Chapter 38 Hutch
Hutch
You’d think I’d be exhausted. We’ve been going nonstop since coming back from the bar, and with the way she’s curled against me now, her head on my shoulder, our legs tangled in the blankets while she traces the tattoos on my chest with a lazy finger, I should be tired. But I’m not.
Okay, that’s a lie. My body is exhausted and sated in a way it hasn’t been in a really long time and my mind is still.
I’m physically comfortable with her heat next to me.
But that feeling in my chest is back, an uneasiness.
Not excitement, not fear; it feels like standing too close to the edge of a cliff, mesmerized by the dizzying heights, but unable to yank myself away from the edge.
I could let myself free fall. It feels like it would be so easy. I could lean into this—whatever it is—and let myself be open to what a future with Ginger could look like. It could be good. Amazing even. If not for that feeling in my chest…it’s like a warning sign.
She’s not some single, twenty-something chick I picked up in a bar.
And as much as I hate them for it, my brothers and my sister are right.
Ginger is special. She’s interesting, capable and stable.
She’s a mom. She’s got her shit together and I’m not sure if who I am—and who I am not—will ever fit into her life. Or if she’d even want me there.
She runs her fingers up over my ribs, across my chest to circle a nipple with her fingertip.
Reaching up with a chuckle, I grab her hand and press her knuckles to my lips. “You’re gonna break my cock, filthy girl.”
She laughs lightly before lifting her head to press a kiss to my mouth. Her eyes dance with mischief when she grins. “I thought younger guys were supposed to have more stamina. Maybe I need to find someone in his twenties.”
I hope she can’t see the vulnerability in my eyes.
Her words were meant to tease me; I know that.
But they also hit an invisible mark in my chest, like pushing on an old bruise; it aches enough to be annoying.
But then her hands are back in my hair, and she’s pulling me in, kissing me until the pain fades.
Growling at her, I sit up and shove her onto her back, digging my fingertips into her ribs until she’s wheezing with laughter and her eyes are leaking tears. Then I kiss her until she’s breathless and writhing underneath me again, rocking her hips up to meet mine.
We kiss for what feels like minutes instead of seconds, lost in the sensation of her body underneath mine, and I shove every other thought away. Until her stomach growls in protest.
I chuckle against her lips, then drop a kiss on her nose. “Hungry?”
The pendant around my neck hangs between us as I hover above her. She reaches up and tugs it playfully. “Do you have peanut butter?”
I look down at her, gorgeous curls fanned across my pillow. “Think so.”
“Graham crackers?” she asks hopefully, a little smile tipping up her lips.
I chuckle again. “Not likely.”
“Toast?” she asks, shoving a tendril of hair off her forehead.
I nod, moving to get up. Her eyes track my movement, watching me as I cross the room and pull out a pair of navy-blue boxer briefs before slipping them on. When I turn back to the bed, I can’t help but love the sight.
“Shit, California. You look good in my bed.”
She blushes a pretty shade of pink. “I feel good in it,” she says quietly, tucking her lip between her teeth, and I feel my chest tighten.
Instead of addressing it, though, I throw her a wink and head downstairs with the promise of peanut butter toast in lieu of her precious Nutter Butters. I’ll have to see if Nat can make her some.
After we eat in bed, we brush the crumbs out and climb back in. Bellies full, bodies sated, rain starts to fall softly outside, the drizzle of it hitting the skylights and creating a cozy atmosphere. I’m about asleep when she speaks, voice quiet in the low light from the lamp in the corner.
“Three birds?” she asks.
I crack open a sleepy eye. She’s running her fingers over my tattoo of three sparrows. “One for each of my sisters.”
Surprise lights her gaze when she looks up at me. “Under that cocky exterior, you’re a big ol’ softie.”
I laugh, the movement shaking the bed. “Keep that shit to yourself. I have a reputation to uphold.”
She smacks my chest playfully. “And these?”
I glance down at the buck and doe grazing under a tree that takes up most of my ribs on that side. “My parents.”
She tucks her fist under her chin, resting it on my chest to look at me.
“Do you have one for Hank and Hudson, too?” I nod and lift my arm. “This one’s for Hank,” I say, showing her the upside-down horseshoe on the underside of my forearm.
Her brows scrunch in confusion. “Isn’t it bad luck to have it upside down?”
