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“Zeke,” I began. “One day, if you come to me and tell me you have a sick kid, or someone’s threatening your wife, I will stop at nothing to help you. But you come here and tell me a guy from the Skulls is messing with the Reapers?” I shrugged.
Cotton started out of his seat, but Zeke put out his hand, motioning for him to sit still. “I hear you, man.” Zeke looked at me, assessing and respecting my words. “But if you happen to see this motherfucker—”
“Got it.” I rose. “Now if you two gentlemen will excuse me, I’ve got a bar to run.”
The two of them left out the side door, climbing on their bikes without incident. I headed out onto the floor, checking in with the manager on duty and the bartender. Monday nights were easy.
Standing where I could watch it all, I wondered when Griller would next walk into my bar. And I wondered what, if anything, I’d do about it. Zeke had clearly not changed his ways, nor would he ever. He was still up to the same old shit and always would be. My time in juvie hadn’t exactly sent me running in the opposite direction. I’d never be an FBI agent or a cop. But I’d stayed on the right side of the law since then, even if most guys I knew didn’t. Still, no matter how much I tried to avoid it, trouble seemed to follow me around, dogging my path.
A woman gave an extra swing to her hips as she approached, flashing me a sultry smile. I could see a good three inches of deep cleavage down her clingy V-neck. She’d be fun, I was sure. A simple good time, the way I usually liked it.
It made no sense that instead I pictured Sky. Dragging that awkward cart behind her, her top had twisted tight across her chest. I wanted to take that shirt off and see her straining and panting for a whole other reason.
“Good to see you, Jax.” The woman in front of me pressed a hand to my chest and ground against my hip.
“Hope you have a good night tonight.” I gave her a dismissive nod, keeping my attention on the room as a whole. She scowled and left.
I was clearly losing my mind, turning away a woman ready to go in a tight little skirt, choosing instead to stand alone and think about one in uniform scrubs. But it went beyond physical attraction with Sky. There was a story to her, one I wanted to learn. I could see hints of it in those sky-colored eyes, so guarded at times, so open at others. I could see it in the way her face transformed when she laughed, all traces of worry vanished for a few seconds of joy. I wanted to unravel who she was as much as I wanted to undress her.
But she happened to be married to a Grade A psychopath, according to Zeke. I swore under my breath, not liking the knowledge I now had. Trouble had followed me all my life. Trouble was written all over Sky. That must be why I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
3
Sky
I couldn’t wait for Daylight Savings. True, I’d lose an hour of sleep over the weekend “springing forward,” but coming home from work in the pitch black sucked. It had been dark when I’d gone in to work, too, heading there early so an aide who usually took the early morning shift could go see her kid in a school performance.
The light was on in the kitchen. I should have figured out Mike was home, but my brain was foggy and slow. I didn’t have much room to process visual clues when all I could think about was how much I wanted to take off my shoes, sit down, and watch the stupidest TV show I could possibly find.
“I was wondering when you were going to get home.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin when Mike rounded the corner. “I didn’t know you were here!” Hand to my chest, my heart raced a hundred miles an hour.
“Expecting someone else?” His comment had a suspicious edge.
“No, of course not. You’re just usually not here when I get home.” Or sometimes when I woke up, either. That had been happening more and more lately. Sometimes he slept on the couch, saying he didn’t want to wake me when he got in really late or had to take off extra early. At first, I’d felt hurt and confused. Then I’d learned to enjoy the extra room in bed.
“What, I can’t come home to have dinner with my wife?” He pressed me close in a suffocating hug. Alcohol wafted from his breath when he kissed me, and I had to exert effort not to flinch. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
I guess I hadn’t tried hard enough. I brightened up my smile. “Of course I’m happy to see you. I’m just surprised. And I’m sorry, I don’t have anything planned for dinner.” I didn’t even think we had much food in the fridge.
“Nothing?” He looked disappointed.
“If I’d known you were going to be here—”
“How many times do we have to have this conversation?” His voice rose, loud and angry, and his hands tightened on my arms. “It’s not like I get a schedule handed to me every morning. I’m not a suit. Shit happens. I never know whether I’ll be home or not.”
