Her questions were making him tense. Fury business was no one else’s. Not that she asked for anything that wasn’t common knowledge. But he had to make sure she didn’t dig any deeper.
He didn’t share secrets, whether the club’s or his own.
So, yeah, he needed to leave, because every question she asked, he’d answered. It would be better to just part ways before he fucked up again.
Problem was, she wasn’t the only one curious. The pictures of a younger her with her man made him want to ask questions, too.
In truth, the answers wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t change a damn thing.
She wasn’t for him.
He wasn’t for her.
They were too damn different.
A fucking school librarian.
Jesus fuck. She’d be horrified if she knew the truth about him.
“Would you like a glass of iced tea?”
What? Why wasn’t she rushing him out the door now that she knew he was a biker?
No, he didn’t need a goddamn glass of iced tea. He needed a bowl of premium Kush and a pint of moonshine to scrub her from his brain. That was what the fuck he needed.
He should’ve let Cassie bring the fucking ashes. Or Easy.
Anybody but him.
But he said he would and he always kept his word. That was the one thing he had of value besides his club and his sled. His word.
If he said he was going to do something, he did his damn best to do it. He made no excuses. He expected the same from others. Though, in the past he’d been disappointed one too many times.
Until recently, at least.
Once he found his home on the farm with his club brothers.
Once he found his place in the Blood Fury MC.
Beyond that, he needed nothing else.
He especially didn’t need to create a complication in his life by lusting after a woman not even on his level. Which was way under hers.
Educated. Smart. Well-spoken. Established.
Even married.
That last one made him come to his senses. He needed to get the fuck out of Mrs. Rachelle Goodson’s house and never come back.
That was what he’d do. Leave and forget all about her.
“Is that blood on your boot? Did you hurt yourself?”
Every drop of his own blood froze in his veins. He followed her gaze down to his left boot and saw the dried smear.
Thick and dark red, noticeable even on the scuffed black leather.
Another fuck up.
Fuck.
He slammed the brakes on his spinning thoughts because if he rushed to answer her, to deny what it was, his words wouldn’t be right.
They could come out very, very wrong.
“No.” What else could red liquid be? “Paint. Must be paint.”
The brown eyes behind her glasses lit up. “Oh, like art? Or walls?”
Fuck. He almost snorted at the idea of him being an artist. He never held an artist’s paint brush or, hell, even a fucking crayon. “Walls.”
“I...”
She what?
“I’ve been looking for someone to paint. The walls are overdue for a fresh coat, especially now that the girls are grown. No more thumbtack holes in their walls from posters, crayon marks, and the rest. What would you charge me?”
He stared at her. Say what? She wanted to pay him to paint the interior of her home?
“I had gotten a couple of estimates from professional companies... but I... uh... was a bit shocked at their prices. I mean, I know they’re probably worth it, but I just can’t afford to do the whole house at once right now. Not with Maddie in college and Josie heading there soon. I figured I’d just hold off, but... I’d be glad to hire you if you could work piecemeal.”
“Piece... meal?” What did she mean?
“Well, with being an elementary school librarian, I don’t have a huge salary or bank account, of course.” Her cheeks flushed red again. Like when she’d been checking him out earlier. “If you’re willing, I could pay by the room. Professionals only wanted to contract the whole house. I’d buy the paint and any materials you need, but pay you as you go...”
He continued to stare at her and she fidgeted with straightening her glasses.
“I could pay you cash for each room when I have it. I mean, I would hire you for each room once I have the cash.” She made a sound of frustration at the back of her throat.
He didn’t know the first fucking thing about painting walls. He’d done some construction here and there in the past to earn scratch while he bounced from place to place. It was easy to get a job doing oddball shit like that. Especially when he’d hang out in the parking lot of home improvement stores to get selected for day work. No education or resume needed.
Crazy enough, none of those jobs ever consisted of painting.
He guessed it couldn’t be too fucking hard. It was slapping paint on walls and not making a mess. But why the fuck would he want to do that?
He worked all fucking day at the crematorium and at night...
He was busy at night.
He had given his word to his prez and sergeant at arms. He was going to stick to the plan.
“I mean, if you don’t want to do it, I’d understand. I can’t pay much, but, like I said, I can pay you cash.”
Extra scratch would be good. He could always use more.
When he was done dealing with the Shirleys, he needed to get back to his own plans. He’d need scratch for that.
Working at the crematorium didn’t pay much since he was required to work there for the club. The majority of the money the business made went back to the club to help pay for expenses. For the farm, The Barn, the bunkhouse.
Trip only charged his brothers a minimum amount to live in the bunkhouse. Mostly to help cover the utilities, which they used a lot of.
The more the club made, the fatter the club account, the better. That way if anyone needed it for whatever reason, it was there.
Would it have to be paid back? Most likely. But Trip liked having that cushion, especially for emergencies.
The latest being Cage needing a home for him and his baby girl, Dyna. Cage couldn’t shell out the cash, but now he could make payments back to the club in an amount he could afford every month.
The club having fat coffers was like having their own personal bank and it helped keep everything running.
Trip was a smart motherfucker, that was for sure. Shade wished he had half his business sense. Even half his smarts.
He didn’t, so he was only a grunt who took orders.
And grunts like him painted interior walls of homes owned by beautiful, intelligent women. They didn’t hook up with them.
No reason remained for him to be standing in Chelle’s home right now. He’d kept his word to deliver the cremains and he’d gotten the payment for their services. He needed to leave.
He shouldn’t be considering painting her house so he could come back and spend more time with her.
Especially if she was married. Hubby wouldn’t like some lowlife biker sniffing around his librarian wife.
“Gotta go,” he muttered.
As he went to move around her, to escape, she reached out and touched his arm. Right above the wide black leather cuff he wore on his left wrist. “Wait.”
His lungs seized and every muscle in his body turned to concrete at her touch.
She probably wouldn’t stop him if she knew the truth about him. She’d demand he leave, lock her doors and probably draw her blinds.