I nod. “For most people, yeah. But for as long as I can remember, Hank has always said ‘Luck doesn’t matter; hard work does’.”
She smiles, sleepy and beautiful. “Sounds like him.”
Her eyes trail over me, taking inventory of more tattoos. “And Hudson?”
I turn my arm, showing her my bicep on the other side.
“Titans?” she asks, running her fingers over the word tattooed in fancy block script with a softball superimposed behind it. “The softball team.”
I nod, and she leans in, checking out the ink all across my skin.
“What’s the story behind this one?”
It’s pine boughs and a compass, a section of mountains and road, something I got in my twenties. “Some random shit for traveling.”
“Is that a footprint?” she asks, leaning closer.
It’s been years, but I feel my throat tighten. It’s easier to keep the past—and that tattoo---buried under layers of work and long roads, far from anyone’s gaze. To anyone who notices it, it’s just another tattoo, but the weight it carries still gets to me.
I swallow hard, shifting to grab her hand. She glances up at me, and she must see something on my face, because her eyes dance between mine, concern, or maybe confusion lighting them.
Instinct tells me to get defensive; to throw up those walls I’ve worked hard to erect for over a decade.
But if I’ve learned anything about Ginger, it’s that she won’t judge me.
I can trust her. I have no doubt about that.
And if I were going to try and be better—for what I don’t know, her I guess—I need to be able to open up.
So I wrap my arms around her, pulling strength from her. Not only emotionally, but physically, too. Because yeah, she is stronger than she knows, and I need that shit to get through this conversation.
Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly. “The tattoo… It’s not something I’ve shared with anyone, not even my family.”
Her eyebrows pinch in, but then her face relaxes, eyes still on me. “You don’t have to tell me,” she says softly.
But suddenly, I want to. The thought of telling someone, no—telling Ginger, feels…right.
My voice cracks a bit when I say, “It represents someone I lost a while ago.”
Her hand moves to mine, and she laces our fingers together on my chest, a gesture of comfort I doubt she even realizes she’s offering.
I nod. “I was twenty-one. Sarah was nineteen. We were so happy.” I swallow audibly as Ginger watches me.
I feel fucking laid bare, like every fucked-up thing I’ve felt about that time is on display as she gazes at me with compassionate eyes. They're hooded and beautiful, and I see so much empathy in them. Not the pity I would expect.
“I was on my way to propose,” I say, quiet in the stillness surrounding us. “She was pregnant.”
Ginger’s brow furrows again, and from the look in her eyes, I almost regret saying anything, because it feels real now.
More real than it was then, if I’m honest. Like talking about it made it more true.
Heavier somehow. The lightness I thought talking about it would bring doesn’t come.
But it’s out now, and I can’t take it back.
“What happened?” she asks quietly, searching my face.
“Spontaneous abortion is what the official letterhead said. Though I had no idea what that meant at the time. To this day, I don’t know exactly where it happened or what she was going through.
” I clear my throat, unable to meet her eyes.
“Anyway, she—uh, she and her family left Timber Forge that day. I never saw her again.”
“She just…left?” she asks, her voice incredulous. “Without telling you? Without saying goodbye?”
When I finally have the courage to look at her, her eyes are soft, and all I can do is nod. There really isn’t any sense in rehashing the whole thing, anyway.
She doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, she leans forward and touches the tattoo, her fingers tracing the shape of the tiny print. It sends a scatter of goosebumps over my skin.
I hear the catch in her voice before she even speaks.
“I’m so sorry you never got the chance to know him…or her.” Her words hang heavy in the air, fragile and real. “Losing that little piece of what could’ve been—” she chokes up, shakes her head like she’s trying to push away the weight of it all. “I’m so sorry, Hutch.”
“And the rest of it…” Another soft shake of her head. “You deserved so much more than that.”
She whispers it like she means it, and fuck if that doesn’t gut me.
I nod, blinking back the pain and hurt and regret I haven’t let myself feel in years.
I’m not sure what I expected from her—a lot of questions I don’t have the answers to, pity, anger on my behalf, maybe—but she doesn’t give me any of those. She drops her lips to my chest, pressing a soft kiss there and gives me space to breathe.
I press a kiss to her temple and whisper into her hair, “No more heavy shit tonight, okay?”
She nods against my chest. “Okay.”