy soap, and engine grease from the auto shop.
After checking one last time to make sure Arrow was still asleep, I headed down to the kitchen, rummaging around for food.
I was surprised to find the fridge was stacked with containers of leftover homemade dishes—lasagna, mac and cheese, barbecue ribs, and chunky beef stew.
From what I remembered, Arrow didn’t like to cook, let alone this well.
I grabbed a container of the barbecue and warmed it up in the microwave, wincing at the loud beep every time I pushed a button on the interface. As I started searching the drawers for silverware, movement through the kitchen window caught my attention.
My heart jolted. A hulking figure crouched in the dark—the unmistakable silhouette of a man. And he was huge. What the fuck was a man that size doing outside of Arrow’s house in the middle of the night? Were The Filthy Rebels making their move on Arrow?
I spotted a set of kitchen knives on the counter and grabbed the biggest one among them, gripping the handle tight. How the hell could I possibly defend myself against a man that big? And what if there were more of them that I couldn’t see…?
Then Arrow wrapped his hand around my wrist, gently prying the knife away from me. I hadn’t heard him descend the stairs or enter the kitchen. He was barefoot, wearing only his jeans, and no shirt. He must have woken up to come find me when he realized my side of the bed was empty.
“Take it easy,” he rasped, his voice gritty from sleep.
“But there’s a man outside—”
Arrow waved off my protest, unconcerned despite my pounding heart. He moved to the back door of the kitchen and poked his head out.
“Bruiser, get your ass in here.”
A moment later, Bruiser’s bulky, muscled figure filled the doorway. I raised my eyebrows and tugged self-consciously at the hem of my borrowed shirt, wishing that I’d thought about grabbing a pair of pants, too.
“Coffee?” Arrow asked him.
Bruiser grunted in agreement, and his dark eyes briefly glanced over me before sliding away again.
“You blew our cover at the water tower,” he said.
“I know, but I had good reason,” Arrow countered as he filled the coffee pot with water at the sink. “I told Pretty Boy that I gave you the slip.”
Bruiser snorted.
“Yeah, he didn’t buy that. He chewed my damn ear off for letting you walk all over me. And now, you and I both will be scrubbing toilets at the clubhouse. For a month.”
The corner of Arrow’s mouth twitched with a faint smile as he started the coffee pot. It hissed and sputtered and gave off a plume of steam. A moment later, the microwave pinged and when I opened the door, the scent of sweetly smokey barbecue filled the air.
“Fuck, that smells like Ironside’s ribs,” Bruiser said, eyeing the container in my hands as I brought it to the table. “Slow-roasted over hickory, with that honey-bourbon glaze.”
“Would you…like some?” I offered.
He glanced up from the barbecue, looking over me again. Then he shook his head.
“From the looks of you, I'd say you need it more than I do. A stiff breeze could knock you over. And I’d better not touch it anyway. That damn barbecue makes me nap like a baby, and I’m on watch until sunrise.”
“On watch?” I asked, confused.
“Because of Huxley’s jailbreak,” Arrow put in. He retrieved a mug from the cabinet and poured the coffee. “In my club, we look out for each other. That means a protection detail. Whether I like it or not,” he added, passing the coffee to Bruiser.
I picked at the barbecue ribs, licking the sticky sauce off my fingers. No wonder Bruiser was practically drooling over it. The meat was so tender that it fell off the bone, and the sauce was rich and full of flavor.
Bruiser took a seat across from me, bracing his elbows on the table.
“So, you’re Hillbilly’s snitch, huh? You’re not what I expected.”
I waved one of the ribs in the air.
“And what did you expect exactly?”
He shrugged.
“Someone who wasn’t wearing Psycho's shirt.”
I paused mid-chew. Arrow came up beside me and draped his arm across my shoulders.
“This is Bobbie,” he said, his voice loaded with meaning.
Understanding dawned on Bruiser’s face. He cast another assessing glance my way and made a noise I couldn’t interpret, sipping his coffee.
“You’re that crazy chick he couldn’t stop talking about when he got out of the loony bin,” Bruiser said.
Arrow growled, baring his teeth. I coughed a laugh and left the last two ribs in the container, sliding it down to Bruiser. He caught it with one hand, lifting his chin with a grateful nod.
“Well, you don’t sugar coat things, do you?” I said.
“I swear he was raised by fucking wolves,” Arrow grumbled.
He shot a menacing glare at Bruiser. But Bruiser didn’t seem to give a shit as he eagerly ripped the ribs apart and sucked the meat off the bones.
On one hand, Bruiser’s bluntness was refreshing. So many people treated me like glass when they discovered the truth about my mental health and my disorders. It was exhausting sometimes, and I didn’t want to be handled with kid gloves. I wanted to be normal, like everybody else.
On the other hand, I couldn’t deny there was a slight sting to the label. I wasn’t cute, or pretty, or the funny one. I was that crazy chick. And sure, I was used to the stigma that crazy carried by now.
But it left a sour taste in my mouth to realize that I was simply known as the crazy girlfriend.
As if he could read my thoughts, Arrow squeezed my shoulder and kissed my temple.
“Ignore him, okay?” he said. “Bruiser doesn’t know when to shut his big mouth. Did you get enough to eat? Are you still hungry?”
I contemplated the stack of containers in the fridge, but then I thought better of it. As tempting as it was to eat my fill, I didn’t want to take Arrow’s food.
“I’m fine,” I replied. “I was just looking for a little midnight snack.”
Arrow narrowed his eyes for a split second, skeptical of my response.
“I’ll warm up the beef stew and make you some toast to go along with it.”
Bruiser scoffed, smacking his lips.
“Are you sure you can manage that? I've seen you burn cereal before. You're a hazard in the kitchen."
Arrow flipped him off without even sparing a glance in his direction. I slid out of my chair and crossed to Arrow’s side, standing at the counter.
“Hey, it’s late,” I whispered. “And you’re exhausted. You shouldn’t be cooking for me. You should be going back to bed.”
“This isn’t my cooking,” Arrow replied. “I’m just warming it up. Ironside and Jenny are the ones who keep stuffing leftovers in my fridge. Most of it goes to waste, because I can’t finish it all. You’re actually the one doing me a favor here.”
My heart clenched to hear that these people took care of Arrow, cooking homemade meals for him, making sure that he never went hungry. That’s what a family was supposed to do for each other.
I watched him with a pang in my chest as Arrow turned on the stove, pouring the beef stew in a pot. Reaching out, I trailed my hand up his bicep, over his shoulder, and down his back, proving to myself that he wasn’t just a dream.
But he was warm to the touch, solid, real.
Arrow took my hand and kissed the scar on my palm, holding my gaze with his steady gray eyes.
When I took a breath to speak, the roar of motorcycles split the stillness of the night. A moment later came a barrage of gunfire.
Glass exploded around me in stinging shards.
“Get down!” Bruiser bellowed.
In a blur of movement, Arrow hooked an arm around me, crushing me against his chest, and we hit the floor. The weight of his body against my back knocked the breath out of my lungs.
Bruiser’s heavy footsteps thundered toward the kitchen door, followed by a quick pop-pop-pop of return fire.
There was blood on my hands, and I could taste the metallic tang of it on my tongue. Arrow clutched me so tightly that it was a miracle my ribs didn’t crack.
“We know you’re in there, Psycho,” a man’s voice called. “Come out and play. Payback is gonna be a fucking bitch.”