Crash & Carnage by Emma Slate

Chapter 17

“Linden,”Boxer whispered, nudging me.

“Hmm?” I muttered into the pillow. I cracked an eye open, but it was night, and I couldn’t see in front of me.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “Club business.”

“What time is it?”

“Three in the morning.”

“I’ll walk you out.” I searched in the dark for a T-shirt and found one on the floor. I padded to the living room, covering my yawning mouth with my hand. Boxer was already dressed and ready to go.

“I’ll call you later,” he said, taking me into his arms and kissing me. Then he was gone.

I locked up after him and then trudged my way back to bed. I flopped down and pulled the covers over me, but I couldn’t seem to get comfortable. The scent of him was on my sheets; I grabbed his pillow and brought it to my nose.

I inhaled deeply, hugged the pillow to my chest, and fell back to sleep.

The next time I woke, it was past dawn. I stumbled into the shower to wake myself up, and then I made myself a cappuccino.

Leftover pizza in the box rested on the kitchen counter. I ate a piece without bothering to heat it up and thought about what was happening in my life.

I was in a relationship with a biker. A playboy. A criminal.

There was no other way to slice it.

And feelings were developing.

For a man who claimed not to be the relationship type, he seemed to be a natural when it came to handling a woman’s feelings.

I would have to tell him about my past eventually. He knew about my mother, but there was so much more that he didn’t know.

I didn’t want to sit around all day, but I had no chores to do, no errands to run.

Freddy had given me her cell number after I’d called her at Pinky’s.

I needed to return her clothes, but I also wanted more insight into the Blue Angels, and what I was getting myself into.

* * *

I walked into the restaurant and lifted my sunglasses to the top of my head. I surveyed the tables and found Freddy sitting in the corner booth, a cup of coffee in front of her. She was dressed in costume pearls and a white blouse with navy piping. I couldn’t see her pants or shoes, but I was sure she matched perfectly. She dressed like a 1950s pinup girl, and I loved that she went for it, no holds barred.

“Hey,” I greeted with a smile.

“Hey,” she said, her smile just as welcoming. “This was a great idea. Meeting for breakfast. I so didn’t want to cook.”

I laughed and set the plastic bag on the table. “I brought your clothes back. Thanks for lending them to me.”

“Keep them. I have a ton.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks,” I said with a grin. I removed the plastic bag from the table and set it on top of my purse. “I really like them.”

“Next time we’re in Waco, I’ll take you to Leather and Ink. You’ll love Laura and her store.”

The waitress arrived, and I quickly asked for a cup of coffee. Freddy ordered French toast while I took a moment to look at the menu.

“I’ll have the muesli,” I said to the waitress. “Thanks.”

She scooped up our menus and dashed away.

“Muesli?” Freddy made a face. “When they have chocolate chip pancakes on the menu? I bet you like kale, too.”

I arched a brow. “I love kale.”

“Yeah, I knew it.”

“So, this store…Leather and Ink. Is it a biker store?”

“Kind of. The Blue Angels gave Laura the money to open her store. She used to run around with them, but she kind of quit the biker chick lifestyle.”

The waitress returned with my cup of coffee and then ran off again. I reached for the creamer and a few packets of sugar.

“Full disclosure, I invited you to breakfast to squeeze you for information.”

She leaned back and grinned. “I’ll tell what I can. But you have to tell me something in return.”

“What?”

“How was the makeup sex with Boxer?”

I just smiled.

Freddy laughed. “Yeah, thought so. So, what’s your actual relationship status?”

“We haven’t technically labeled anything,” I began, “but he told me that you’re either in or out with the club. Either you become an Old Lady or you…”

“You do what I’m doing and screw around, and then go on your merry way.”

I grimaced.

“I’m just being honest.”

“Honestly crass,” I pointed out with a chuckle.

“Whatever. You hang with bikers long enough and you no longer watch what you say. I heard you were invited to Joni and Zip’s housewarming.”

