“So, what’s your plan? You just going to sit out here on my landing?” I ask, confused.
“I’m going to stay here and watch over you and this shit place until I figure out what’s going on and why you’re in danger,” he says, his milk-chocolate eyes boring into me.
“What makes you think I am?” I try to bluff.
“Ghost wouldn’t have put a deadbolt on your door or locks on your windows if he felt you weren’t under threat, Drew. That means whatever is going on, you’re in the dead center of it. So, I’m here, and right here is where I’ll remain.”
“And freeze to death. It’s winter, Train.”
“Worried about me, baby?” he asks, those lips of his upturning into a smile and causing a little dimple to form. Damn it.
“Shut up before I regret this and come inside,” I snap, walking away—but leaving the door open because I’m insane.
It doesn’t shock me when he does. He takes his boots off when he sees me doing the same, and that does surprise me, but I don’t say anything. I flip on a lamp—because this place doesn’t have overhead lighting anywhere except the kitchen and bathroom.
“Looks better than the outside,” he says, but he doesn’t really sound impressed. Not that he should, really, but it’s annoying. I look around the place trying to see it through his eyes. The walls are a dingy beige that I actually think used to be white at one time. I’ve cleaned the place from top to bottom, but most of the furniture was here when I got here. I haven’t had the time or the inclination to do much. My time was pretty much sucked up with finding Lenny, or worrying about G. I did manage to put some brown seat covers over the old sofa. G moved a television in here and hooked it to cable. I don’t watch it, but he refused to stay without it—probably because I tortured him with Stephen King books. For a badass MC guy, Ghost doesn’t have a taste for the gory horror. There’s really not much to look at in the apartment. The only personal touches are what I’ve put on the built-in bookshelf on the right side of the wall. There are books because, hey, I’m a reader. There are also photos in frames. Pictures of Ghost and I from a few years back and one that’s a selfie that I snapped the day before he was shot. I look at it often, and until recently, I don’t think I realized how sad his eyes look—despite the smile on his face.
“Why have you started calling me Drew all of the sudden?” I ask, wondering why I miss his silly nickname.
“It fits you. Much better than Cilla, by the way. How the hell did you ever come up with that?” He turns around to face me still holding the picture of me and G. I go to stand beside him taking the picture out of his hands. I put it back on the shelf ignoring the way my fingers tingle as they brush his in the process.
“It’s my name,” I mumble. “Drucilla.”
“Yikes,” Train says, wincing as he looks at me.
“Yeah. G shortened it to Drew, and it just kind of stuck. I prefer it—shocking I know.”
Train laughs. Against my better judgment, I give him a smile. Then, before I do something stupid—like kiss him—I move into the kitchen taking my red tea kettle and filling it with water. Unfortunately, it’s the only personal touch in here, too. It’s a bright red with green vines around the bottom. I don’t know why I like it. Blues are much more my color, honestly. Yet, when I look at it, it makes me happy.
“You want some hot chocolate?” I ask him, looking over my shoulder. He’s still standing in the living room but fills the open door into the kitchen. That’s just as well since the kitchen is so tiny that I can barely turn around in it. I imagine Train couldn’t.
“Are you putting whiskey in it?” he asks, an eyebrow quirked up with the question.
Damn it, how does a biker that’s a legitimate badass that looks scary and intimidating, manage to look cute and adorable at the same time? It should be against the law.
“Afraid I don’t drink, big guy. Although, I think G left a couple of beers in the fridge if you want one of those.”
“I’ll take one,” he says, and I get him one and give it to him. His fingers wrap around the cold can, over mine. He looks at me and my heart flip flops as his touch seems like it’s branding me.
“How long have you and Ghost known each other? In some of those pictures, you were definitely younger.”
“A long time,” I shrug.
“It’s weird, don’t you think?” he asks as I pull my hand away and go back to my kettle.
“What’s weird?” I ask, not turning around to look at him.
“That all this time Ghost hasn’t mentioned one word about you.”
“G is a private kind of guy.” I try to ignore how it makes me feel to know that G never mentioned me. It hurts far more than it should.
“You had to come into his life after Marcum and his old lady got together because he was too gone on her to be seeing you back then.”
“He did really care for Toi,” I admit.
“He told you about that? About the club?”
“Yeah. He’s even talked about you, although, mostly he said you were a stubborn asshole that didn’t know when to quit sometimes.”
I look at Train as I tell him that, and his lips twitch.
“Yeah. I need you to start being honest with me, Drew. When did you start dating Ghost?”
“I don’t see why that’s important.”
“Okay, fine. Maybe it’s not. Maybe I just need to know,” Train allows. When I don’t respond, he mutters something unintelligible under his breath. The room echoes with the sound of him opening his beer. “Do you love him?”
“I suddenly lost my appetite for hot chocolate,” I complain, turning off the burner. He backs away allowing me to walk out of the tiny kitchen, and toward the opposite side of the living room—which basically leads to my bedroom and a bathroom. There’s no utility room. I take my clothes across the street to the public laundromat.
“Answer me, Drew,” he says, and his tone sounds different.
“Yes, Train. I love him.”
“Does he love you?”
Now would be the time to come clean, but I don’t. If Train thinks he doesn’t have a shot, he’ll leave. He’ll be safe. Maybe he’ll even take G back to safety. Still, I hate lying to him. It burns in the pit of my stomach.
“You’ll have to ask him, Train,” I finally say, unable to utter another lie.
“I don’t need to,” he says.
“Why’s that?” I ask, surprised.
He walks over to the shelf and holds up the picture he had earlier.
“I can see it in his eyes,” he answers, and my throat threatens to close from emotion. “He loves you.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “He does.” I feel tears close to the surface, but I try to keep them at bay.
“In that case, you need to go into your room, get me a pillow and lock your door.”
I blink, pushing back the emotion I was feeling in that moment.
“Why?”
“Because until I figure out what is going on here and what kind of mess your pretty little ass is in, I’m sleeping on your couch. I also don’t trust myself not to climb in that bed with you, so you need to lock your door.”