Chapter 1 #2
Just not with my dick, which has left me more than a little sexually frustrated.
Twisting out of Walker’s hold, I shoot him and Trevor a glare. “Kiss my ass.” Going straight for my pickup, I yank the door open, pausing with my boots on the running board to holler across the night, “Be fucking careful driving home.”
Falling into my seat, I start the engine and aim for my house, the aggravation I feel at myself growing with each passing mile.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I get it together? There’s no reason I shouldn’t have jumped at the opportunity to take that woman home and show her a good time. She should be beside me right now, my hand in her pants, moaning my name as her first orgasm of the night hits.
But no. My dick had to decide now was a great time to go on strike for a completely unknown reason. Bastard should be nicer to me considering all the fun I’ve let him have.
Pulling into the oversized garage custom designed to fit my truck, I jump from the seat and stomp my way into the house. The place hasn’t seen many quiet Friday nights in the eight years since I built it, but pretty much all of them have been recent.
And it’s really starting to get on my nerves.
Knowing what my mother’s up to has probably just fucked me up.
Made me scared to bring anybody home out of fear Deidre Bradshaw will find a way to make her a permanent fixture.
And I don’t want a permanent fixture. Permanent fixtures become part of the structure.
And when one gets ripped off, it creates a hell of a mess.
Going to my fridge, I pull out a beer and the remnants of my second favorite guilty pleasure, carrying both to my couch where I plop down and flip on the television.
Beer and tiramisu probably wouldn’t be paired in any sort of dining establishment, but tonight they’re going pretty fucking well together.
Well enough, I work my way through a few more beers and the rest of the coffee-infused cookies and custard before crashing on the sofa without bothering to take off my boots or brush my teeth.
When I wake up the next morning to the sound of my doorbell ringing, I consider patting myself on the back in spite of my stiff neck and grimy teeth.
Not bringing a woman home last night was the right move.
Because, as expected, my mother has decided to show up on my doorstep bright and early, likely in the hopes of executing a perfectly outlined plan to ruin my life.
Stretching from where I’ve been slumped for the better part of eight hours, I leave her hanging until she rings again.
A smirk twists the corner of my mouth as I swagger toward the entryway, feeling pretty fucking smug.
Sure, last night might have been a little lonely and depressing, but it was for the greater good.
The greater good being me maintaining my bachelorhood.
Flinging open the door without looking through the peephole, I lean against the frame with a grin on my face. “Didn’t expect to see you—” My words die off, halted abruptly by the woman standing in front of me.
A woman who is most definitely not my mother.
Not only are the eyes staring back at me blue instead of brown, they're situated in a face that is softer and rounder. A face attached to a body with curves so lush a man could happily break his neck trying to navigate them.
But it’s not the delectable shape of the woman, or her beautiful face, that has me frozen in place.
It’s the little girl she’s holding in her arms.
I’ve had women show up on my doorstep unannounced before—hoping for something more from me—but never with a toddler in tow, and it’s throwing me for a fucking loop. For multiple reasons.
I scan the front of my property, eyes snagging on the decent, but aging, crossover parked in my driveway. My house isn’t really a place one comes across by accident. It’s not even the easiest one to access if you get turned around and accidentally end up on the Bradshaw estate.
Dragging my attention back to my visitors, I straighten, a little concerned about what brought them here. “Can I help you?”
The woman gives me a forced smile, shoulders going back, chin tipping up as she holds my gaze without blinking. “Don’t you remember me?”
I take the opportunity to look her over again. Not because I need to. Just because I want to. She’s fucking gorgeous, and I’d be an idiot to give up the opportunity to appreciate it. “Can’t say that I do.”
Her brows lift. “Ruth? We hung out a couple years ago?”
I shake my head. “Not ringing a bell.”
I’m a lot of things. There’s more than a few people who would tell you not all of them are good. I’m stubborn. A little rowdy. Easily distracted. Probably considered a fuckboy.
But I’m honest. Women know what they’re getting into when I get into them. I’m loyal and can build the shit out of a basement playscape. I’ve also got a memory that doesn’t miss. So when I say I don’t know this woman, I don’t know this woman.
That’s why I don’t panic when she huffs out a frustrated breath, shifts the little girl in her arms, and says, “Well you should start trying to remember, because this is your daughter.”