CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kami—
A billboard comes into view. It’s hot pink background and the gorgeous blonde on it, catch my eye.
Centerfolds
The Busiest Club in the South.
Fully Xposed. Exit now. Come SEE us!
Daily Drink Specials. Girls. Girls. Girls!
Santos puts his blinker on, and I tease, “I hope you’re not going to that strip club.”
He grins. “No. We’re almost home. Town’s just up ahead.”
Home—his maybe, but not mine. Except, now it will be home. I’m still struggling to get used to that fact.
We exit the interstate at a truck stop and head down a two-lane highway.
I glance over at Santos. He’s got one wrist resting on the top of the steering wheel, the other propped on the door frame, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world, but I know different. I see the tension around his mouth and the way his fingers have been rubbing along his jaw and chin, over and over. I look back at the road, and a sign comes into view.
Uprising, GA - population 4012.
Which makes me lucky number thirteen. Great.
A couple of gas stations come into view as we enter the outskirts. I spot a small grocery store, a cemetery and Catholic Church. We get further into town and pass a smoothie place, an automotive repair shop, a diner and a bar called Mooney’s Pub.
“That place looks cute.” I tap the glass.
“You’re not old enough to drink.”
“But I bet they serve food, too.” I turn. “Have you been there?”
“Yeah.”
He keeps driving along the main street that runs along a set of railroad tracks. Eventually we turn down another country road headed out of town again. He slows at a drive barely visible from the road. There’s a canopy of trees and then a house comes into view. Its hidden back from the road like a place out of time. It’s a rundown cottage surrounded by a sagging picket fence. There are some overgrown rosebushes out front and an out of control yard.
Santos circles around to the back and parks in a gravel section. The backyard looks like it had once been cute with a stone birdbath, benches and a winding brick path leading through some overgrown plants and shrubs.
I peer through the windshield at the dingy white house with its cute gingerbread trim in faded blue. “You live here?”
“I rent it. Cheapest thing I could find that wasn’t an apartment. I can’t stand living on top of other people.”
“I hope you got a deal.”
“I did. Sorry if it’s not up to your standards.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to; it’s written all over your face.”
I lift my chin. “I think it’s adorable. It has charm. It just needs…”
“A ton of work.”
“I was going to say it just needs some love.”
“Guess so.”
We climb out, and I look around. “Really, Santos.” I make a tsking sound. “And your father was a landscaper! How can you walk past all this and not at least mow the lawn?”
“Club runs you ragged when you’re a prospect. I barely have time to do more than fall into bed some nights. That is, if I even make it back here.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means I spend a lot of nights crashing at the clubhouse.”
I come around the front of the truck while he lifts my bags down from the bed and sets them in a line. I notice a gleaming black motorcycle parked near the backdoor. “Is that your bike?”
“Yep.”
“Can we go for a ride?”
“Now? We just got off the road.”
“Later then?”
“I guess so. If I have time.”
“Why? What do you have to do?”
“Gotta be at the clubhouse, and no you’re not going with me, so don’t ask.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Unpack, I guess.”
I pick up my rolling bag. “Lead the way.”
He rolls his eyes, grabs my box and follows me to the back porch. Setting it down, he unlocks the back door and pushes it open. “Go on in. I’ll get your other bag.”
“Thanks.” I step inside. It’s barely cooler than the outside. There’s a kitchen off the back with a small table set in a bay window complete with a built in bench seat in the alcove, covered with old worn cushions.
The refrigerator looks ancient, seriously ancient, like maybe 1950. I can’t resist yanking the handle to see what a biker bachelor has in his fridge. As I expected its not much besides bottles of beer and hot sauce.
I close it and check out the rest of the house.
It’s small so there’s not much. A living room with a wood-burning fireplace at the front. I walk down a short hall to a bathroom with an actual claw-foot tub. It has to be original. There’s also a small shower stall in the corner. The floor is a cute black and white pattern that surprisingly looks clean.
I wander to the last door and push it open. The bedroom, and unless I missed a door, the only one. There’s an old wrought-iron bed with chipped white paint, and mismatched nightstands. The mattress looks like it sags, and the bedding is nothing to write home about.
I can’t help wondering the last time he washed the sheets. And who’s been in this bed with him? Am I sleeping in here or is he? Or does he think we’re sharing?
I wonder if he even has a washer and dryer or if he takes his stuff to a Laundromat. I’ve got my fingertips on the comforter when he comes through the door with my bags. I turn and look over my shoulder.
His eyes fall to the bed.
“Is there another room?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“So…”
“Don’t worry. Like I said, I’m not here a lot. When I am, I’ll take the couch.”
I look back at the bed and wonder if I want to wash these or spend some of Gram’s dress money on new ones.
“Can I change some things?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“My house. My rules.”
I hold up my hand with the ring he slipped on it yesterday. “This says otherwise.”
He totally ignores my response, “Club called. I’ve got to go.”
“Already?” I drop my hand.
“Yep. Give me your phone.” He holds his hand out.
“Why?”
He just arches a brow and waggles his fingers. I begrudgingly hand it over, wondering what he wants it for. His thumb moves over the screen, typing in something and he hands it back. “Now you’ve got my number. Call me if you have an emergency.”
“An emergency? That’s the only time I’m allowed to call you?”
“You know what I mean.”
I stare down at the new contact. He’s listed himself as Saint. I half expected him to list himself as My Gorgeous Husband or Mr. Badass. “Saint, is that what I’m supposed to call you?”
“In this town, yeah. Nobody here knows me as Santos. I’d like to keep it that way.” He moves to the closet, pulls something off a hanger and slings it on. It’s a black leather vest.
My eyes sweep over it, and him in it. I know he told me about the whole motorcycle club thing, but seeing him in that vest with the word prospect on the back is a big reality check. I can’t fight the fact it looks good as hell on him. His badass level just rose a whole bunch of notches.