His tagline is “looking for a serious relationship.”
Well, I’m changing that. I think “looking for a woman who cans fruit and knows her generators” has a ring to it. Fits the picture. Catches the eye.
Okay, so what does all-grown-up Forty Nowicki want in a serious relationship?
I work construction and enjoy rides with my motorcycle club movies and eating out the ideal woman would ride. I spend my free time fishing and like I said on my bike.
I’m getting the feeling Forty doesn’t have much free time. Or working knowledge of grammar.
Looking for a woman who is organized loyal with good common sense. Basically someone low maintenance with their shit together. Bonus if you’re tall blonde and love monster trucks professional wrestling and motorcycles.
Triple ouch.
I sink into the desk chair, all my frantic energy gone. I am the exact opposite of Forty’s perfect woman. Except the monster trucks and motorcycles.
I don’t even have the heart to mess with his blurb. Much. I do add some punctuation. Now he enjoys rides with his motorcycle, club movies, and eating out the ideal woman.
I lean back and spin the chair. This sucks. I’ve heard about letting go of your ego in order to find inner peace, but mine’s getting bulldozed here. I just happily sucked off a guy whose dating profile might as well read Literally, anyone but her.
And then a key turns in the lock. I turn to face the door, dread pooling in my stomach.
There’s a long pause before the door opens, as if for deliberate effect, and then Heavy strides in, his boots falling like concrete blocks. He has to duck his head to get through the door frame. He eyes the mess before he skewers me with the most scorn-filled glare I’ve ever been subject to in my life. Which is saying something.
I open my mouth to defend myself—who knows how; I’m always surprising myself—but he interrupts by raising his enormous hand.
“When I’ve said my piece, I’m leaving, and this door will be unlocked. This is what you’re going to do.”
Bullet and Creech follow him in and loom silently in the doorway, mean-mugging, flexing their fists.
“You’re going to put everything back as you found it, and you’re going to walk away. Take the stairs by the exit sign. There’s a Ford Focus parked in the back lot with the keys in it. It’s yours. There’s a check in the glovebox for fifty thousand dollars. Made out to you. You’re going to get in that car and drive until you pass out. Then drive for another two days. I don’t care which direction. I’ll make sure you’re in the clear. No Renellis. No Rebel Raiders. Only one condition.”
I swallow. My throat’s gone entirely dry. Heavy’s size alone is intimidating as hell. “Which is?”
“You never come back to Petty’s Mill. You never contact Forty or Fay-Lee or anyone affiliated with Steel Bones ever again.”
“Lou?”
“That’s your choice. He can stay in contact with you, or he can hang around here. Both isn’t an option.”
He looms there, glowering, crowding the room. Scary as shit, to be honest.
“A Ford Focus, eh? Not sure how to take that.” I giggle, my nerves making me sound on the verge of hysteria.
“Take it. Go. There’s nothing for you here. When it comes down to it, Forty will choose his brothers. Not you. He’ll drop you. Again. Make the smart choice. Stop embarrassing yourself.”
He sneers at me for another few seconds, and then turns. A horrible thought pops into my head, and I call out before he can go. “Would the Renellis hurt him? Over me?”
Heavy looks at me as if I just don’t compute. “The Renellis and Steel Bones go way back. We would never war over you. You’re not anywhere near as important as you think you are, Nevaeh.”
Then he turns up his lip in disgust and stalks off, leaving the door wide open behind him, Bullet and Creech on his heels.
I exhale slowly. This must be how it feels like to encounter a bear in the woods and walk away unscathed. Badass for no good reason.
I scan the room. There’s all sorts of crap on the floor. At a loss for what to do, I slide down and start scooping stuff up. It is kind of a dick move to trash someone’s place, especially someone who’s so obviously anal retentive.
As I straighten up, my visit from the-ghost-of-dickheads-past begins to put a couple things into perspective.
First, and I never would have guessed this, but my price is apparently higher than fifty thousand dollars. And I know it was supposed to feel like a burn, like I’m a whore who can be bought, but if I’m worth fifty G’s, I’m way more valuable than I thought I was.
Second, Forty still cares about me. It’s as clear as the difference between a locked and an open door.
For the first time in a while, a sense of calm falls over me. I finish shoving a stapler and envelopes into a desk drawer, and I go collapse on his bed. His Army green comforter is crisp and clean and smells like spring fresh laundry detergent.
My brain swirls like it always does, but the loops are lazy and slow. I’m used to riding the ups and downs, but the past hour or so has been one hell of a crazy rollercoaster ride of emotion. It broke my noggin.
My eyes fall on Forty’s desk. There are a dozen books lined up by size on the hutch. Frederick Forsythe. Ben-Hur. No pictures. The walls are bare. There’s nothing on his chest of drawers but a wrench. It’s the kind of room that some would say “needs a woman’s touch.”
I think Forty Nowicki needs a woman’s touch.
I don’t know what love is. I’m probably as wrong about it as I am about most things. But here’s what it feels like to me.
When I was fourteen, I had a bonfire in me, crackling and bright, the kind you dance and laugh around. The kind you get lost staring into. When I was seventeen, Forty left, and the fire was doused by a downpour of freezing rain. There wasn’t an ember left smoldering. Not one.
But still, a long time later, there’s a place where the fire was. It’s a good place for a fire. It’s been waiting all this time. There’s no love now, but you know what? There should be.
I’m no catch, but I’m worth more than fifty G’s.
This is a barren room. It needs warming.
I yawn so wide it cracks my jaw. I grab the comforter and pull it over me like a taco.
Vaguely, I realize it’s nuts to ignore a clear threat from Heavy Ruth. But I’m a goldfish. The danger left, I’ve swum around my bowl a few times, and the fear has already floated off into the babbling in my mind.
My lower back aches, my boobs are sore, and I’m exceptionally horny, so it’s probably almost that time of the month. Do I have tampons? Maybe I shoved them in Carlo’s messenger bag when I packed. What did I do with the bag?
I left a bucket of dirty mop water in the middle of the kitchen. Lou’s gonna be pissed.
I haven’t been to monster truck in years. I miss monster truck.
My brain misfires and meanders, and I pick at the loose stitching at the corner of the pillowcase.
This isn’t going to be easy. Spitting in the eye of an entire MC. Rekindling a fire from nothing. But I love lost causes.
After all, I am one.
7
FORTY