I pulled away, looking down, wondering how it was possible that we were already fighting. Conflict seemed to erupt between us over nothing, the slightest breeze fanning sparks into a blaze.
“C’mere, baby.” He grabbed me back, using a conciliatory tone. “I don’t want to fight tonight.”
“I don’t want to fight, either.” I felt so tired. He stroked my hair, his hand snaking around my waist. He kissed me again and I could taste he’d been drinking hard liquor, not just beer. “I want to get you pregnant.”
He placed his hand on my belly, rubbing it. I was glad my face was against his shoulder so he couldn’t see my reaction. I’d never been good at hiding my emotions. Eyes wide in dismay, I was sure I had “hell no” written all over my face.
“We’ll have a kid,” he continued. “Everything’ll be good between us.”
I kissed him back, on autopilot, thinking how I used to feel that way, too. He’d started talking about wanting a kid about a year ago, and at first I’d been excited. I’d always dreamed of having children one day. I was married and settled, so that seemed like the logical next step.
But as the months passed same as they always did, no babies on the way, my heart started feeling heavy. And then I realized why. It wasn’t that I was worried that I wouldn’t get pregnant. I was worried that I would.
He reached up my shirt and unclasped my bra, laughing as he did it. “That’s the one thing I like about these baggy scrubs. They’re easy to reach around in.”
I shrugged out of my shirt, letting my bra fall to the floor, trying for all I was worth to get in the mood. I’d never felt magical fireworks with Mike, not even the first time we’d kissed. But, honestly, I’d never felt them with anyone. I’d figured you could either waste your time waiting around for Prince Charming, or you could jump onto the horse of the guy who actually rode up to your door. Or motorcycle, as was the case with Mike.
Now? A lifetime seemed like a pretty long ride. And waiting around didn’t sound so bad, either. At least I could slip off my shoes and watch some trashy reality TV.
Mike grabbed my ass, grinding against me as he palmed my breast. I drew my hand down to his hips, sliding it along his crotch where I felt…nothing. Soft as a baby’s bottom.
He tensed at my touch. I tried to pretend like it was no big deal, or li
ke I hadn’t noticed. But he knew I’d felt him, flaccid. He’d been that way a lot lately. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten it up. There was no way I could ask him about it. He’d lose his mind. I guessed all men were sensitive on that subject.
I had to wonder, though, what was wrong. Was it me? Did he not find me attractive anymore? Or was he on something? I knew he drank a lot, but sometimes he also popped pills. I guessed they were speed or some kind of uppers since he had to stay awake late at night. Did they cause impotence?
All pretense of fooling around halted, the two of us just standing there, I felt like I had to say something. “Is everything…OK with you?” I asked, quiet and hesitant.
“God damn it, Sky! Why is it always about me?” He pulled away, pounding his fist onto the kitchen counter so hard it made the dishes on it jump. “And what is this bullshit?” He picked up a dirty plate, shoving it close to my face for me to see.
“Mike!” I pulled back. “I wasn’t trying to say—”
“Maybe if you were around more! Where the hell were you when I got home?”
“My shift doesn’t end until six.” I hated it when he got angry. He didn’t listen, just ranted.
“You left the place a pigsty.” He picked up a dirty coffee mug I’d left out on the counter.
“I had to go into work early this morning.”
With sudden, fierce vehemence, he threw the plate and mug against the wall. The mug made a loud bang and then a thud as it dropped to the floor, but the plate smashed into pieces, jagged bits scattering out in a wide splash. I screamed, frightened, and covered my ears.
He stood, slightly unsteady on his feet and breathing heavy. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked at me accusatorily. “I think you should quit that job of yours.” Then he grabbed his jacket and slammed out of the apartment.
Shaking, I stood there and tried to tell myself that everything was all right. Yes, Mike had a temper, but he wasn’t a bad guy. Every couple went through tough times. Weathering them was what marriage was all about.
