It was a bungalow with a finished basement. Three bedrooms and there was a big fireplace in the middle of the great room. The kitchen was outdated, but I didn’t care. It was ours, mine and my family’s, and it was our place away from everyone but those we wanted to have there. Away from Mom’s drama.
The family cabin was a place where we could just be. Everything was warm and cozy, and it was decorated in country slash biker décor. There was a room for Dad, my room, and a room with two sets of bunks that my brothers used when they were here. The basement also had some pull-out couches and a big bar with dartboards and a pool table. We had ten acres of mostly bush and it was a good ten-minute drive to a small town with a grocery store, gas station, and a couple restaurants. You couldn’t get pizza delivered but you could get some of the best pizza we’d ever eaten in that town. I sat in the pizza place and devoured a slice with a 7-Up before heading the rest of the way.
Lawrence answered my text while I was in the pizza shop.
Lawrence Gale: Alicia handled them. Not to worry. Not the first time we’ve dealt with angry bikers. Sad to say this because it puts you in the middle, but she threatened to sue if they do anything to get in the way of the calendar’s sales. We have to take a hard line with this.
I replied: I understand and reiterated to them that I stand by my decision. I hope they don’t cause you any stress. Thank you.
Lawrence Gale: Thanks, Jojo. We’ll courier you some complimentary copies a few days before the link goes live on our website. I’ll be in touch soon about plans for the Sturgis model signing.
They sold their calendar online after the rally in Sturgis, but people could reserve online and pick one up at the rally. We’d get extra money if we were there on the last day of Sturgis to sign calendars and do photo opps.
I got to the cabin just as it was getting dark and built a fire in the fireplace before I curled up on the couch. My phone made a text alert sound, so I lifted it and was relieved to see who the text was from.
Jenna: You okay? I heard about today. I’m here if you want to talk.
Me: I’m okay. I don’t feel like talking. I’m glad I heard from you though. Can you tell dad and them if anyone cares, I’m at the cabin and staying here for a couple days? Can you ask someone to feed Marshmallow or make sure a prospect does? Save me the hassle of texting anyone else?
Jenna: Sure. And everyone cares. Big hugs.
I pouted at the screen.
“Love you, Jenna,” I said aloud and then I flopped back and started my movie. I then proceeded to get lost in the old favorite as I devoured a whole can of Pringles and half a bag of jellybeans, plus almost half of a giant chocolate bar before I fell asleep on the couch.
***
I woke up to a face and voice that’d been in my dreams a whole lot.
Christian Forker. Christian Forker was standing over me. I bolted upright, knocking my bag of jellybeans and the remote to the floor.
His eyes moved over me and of course, he looked mad at me.
“What the fuck?” I breathed, heart racing like mad. I had my hand to my chest. “Omigod.”
“I said, this fuckin’ door isn’t locked.”
“What?”
“Havin’ trouble with my truck,” he grunted.
Huh? I gave my head a shake as if trying to shake off the mirage that Christian Forker was standing over me in the great room of my family’s cabin.
“Was ten minutes up the road from here. Broke down. Brady told me to have it towed here and got me the keycode for the door so I could crash here until morning when he comes to get me.”
“Oh.”
Not a mirage.
I tried to blink away my slumber and get my racing heart to settle down. We’d put keycode locks in not long ago. It was infinitely better than having to hide a key on the property.
His eyes narrowed. “I get here and see your hog ‘n then see you through the window, so I check and the fuckin’ door is unlocked. You’re here with the door unlocked, passed out to the fuckin’ Bee Gees.”
I had passed out, surrounded by snacks. The passing out part was a plan. I needed noise to sleep so I wouldn’t hear what was in my head. I’d also restarted my movie when the silence woke me, so it could keep me company.
“Oh,” I grumbled, pressing pause on the DVD remote.
“The fuckin’ door is unlocked, woman,” he repeated unnecessarily, as if I hadn’t heard it the other times he said it.
“Nobody’s out here,” I rubbed my eyes. “Totally safe.”
“Still. Lock your fucking door. You bananas? You slept straight through me bein’ dropped off by a tow truck with the fuckin’ lights on and making a whack of racket as he unloaded my truck right out there and you slept. I coulda been anyone.”
“Yeah. Junk food coma.” I surveyed the snacks damage and squatted to pick up the lost Jelly Bellies. I didn’t make eye contact with him.
He seemed pissed, or more pissed probably because I wasn’t showing remorse about leaving the door unlocked. I didn’t have it in me to give a shit. I had a lot of people pissed off at me right now. And after what’d happened Saturday night after Delia’s party, he was the last person I wanted to see.
I didn’t even have it in me to give a shit about the condition he found me in, passed out in my polka dot granny-style pjs with Pom Pom socks on and my hair everywhere, surrounded by ineffectual cures for a bout of the ‘everybody hates me’ blues. I tossed the floor candy into the fireplace and wandered to the bathroom for a pee.
While sitting there on the toilet, I rolled my eyes and fixed my ponytail. Figures. I’m here for peace and quiet away from my two biggest problems and my number two problem turns up. Mad at me.
Not cold and emotionless like his supposed M.O. Angry. Because the door wasn’t locked.
I couldn’t even look at him. I couldn’t stand to do it and risk the flashbacks. Flashbacks of that mouth on my lips, of those hands on my body, how it felt to press myself against him. The taste of his tongue in my mouth. Not to mention the fantasy sequence that wanted to stream in my head of me on the back of his motorcycle. In the fantasy sequence, both of us would have our hair blowing in the wind, smiles on our faces. And of course my cheek would be on his back, my arms wrapped around him.
When I was back in the family room, he was standing in the very same spot, eyes on the TV, a scowl on his face. The screen was paused on the You Should be Dancing number, John Travolta frozen while doing his overhead clasped finger wave motion.
“You can crash in the middle room if you want. Or the basement, if you wanna be as far from me as humanly possible,” I grumbled and turned the TV off.
“Saturday Night Fever,” he muttered.
Was that humor in his voice. Was he about to give me shit for my movie choice? I was in no mood, so I ignored his comment and then I went to the middle room and flicked the light on.
He followed me. He was directly behind me.
“Top or bottom?” I asked.
“Huh?” I felt his breath hit the back of my neck. I spun around. He was right there. Directly behind me. And was that a smirk on his face?
“Top bunk or bottom bunk?” I moved away and pulled a set of sheets and a comforter out of the closet.
“What do you think?” came the snarky reply.