I also hated being snarky.
So I clamped my mouth shut.
Mom giggled just a little.
I turned a glare toward her and saw instantly she wanted Chaos to take care of me really, really badly.
Damn it!
Lanie took a step forward, digging in the slick clutch she’d had tucked under her arm, a slick clutch that went with her slick outfit of tailored trousers, fabulous feminine blouse, and magnificent heels that did not say “Biker Old Lady” but instead said, “Givenchy Thinks This Chick Is The Shit.”
She pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me.
It was thick, almost like cardstock, and had a cool logo of an advertising agency on the top with the name Elaine Kincaid, CEO under it with something written below.
I’d missed that news.
She wasn’t just Hop’s old lady, they’d gotten hitched.
“That’s the address for your new place. It’s close to Colombo’s and close to your mom. Actually, a lot closer than your old place,” she said.
I stared down at the address and saw she told no lies. It was probably a ten-minute ride from Mom’s place and the same from Colombo’s.
Last, it was the same from Ride, the auto supply store and custom car and bike garage that Chaos owned where their Compound was also located.
In other words, it was smack in what certain citizens of Denver knew with zero doubts was Chaos territory, owned, controlled, and patrolled by the brothers.
I’d lived in Aurora, a suburb southeast of Denver, with Beck.
In terms of club turf, that address was like I was moving to a different country.
Well, at least I could shave off forty minutes from my work commute.
“My number is also on that, as is Tyra’s,” Lanie shared. “If you like, we’d love to show you and Renae,” she gestured with a hand to Mom, “your new space.” She gave me a grin. “It’s really cute.”
“And who do I pay rent to?” I asked pointedly.
Tack rejoined the conversation by growling, “That’s covered.”
“Kane,” Tyra said under her breath.
Okay, this I couldn’t give in on. I paid my own way.
“Absolutely unacceptable,” I said on top of mine.
“For a few months,” Lanie cut in. “Just a few months. After you settle in, get healed up, we’ll talk about rent.”
“How do I know it’ll be something I can afford?” I asked.
“It’ll be something you can afford,” Hop answered.
“Hop,” Lanie said sharply.
“We’ll hammer all that out when the time comes,” Tyra put in.
“This is wonderful, thank you,” Mom said.
And that, as was Mom’s way, was that.
My voice was a lot like hers (in times not like this one, but Mom’s never wavered), delicate and melodious. Soothing. Peaceful. I could probably count on one hand how often she’d raised her voice that I remembered. Even in heavy situations, when folks were upset or angry, if Mom waded in, her calm, the tranquility of her voice, assured and settled pretty much any situation.
And right then it said she appreciated what they were doing for her daughter, but she and I were both done with this conversation.
I’d had years of Mom being able to pull that kind of thing off.
I was still surprised to see it work on Tack Allen and Hopper Kincaid.
“Appreciate you ladies givin’ us time,” Tack murmured. “And good to see you’re healin’, sweetheart,” he said to me.
“We’ll just head out,” Hop added, making a move with Tack.
“Call us when you go to your new place,” Lanie urged. “Or…you have the keys, if you go, give us a bell and tell us what you think.”
“Right, thanks,” I replied.
“And if you need anything…” Tyra let that trail.
I just nodded to her and gave her a tight smile.
“Thank you for coming,” Mom said, making her own move to the door.
I stayed where I stood.
“See you later,” Lanie said to me.
“Mm-hmm,” I hummed noncommittally.
“’Bye, Rosalie,” Tyra said.
I nodded to her again.
Tack and Hop gave me looks and jerked up their chins.
A week ago I would have found that hot.
Now I thought…
Men.
Mom murmured good-byes and thank yous and see you laters and I stood watching her as she ushered them out and closed the door on them.
Only when the door was closed did I walk through the room to the front window.
I looked out, intent to watch them drive away.
But what I saw made me suck in breath.
Snap was out there.
Now talking in a close-huddle, heads-bent way with Tack and Hop while Lanie and Tyra drifted toward the truck and SUV in our driveway, Snap’s bike at the curb.
He was out there.
Shy was tall, dark and lanky.
Beck was tall, dark and stocky.
Snap was blond, shorter than both Shy and Beck, (taller than me), with an athletic build that was both powerful and lean. He had thick eyebrows darker than his hair and a blond beard that was dark under his jaws, light everywhere else, clipped short and groomed, mostly, but long at the chin.
His hair came down to his shoulders and he almost always wore it in a messy bun at the back, but if he kept it down, he slicked it back with something so it stayed out of his face.
He had amazing cheekbones, a beautiful lower lip, and gorgeous, strong white teeth that shone bright against skin that was always tan due to his ride being a bike.
All that was fantastic.
But for me with Snap it was the eyes.
His eyes reminded me of a husky dog’s eyes. If you looked closely enough (and until recently I hadn’t allowed myself to pay attention to the fact that I did…a lot), they weren’t the light blue that they seemed to be at a glance.
Most of the iris was almost like snow and the blue cast they had came from a rim of sky at the edge of the iris and the edge of the pupil, both that bled into the white.
I’d never seen eyes like Snapper’s.
You would think that snow would put you in a deep freeze but he’d never, not once, not even for an instant, given me anything cold.
He was all warm for me.
It was a hair down day for Everett “Snapper” Kavanaugh, slicked back, whatever he used making the light blond seem darker.
It was also an intent day, I could tell by the serious look on his face while he was listening to Tack speak.
He wasn’t going to invade my space because I’d kicked him out of my hospital room (God, that was so Snapper).
But he wasn’t waiting even for a phone call to learn how I was. He was getting a briefing on me. Everything. From how I looked to how I held myself to how I behaved to how I reacted to what they’d offered me (or, more accurately, what I’d been forced to accept).
You’re gonna be in my life and I’m gonna be in yours. Bank on it.
“Is that him?” Mom whispered from beside me, standing so close our arms brushed.
She knew everything. Everything about everything. Around the time I turned seventeen, she started the long process of morphing from just my mom, to my mom and sometimes friend, to my friend and sometimes mom, to my best friend who was also the precious being who had birthed me.