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Ronan grunted as his hand slipped off the bolt, skinning his knuckles. “Fucker,” he said softly, unsure if he was addressing the wrench or his friend.
Jett chuckled. “I’d like to, so there’s that.”
He paused and set down the tool, fully facing his friend. “What?”
“You were checking her out, but so was I.” He sipped his beer again. “Funny thing is, I think she was checkin’ us out too.”
Ronan shook his head. “You’re nuts. She’d never go for a guy like us.”
He shrugged. “Maybe she’d go for two guys like us.”
With a scowl, Ronan returned to his work. “That works for Slash, Choirboy, and Vanessa, but I ain’t the type.”
“You never know ‘til you try it. It’s not so bad, sharing.”
Ronan’s hand damned near slipped again, and he clenched the wrench tightly. “You sound like you have some experience.” He didn’t mask his skepticism.
“Some. I spent a summer sharing an old lady with Hawke.”
“You didn’t.”
“Did,” said Jett with a cocky assurance that made it hard to doubt. “Remember Rosie?”
He scrunched his brow, finally recalling a woman who’d hung with the club for a summer a few years back. She’d been a college student playing biker babe, and when the season ended, she’d returned to whatever upscale, comfy life awaited her. “I don’t remember her being anything special that you had to share her. Why didn’t you ask her to choose?”
“She didn’t want to, and I didn’t care enough to make her. Hawke’s a good guy, and we had some fun with her—alone and together.”
Ronan snorted. “Now you’re saying you’re bi?”
Jett laughed. “Brother, I have no use for men in that way, and neither does Hawke. Would you care if I did?”
He shook his head. “Why should I? I don’t care who you put your dick in as long as you don’t have designs on me.”
To be an ass, Jett leaned closer and puckered his lips. “How’s about a little kiss?”
“Fuck you,” said Ronan but with amusement. It faded when Jett turned serious.
“I can tell you like her, and I like her. If she likes us, I just wanted to feel you out, to see what you think about sharing time with Ms. Lee?”
Ronan’s mouth was dry. His first instinct was to say no-fucking-way, but he held back. Taking a moment to think it through, he decided he didn’t mind sharing her. It was all a fantasy anyway. “Sure, I’d be up for that.”
“Good to know, brother.” Jett pounded him on the back as he got up from where he’d crouched. “Guess I’d better get back to that bike. And you have an impatient princess waiting for a carb rebuild.”
“Yeah, once she finishes her homework and I finish fixing Slash’s latest fuckup.” He shook his head again as Jett walked away. His thoughts should be on the repair, but it was a while before he was able to enter the zone again without thoughts of Ms. Lee, pressed between him and Jett, intruding and distracting him.
With Jett stayinglate to finish his restoration, Ronan and Kayla rode up to the trailer outside of town where she lived with her parents, Willow and Linc. The remnants of Linc’s bike, now a pile of twisted metal, much of it chromed, sat alongside the dirt driveway next to Willow’s battered and faded blue Ford pickup.
The trailer had seen better days, but Ronan knew they were glad to have it because of its one sterling quality—it was paid for. With Linc unable to work, and disability not paying much, keeping the monthly bills as low as possible was the only way they’d survive. Even before the crash and all the hospital bills, Linc had been having trouble finding work full-time. With the economy in the toilet and new construction almost at a standstill, he’d been getting by doing home repairs under the table and working for cash.
His pot habit didn’t help the family fortunes, either. For his entire life, Linc had just gotten by. He was strong and bull-headed, and finding he was unable to help himself wasn’t doing much for his mood. Not that he got angry, but Ronan worried about him getting depressed or maybe becoming a drunk. It had happened to others he’d known.
Willow was strong and loved Linc. He had that much going for him. And Kayla loved her parents. That helped too.
Ronan was fortunate to have steady work at his garage. He’d bought it for cash when he got out of prison after doing ten long years for killing a club enemy. He’d paid his dues, and he’d acted in self-defense, but now his record meant he wasn’t a prime candidate for any sort of high-paying job. Even without that, he had a spotty record in working for someone else. If you asked the Marines, they’d tell you that much. He’d been asked to leave. He’d been asked to leave any number of jobs.
Then had come prison. He’d killed a man. He’d been shot in the process, and in his eyes, though not the law’s, killing the other biker had been self-defense. Without any credible witnesses (it was his word and Slash’s against that of three guys from the other club), the circumstances didn’t convince a jury. If it hadn’t been for his wife… well, regrets had no place in a biker’s life unless he wanted to get sour and filled with self-hate.
Linc had suffered from that some. Not as bad as some of them, but the seeds had been there, and the accident had increased his bitterness, his negativity. Ronan understood the temptation.