“Who told—”

“Bishop. He likes pillow talk.”

“You and Bishop…is that a good thing?”

“For now.”

“You really don’t have any desire for more with him?”

“Nope.” She arched a brow. “You know you guys were the talk of the party, right?”

“We were?”

“Uh, yeah. The two of you disappeared for the rest of the night. Of course everyone was talking about you. They’re good people. Loyal. Protective of their own.” She paused, looking like she wanted to say more, but took a moment to gather her thoughts. “You remember what I told you, when Boxer brought you to Pinky’s?”

“About how women never stick around?”

She nodded. “They want to know if you have what it takes to stick around.”

I nibbled on my lip and then admitted, “He asked me to stay the night at his place after the party. He says he’s never had a woman stay over in his home before.”

“Did he now? This just got interesting.”

The waitress came back and set our food down in front of us. We dove in and our conversation was put on hold, but my head swirled with tumultuous thoughts.

“What does one bring to a biker’s house-warming?” I asked her.

“Normally, I’d say a nice bottle of liquor, but most of the Old Ladies are pregnant, so that seems like bad form.”

“Yeah, just a little bit,” I said with a laugh. “Perhaps a succulent. I’ve heard plants really liven up a space.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that too. If you can keep them alive.”

By the time I got home that afternoon, I still hadn’t heard from Boxer. I was concerned. Nothing good came from calls in the early morning hours, and I was sure it was the same with club business and whatever nefarious activities they were up to.

Working in a hospital emergency room, I was also acutely aware of the fact that people often died at night. I’d treated my fair share of gunshot wounds and drug overdoses, and most of them had been at night.

I set my purse onto the counter and then headed to the bedroom to change into workout clothes. A good run on the treadmill would help quiet my mind.

I worked out hard, running five miles at a brisk pace. When I climbed off the treadmill, I was dripping sweat, and my legs felt like jelly. I grabbed my water bottle and threw the towel I’d brought with me to the condo’s gym around my neck.

The afternoon passed without a word from Boxer, and my concern grew into fear. He said he’d call, but he hadn’t. By ten, I finally picked up my phone and sent him a text asking if he was okay.

I went to bed without a reply.

* * *

A thump woke me out of a sound sleep. I sat up—heart in my throat—listening for a moment. I flung off the covers and got out of bed. The alarm clock read 3:12.

I flipped on the hallway light and made my way into the living room. I heard another whomp on the other side of the condo door, followed by a curse.

I glanced through the peephole, but I couldn’t see anything. And then there was a heavy rap on the door. I unlocked and opened it, poking my head out into the hallway.

Boxer was slumped against the wall, his legs spread out in front of him. He looked up at me with glassy gray eyes. “Hey, Doc.”

I crouched down next to him. “Hi.” I ran my hand across his forehead. He didn’t have a fever. When he exhaled, fumes of liquor hit me square in the face. “Well, I think I know your problem. How’d you get passed the security guard?”

“I came in through the underground garage. I woke you up,” he slurred.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Can you stand?”

He paused. “I’m not standing?”

I wedged my shoulder into his armpit. “Put your arm around me.”

Boxer threw a heavy arm around me and nuzzled into my neck. “You smell good.”

“I smell better than you,” I said lightly. “Come on. Up you go.”

Boxer managed to stand, and I held on to him tightly as I got him into the condo. I kicked the door shut and then led him toward the bedroom.

“How did you get here? Please tell me you didn’t ride your motorcycle.”

“Nah, I made a sober prospect drive me.”

“Shotty deal for him,” I said, wondering why a prospect was at his beck and call.

I guided him to the bed and moved out from underneath his arm. He plopped down onto the edge of the mattress and reached into his leather cut and pulled out a pistol, which he set on the nightstand. And then he fell back against the pillows.

I paused for a moment, looking at the firearm, and then unlaced his boots and slid them off him. Then I went to work trying to get him out of his leather cut and jeans, so he’d be more comfortable.

