Chapter 20
TWENTY
CALEB
“He’s settled in,” Harper says, coming out into the living room of the cozy four-bedroom Airbnb later that evening.
We ordered dinner in and watched cartoons. Harper and her son snuggled on the couch, his arm wrapped around her like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let her go. I understand the sentiment.
It’s so weird watching her be a mom, but also the most natural thing in the world. She was so rebellious when I first met her, so punk rock. I mean, she’s still punk rock. Her tattoos alone attest to the fact. Not to mention her effortless style and ever-present combat boots.
It’s clear that what always made Harper Harper has never changed.
Namely, her heart of gold.
She’s always loved every lost cause she’s ever met. Even me.
But I fucking hate that Z used her squishy heart to take advantage of her.
It’s taken a lot of discipline to keep my fury contained as she napped with her arms around her son while he zoned out to cartoons all evening.
I’m sure he was just desperate for something normal and familiar, safe in his mom’s comforting arms.
I remember how even the scariest things in the world never seemed that scary as long as your mom was there at your side.
Which makes me really, really sorry that Harper only shot Z in the ass.
Especially since earlier, when she went to the bathroom only after making sure Bruiser was okay being left alone in the room with me, he looked at me with those giant, kid eyes of his, and solemnly asked if I knew his dad.
“A little,” I said evasively.
“Is he a bad guy?”
No use splitting hairs. I nodded. “Yeah.”
He frowned but nodded a little to himself. “I thought so. He had a gun. He pointed it at us. And Mom said he locked her in a closet.”
He did what? I knew Harper didn’t look right when I saw her this morning at the prison. What else has he done?
Fuck. I should never have let her come back to Austin by herself. Not after we realized how far Z was willing to go, even back in the day.
I should have realized it meant he was dangerous, and that confronting him would only make him more desperate. How long has he been working with a Goddamn MC? Harper’s been living adjacent to so much danger. It makes me sick even thinking about it.
Harper came back into the room, so I couldn’t question the kid anymore.
But now that he’s in bed, I dare a look at Harper. She still looks exhausted as she collapses back on the couch again, hands covering her face.
I’m sitting on the loveseat adjacent to the couch, and venture to ask after a few moments of silence, “Harp? Are you okay?”
She drags a hand down her face. “I’m gonna have to get that kid into therapy.
Not that I can afford that. But Jesus, this is all gonna fuck him up, right?
He’s basically in shock. He just kept wanting me to read him the same chapter of his book over and over.
The one at the end where all the friends get back safe and there’s no more zombies.
“I asked him if he wanted to sleep in the bed with me tonight, but he said no. That Viper said he had to man up and that only babies cried for their moms. He quoted some MC motherfucker to me because Z exposed him to that—”
Her head drops into her hands again as her shoulders start to shake.
It tears at me, seeing her like this.
“Harper, he’ll be fine.” I move to her side and wrap an arm around her. “Kids are resilient, right?” I have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about, but I feel like that’s something people say?
For a second she resists, trying to pull away, and I almost back off. Fuck knows I’m doing and saying all the wrong things. My hand squeezes into a fist, then unclenches, then clenches. Right as I start to stand again, though, she turns into my chest and gives in to her sobs.
All the tension in my body relaxes at having the warmth of her there, finally allowed to comfort her.
Not to mention how right it feels having her in my arms again.
God, she feels exactly the same. The same as happened when we were together a couple of days ago; all the years we’ve been separated fall away like shed skin.
The man I’ve pretended to be all these years falls away.
Sure, maybe I make a pretense of regulating my emotions better, but I know I’ve also just built up so many walls, too.
I’m the funny, casual guy around the club.
The guy who has one-night stands, or a series of flings with women like Moira used to be, who were never capable of being anything more serious.
There’s been a Harper-shaped hole in my heart this whole time. Nothing else would fit into this space. I didn’t want anyone to.
Some sane part of me gave up hope of ever getting her back a long time ago. So I just cherished the ache of her loss, because at least then, a part of her was always with me—even if it was the shape of her absence.
But now she’s here.
With me. Warm and in the present.
In crisis, with her son, asshole. This isn’t about you and what you want.
I breathe out and try to steady myself. She doesn’t need my obsessions crowding her right now. She needs a steady, calm presence, and I resolve to be exactly whatever she needs.
