“Fine, I’ll drive,” I announce and climb on. “Which button does what?”
Despite grinning, Conor clearly has no intention of letting me drive his precious motorcycle. He slides in front of me on the bike before wrapping my arms around his waist. He quickly places my hands squarely between his legs, where his erection remains half-cocked.
After a slow drive from the community clubhouse to his house, we deal with his dick problem. I consider staying in bed with his warm body rather than heading next door to Bronco’s after-party. Why deal with people when the best person is right here with me?
“You’ve got a lump,” Conor says, stroking my forehead. “I know we were fucking around with the head injury talk, but maybe we ought to stay up until midnight just to make sure nothing shady happens.”
“Then, we need to get out of this bed. Might want to stop drinking the devil’s nectar, too. I can’t promise I won’t doze off if I remain this comfortable and boozed-up.”
“Well, if we hurry, we can spend time with your dad and my mom. That ought to make you awkward and sad.”
Wanting to keep Conor awake, I look through the bag of clothes I brought over earlier. A pair of comfy beige khakis and a tan T-shirt feel good on my bruised body. Conor dresses in a black tank and jeans. He looks so sexy with all his tats on display that I have to fight the urge to crawl back into bed.
Instead, we walk from his mother’s large two-story house to Bronco’s slightly bigger one. We head around to the side gate, where I hear Tim McGraw playing on the backyard’s speakers. The first person I see is Carina wearing a cowboy hat, dancing around like a drunk redneck. Bronco and Lana watch their youngest daughter with the kind of awe that I remember from my mom. Needy lost her fucking mind when I got on the honor roll, even for a single semester. A parent’s pride is an amazing kind of magic.
That’s why I don’t mind Barbie’s need to tug Conor away from me. She loves her boy so damn much that I must feel like a threat. Well, Barbie can baby him all she wants, but she’s a fool to think her bossiness will scare me off. Conor’s a gift, complete with a giant red bow on top, and I have no intention of giving him up.
CONOR
The after-party goes well with our smaller group. Monroe gives me future mommy vibes when she plays with my cousin, Carina, along with Pixie’s eleven-month-old daughter, Chili, and her four-year-old brother, Future.
I notice how she doesn’t have much use for the older kids. Monroe tends to connect with certain people while zoning out others. When she’s in a room with all the bunnies, I can quickly tell which girls she likes and which ones don’t register. She isn’t rude, but her warmth toward some people is so much more powerful than with others. That’s why I knew she wanted me even back when she played coy.
Tonight, her father might as well be invisible. Lowell doesn’t help by ignoring Monroe. I don’t know how the fuck we’re supposed to play miniature golf in two days as a foursome. Topanga will likely talk the entire time while I distract Monroe with casual dry humping.
“I don’t like her,” Barbie tells me as we stand near the grill and away from Monroe and the kids. “She’s all wrong.”
“Who do you imagine me with?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because everyone will fall short in your eyes. Not only because you love me so damn much. But you’re also a dick about new people,” I mutter, and Mom gives me the stink-eye. “You were hostile toward Lana. You only liked Pixie because you got along with her mom. When Anders showed up, you thought he would kill everyone. New people are always the enemy.”
“She feels cold,” Barbie insists and bumps against me. “I don’t want you loving someone who can’t love you back.”
I smile down at my mother. “Monroe is cold to you because she doesn’t like you. When she likes a person, and she fucking adores my sexy self, she’s warmer than the sun.”
Mom flashes a frown at Monroe, who doesn’t notice. She’s bouncing Chili on her lap as Future tells her about his atrium. The little girl looks like her dad—tall, blonde, blue-eyed. If not for her clothes and pink hairband, Chili could be mistaken for a boy. Her four-year-old uncle is again sporting longish hair after an attempt at a short cut. Future’s a friendly kid while Chili isn’t, but they both like Monroe. With them, her warmth is on full display.
Maybe my mom sees what I do because she backs off for the night. I make the rounds, finding the men—Bronco, Anders, and Lowell—in weird moods. Or maybe I’m misreading shit just like my mom was with Monroe.
“You’re still coming on Monday, right?” Topanga asks for the third time tonight.
“Why are you bugging me?” I mutter and gesture toward her husband. “He’s the one with the bug up his ass.”
“I’m fine,” Lowell grumbles.
Bronco frowns at his friend but says nothing. My uncle doesn’t get how Lowell can be so dismissive of his blood. But I’ve never met anyone in the extended Sinema family. Lowell views blood relations differently than the Parrish clan. My mom is close to her sister because they shared parents, not because they get along.
Lowell, though, made the club his family. Years later, he added Topanga and then Dunning. Monroe being blood doesn’t mean anything to him. With her, Lowell doesn’t see a kid needing a dad. Monroe is just a mistake he didn’t know he made.
“We’ll be there, and we’ll have fun,” I tell Topanga. “But once that shit doesn’t work, you have to stop trying to make it work, okay?”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Lowell bitches at me.
Ignoring him, I look into Topanga’s eyes. “You get how he doesn’t care, right? No matter how much you try to force things, you can’t change how he feels. That doesn’t mean you can’t be friendly with Monroe. But you also need to accept reality.”
Topanga glances at her husband and then frowns. “No, it’s only been a week.”
“Well, maybe one day when Monroe and I have kids, he’ll pretend to care for their sake.”
“Asshole,” Lowell growls at me. “I’m not the bad guy here.”
Bronco ignores his VP’s bitching and focuses on me. “Kids, huh? That serious?”
“She’s the one. A man knows.”
Glancing at Lana nearby, Bronco nods. “Yeah, he does.”
Topanga pats my chest. “You and Monroe are two sides of the same coin. You both beat down assholes and dance poorly.”
Sharing her smile, I glance at Monroe listening very intently to Pixie explain something likely hippie related. My guess is they’re discussing hair removal. Monroe already warned me that she isn’t big on shaving during the winter months, so I better be ready to snuggle with Snuffleupagus once January comes along.
“He was my favorite character from that show,” I told her, using my love of “Sesame Street” as an excuse to spend another hour in bed together.
Those leisurely moments hanging out and talking about random shit—what zodiac sign is most likely to ruin our day—comforts me in a way nothing else has before. I’ve been restless for so long. Monroe settled me right down, though. I no longer wake up, ready to board a flight to Indonesia. Driving around Elko doesn’t inspire me to keep going until I hit the coast. Monroe is my safe space. With her, I feel the stress fade, and the noise fall into the background.