“Boxer, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Better. Now that I’m here.” He stretched out onto the bed and then rolled over, sliding his inked arms underneath my pillow and pressing his cheek into it.

He muttered something beneath his breath that I couldn’t decipher.

“What was that?” I prodded.

“Save people. You.”

A moment later, he was snoring softly. I looked down at him, wondering what had happened that was so bad that he’d had to drink himself stupid.

I smoothed his dirty blond hair off his forehead and then touched his whiskered cheek. I hoped he explained when he woke up.

* * *

I didn’t go back to bed. Instead, I curled up on the couch and watched a movie on TV, keeping an ear cocked for any noise coming from my bedroom. Boxer slept on. Around dawn, I crept to the bed and peered at him, but he was still fast asleep. I’d left water and four aspirin on the nightstand, so when he woke up, he could pop them immediately.

Hunger forced me to the kitchen. I was cooking fried eggs on toast when I heard the bedroom door open. It was slow, like the door itself was in pain.

Boxer slinked into the room, his face ashen. He collapsed onto a bar stool at the counter and then placed his head in his hands.

“Coffee?” I asked him.

“Please,” he rasped.

I grabbed a new mug from the cabinet and poured him a cup. I served it to him black. “Are you hungry?”

“God, no.”

“Not even toast?” I prodded.

He shook his head.

I took my plate of food and stood at the counter to eat it. It was silent in the kitchen while I ate, and Boxer downed coffee.

When I was finished, I poured myself a second cup, made it light and sweet, and then took the stool next to him. “So,” I began.

“So,” he said, looking wary.

“You got really drunk and then came here.”

He winced. “Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

Boxer rubbed the back of his neck but didn’t reply.

“I was worried about you,” I said quietly. “You said you were going to call me, and you never did.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“This is the kind of stuff you were alluding to, wasn’t it? About being part of the club and what it means to be an Old Lady? The waiting around…the not knowing?”

“Yeah. This is the kind of shit you’d have to put up with.” He took another sip of his coffee. “I can’t tell you anything about club business, but you need to know something. There are times when life is so fucking tragic and bleak. Innocent people get hurt sometimes, and it weighs on me. I’m sorry I came here. I’m sorry I brought this to your door.”

He got up off the stool, but before he was able to move away, I put my hand on his arm. “Don’t go. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I know what it’s like, needing an escape. Even if you can’t tell me what’s going on, I’m glad you came here.”

Boxer stared at me. “You sure?”

I nodded.

He let out a long exhale. “Can we forget about this?”

“No, I can’t forget about this.”

“Shit, this fucked it all up for you. I knew it. I knew something like this would scare you off.”

“I’m not scared off,” I protested. “But I am trying to figure out how to live in your world, Boxer. This is all new. Just…give me some time to process, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said morosely. “All right.”

“I’m not bailing.”

“Right,” he muttered.

“I’m not,” I insisted. “You laid it all out there for me, and I’m glad you did but hearing it and seeing it are two different things. Just give me some time, okay?”

“Sure. Take as much time as you need.”

His tone did not match his words.

I swallowed, not liking the tension that stretched between us.

Boxer’s gaze dropped from mine as he reached for his phone. He shot off a text, and a few seconds later his cell beeped.

“South Paw will be here in a bit to pick me up.”

“He’s the one who dropped you off last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did he stay?” I asked. “Did he sleep in the truck?”

“Probably hung out at an all-night diner.”

“Waiting for you to call?”

“Yup.”

I took his empty coffee mug and rinsed it and set it in the top rack of the dishwasher. “You don’t have to leave.”

“I have shit to do,” he said. “You mind if I use your shower before I go? I smell like a distillery.”

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks.”

He got up off his stool and immediately went toward the bedroom…without kissing me. Without hugging me. Without touching me.

What the hell was going on?