So I hold her, and I run my fingers through her hair while she cries, and I try to temper my wild pleasure at having her in my arms while I can feel she’s in so much pain.
Yes, we’ve reconnected.
But Z was the man she was with for almost a decade. He’s the father of her son, and he just betrayed her terribly.
I’ve waited this long.
I can wait a little longer.
“You’re all right,” I soothe her as I continue running my fingers through her silky hair. “It’s gonna be okay.”
She huffs out a laugh against my chest, pulling away and swiping at her eyes with her palms. “That’s my line.”
I’m sorry to lose contact with her, but I’m glad she’s talking again.
“Do you need more food? Something to drink?”
“God, what I wouldn’t give for a Goddamn beer,” she breathes out, flopping back in the couch.
“I think there was a complimentary bottle of wine on the counter.”
She perks up. “Yeah?”
I nod. “It’s not chilled or anything, but—”
“I don’t care. Pour me a glass. Or better yet, hand me the bottle.”
I laugh and get up, walking over to the kitchen counter and grabbing the bottle and two glasses, not sure if she’s serious about drinking from the bottle.
But when I get back, she pulls off the little twist top and, indeed, upends the bottle at her lips, her delicate throat working as she takes swallow after swallow.
I readjust myself and pull a pillow over my lap against the stiffening in my pants. Goddamn it, she’s sexy.
I work at a sex club and never fight hard-ons, but watching Harper down wine from the bottle?
I look away and stare at the carpet. Jesus Christ. Her son is literally down the hall.
“I called my friend in personal security,” I say, if only to distract myself. “He’s sending a security detail down from Dallas. They’ll be here by midnight to stand guard outside the house.”
That surprises Harper enough to stop drinking, upending the bottle so dramatically that some wine drips down her chin.
Without thinking about it, my thumb reaches out to swipe up the liquid before it lands on her light blue top.
And maybe she’s not thinking about it much either when her tongue swipes out to lick at my thumb.
We both freeze at the action, eyes locking. My breath completely stalls out. Harper’s green eyes suddenly darken.
“Fuck,” she whispers. “Caleb. I want to climb you.”
Well, there goes the battle against my hard-on.
I swallow hard. “Harper—”
She shoots to her feet, turning her back to me. “I’m sorry. Fuck.” Her hands go back to scrubbing down her face. “I’m a disaster right now. I’m going to bed.”
She starts toward the hallway where her and Bruiser’s rooms branch off from.
“Harper—”
She pauses and turns to look at me. Fuck, she’s so beautiful, whatever I was going to say dies on my lips.
What was I going to say?
We should talk?
I’ve missed you?
Yes, God please, oh God, give in and climb me?
I shake my head. She’s probably in as much shock as her son is. She’s vulnerable and I shouldn’t take advantage of a woman when she’s—
“Goodnight, Caleb,” she says succinctly and turns away again, swiftly walking back down the hall toward the bedroom next door to her son’s.
I breathe out hard and scrub a hand down my own face.
It’s for the best.
We don’t need any more complications adding to an already complicated situation. Tonight Isaak’s guys will show up, and tomorrow we can plan with clearer heads.
“Do you hear that?” I whisper furiously at my lap. “Clear heads. Which means I do the thinking, not you, asshole.”
No response. Apparently, little head is feeling like a teenager again, too.
I reach over to the coffee table, pick up the bottle of wine, and echo Harper’s actions, tipping the bottle up and taking several swallows of the Cabernet Sauvignon.
Then I keep a modesty pillow covering my lap as I walk uncomfortably across the living room to the primary bedroom.
I tried to get Harper or her son or both of them to take the biggest room, but they refused.
She looked appalled and said it was bad enough that I was paying for everything. Stubborn as always.
I leave the door cracked, though, so I can hear any noises. After ten more minutes of trying to get myself in check without much luck, I decide a shower is the only option.
I’m rough with myself as I fist my cock, a little angry at my undisciplined flesh considering the circumstances. I try not to think of Harper as I stroke myself—it feels wrong. This is merely a physical release. So I chant prime numbers instead, and let the friction of my hard strokes do the rest.
But not even my usual discipline can stop the image of her from popping into my brain at the last second—her with that wine bottle in her hand, which my twisted mind’s eye can’t help replacing with my cock, gulping me down just like she did the dry red wine.