I was more than confused, I was downright befuddled. I heard the faintest sounds of the shower turning on, and then I made a snap decision. As I headed for the bedroom, I stripped off my T-shirt. My pajama bottoms followed. And then I strolled naked into the bathroom and opened the glass door of the shower.

His blond hair looked even darker when it was wet, and he hung his head to hide his face from me, but not before I glimpsed the anguish in his eyes.

I wrapped my arms around him, and he clung to me like a lifeline. He lifted his head and met my gaze.

“Linden,” he whispered as his lips took mine, seeking escape.

Like the escape he’d given me days ago.

Would I do any less for him now?

I didn’t have time to think as his tongue swept into my mouth, and his hands wandered up and down my body. He turned me so I went under the hot spray. My skin was slick and warm, and then he was positioning my back against the glass wall of the shower. He lifted one of my legs and opened me up to him.

His fingers teased my entrance, stroking and playing, but he didn’t spend time like he usually did. I sensed his barely controlled ferocity. He gave himself a few quick pumps, and then he was guiding his shaft into me.

My body swallowed him, greedy, and ready despite the lack of foreplay. He rammed into me, hard, filling me completely.

I gasped, and it mingled with his moan. He pressed his forearm to the wall behind me so he could leverage himself better. The glass was cool at my back, and he was warm at my front. I closed my eyes and relished the feel of him, hot and hard inside me.

I nearly lost my footing, but Boxer’s strong body offered support. My fingers grasped the hair at his nape, and I drew his mouth closer to mine.

He slid in and out, slippery and feverish. When he hit the perfect spot between my legs, I clamped around him as I drowned in pleasure.

The back of my head hit glass, and I didn’t care. Boxer’s hand clenched my hip, and then he hastily pulled out, so he didn’t come inside me. He painted my belly with his seed and the shower washed me clean of him.

He licked his lips and then stared at me. He opened his mouth to say something, but I quickly pressed my fingers to his lips.

“Don’t. I understand.”

His expression softened, and then he turned his head to kiss my palm. I grabbed the bar of soap and worked it into a foamy lather. I smoothed it over his skin, washing him, tending to him. I was surprised he let me.

While he was rinsing off, I hastily cleansed myself, and then set the soap aside.

“Let me wash your back,” he said, his voice husky.

I turned. His hands were gentle, as if all the violence he’d felt earlier had disappeared.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally.

“Why?” I asked. “I’ve needed you in the same way.”

“I’m not apologizing for that.” He paused. “I was inside you without protection.”

“So you were,” I murmured.

He stopped washing my back and then gripped my arms to turn me to face him. “You don’t strike me as the forgetful type.”

I took a deep breath but held his gaze. “I didn’t forget. I trust you, Boxer.”

His gaze narrowed as his thumbs rubbed circles on my arms as he continued to hold me. “What about pregnancy?”

“I’m on the shot.”

He gently pulled me to his chest and held me there, letting the water and words rain down on us.

We finally separated, and Boxer turned off the water. I grasped a clean towel and climbed out of the shower first. Boxer took the other one and rubbed his head, which made his hair stick up. He looked incredibly boyish, and it made me smile.

His cell phone trilled in the living room. “Shit,” he muttered. “I bet that’s South Paw.” He strode out of the bathroom, wrapping the towel around his waist as he went.

I heard him answer his phone. I went to the dresser and pulled out a pair of panties. I was sliding them on when Boxer came back into the bedroom.

“South Paw’s downstairs,” Boxer said, dropping the towel.

I wanted to pounce on him, but I forced myself to look away. “Okay.”

“What time do you have to be at the hospital?” he asked as I heard him begin to pull on his pants.

“I’m off,” I said, finally turning to look at him again.

He belted his jeans and then glanced at me. “You are?”

I nodded. “You could stay. If you want.”

He pulled his cell out of his pocket and hit a button. Boxer put the phone to his ear. “Change of plans. I’m spending the day at Linden’s. You can bounce but keep your phone on you. If I need you, I’ll call.”

Boxer hung up and tossed his cell on the bed.

“Does he just sit around waiting for you to tell him what to do?” I asked.

“Pretty much. He’s a prospect,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“So, he’s your bitch?”

He chuckled. “Something like that.”

He reached for his shirt and made a move to yank it over his head but then hesitated. “I think I spilled an entire bottle of bourbon on myself last night.”

“Give it here, I’ll throw it in the wash. You might as well take off your pants and briefs. I’ll wash them too.”

“What am I supposed to do? Walk around your condo naked?” He grinned, and I knew the idea didn’t upset him in the least as he immediately stripped again. “Isn’t this domestic? We’re doing laundry together.”

I rolled my eyes. “Dry towels are in the hall closet. Or you can wear my robe. Might be a bit short on you, but it’s your call.”

He opted for a towel. It was a small one, covering just enough of him to entice my fantasies.

“After a hot shower and steamy shower sex you seem back to your old self,” I pointed out.

“Same could be said for you. You’ve got some of your own fire back.”

“I never lost my fire,” I countered. “I just know when to bank it.”

The vulnerability he’d shown when drunk had been nothing compared to his anguish while sober. I wasn’t sure if he had let me see it on purpose, or if he’d just been unable to conceal it. Sometimes the burdens we carried weren’t so easily stowed away.

After I put Boxer’s clothes into the washing machine, I headed back to the living room. Boxer was on the couch, the remote already in his hand.

I was grateful he wanted to do something mundane that would occupy our time. I was already emotionally spent after our time in the shower. I didn’t have more in me and wanted to take it easy. He patted the seat next to him, and I curled up on the couch and pulled a navy–blue blanket over me.

“Here,” Boxer said. He took an accent pillow from the couch and placed it against his lap. “Lie down.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I stretched out, made sure I was covered, and then placed my cheek onto the pillow. His fingers dragged through my hair. Lulled by his touch and comfort, I quickly fell asleep.

* * *

I stretched my arms over my head as my eyes flitted open. I sniffed the air, unable to derive what I was smelling.

A timer buzzed.

I sat up and saw Boxer removing a glass casserole dish from the oven with red oven mitts. He set the dish on the stove and pulled off the gloves.

“What’s that?” I asked, my voice husky with sleep.

Boxer looked over his shoulder at me and smiled. “You’re awake. Just in time. I made mac and cheese.”

I blinked. “You cooked?”

“Yeah.” He was wearing his clean T-shirt and briefs, looking relaxed and at home. “You passed out and didn’t even wake up when I got up to put the clothes in the dryer. Figured I might as well use the time to make us dinner.” He cocked his head to the side. “You look confused.”

“No, I’m not confused. I’m just…thank you. That was sweet of you.”

“Yeah, that was definitely sweet of me.” He grinned. “Keep that in mind for later.”

I let out a laugh. “Will cook for sex? Is that what this is?”

“Nah. Will cook for blow jobs.”

“Good to know where we stand,” I said dryly.

I got up off the couch and headed to the bathroom. After I splashed some cool water on my face, I came back into the kitchen. Boxer had already served us, the plates set at the bar.

“You seem to be feeling better,” I commented.

“Yeah, I feel okay.”

We took our seats on the bar stools. I picked up a fork and took a bite of the mac and cheese. It was creamy and delicious, and everything I wanted.

“How is it?” he asked.

“Perfect.” I set my fork down and got up. “Water?”

“Sure,” he said.

“You cook?” I asked as I went to the cabinet.

“Nope. But I can follow a recipe every now and again.”

“How do you survive?” I teased.

“The Old Ladies usually feed me. I won’t starve. They won’t let me,” he joked.

“So, should I be flattered that you whipped this up for me?”

“Very flattered.”

I brought our glasses back to the bar. “What are you going to do to impress me in the future?”

He looked at me, his smile soft. “Damn fine question.”