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“Love the new tatt, Austin,” I tell him, checking out his neck which is now decorated with a black eagle with its wings spread out. The tattoo stops just behind his ears.
“Yeah, it’s starting to heal. Fucking hurt like a son of a bitch, but so worth it. If you need some space filled,” he says, pointing to my right arm, “let me know. I can always book you in at the parlor.”
“Can’t believe you went for it, dude,” Evan says, leaning against the kitchen counter and draping his arm over my shoulder, drawing me close to his chest. “My arms and back are the only things I’m getting inked.”
Austin gives him the Cheshire cat smile that the girls can’t resist, before stuffing his mouth full with the rest of my pizza.
“If you’ve got time, can you draw up a new design? Was thinking about getting something to fill in the space on my shoulder?” Evan asks. “Some badass mix between the Special Forces and being a gun for hire.”
“Sure, man. I’ll email you some shit I put together you might like.” Austin tips his chin at me before taking a beer from Evan and migrating to the couch.
“Get out of the way, asshole,” Frankie yells, his blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. He’s always been the practical joker of the group. The boy is sex on legs and all the girls know it; he has enough numbers by the end of his shift at the bar to start a phone book. He used to be a star quarterback and was set with a scholarship to Notre Dame, but he busted up his knee. He still uses the wounded animal bit to pick up ladies at the bar, and they eat it up. Or drink it up, in his case.
He lifts me, spinning me around in his arms. Moaning, he kisses me on the mouth, and puts me down again. We are friends but Evan grunts behind us. “Stop harassing the girl. Ever heard of the whole ‘me too’ movement?”
“Jealous?” Frankie jokes, before blowing me a kiss.
I blow him one back and he clutches his heart, pretending to faint. Evan shakes his head, muttering under his breath and scraping a hand over his buzz-cut before opening his beer by slamming the top against the counter.
Frankie puts his arms around me. “We have been lost without you the last couple weeks.” Sighing, he says, “Thank fuck you’re back, babe. Missed you and your cooking.”
Evan raises his beer in acknowledgment, and I can’t help but giggle.
Frankie continues, still hugging me, “You know what they say, Al. I’d rather have someone cook me a homemade meal every day than get a blowjob every night.” He kisses my hair before letting me go.
Shaking my head, I turn to Evan, who nods in agreement. “Blow jobs you can teach. Cooking? Well, you either have it or you don’t,” he chimes in, leaning against the pool table.
“And we fucking don’t,” Austin agrees from his seat on the couch, eyes glued to the television.
“So glad I stepped back into nineteen fifty-five when I walked through the door,” I say, saluting them.
I love cooking for the guys. It is a hobby and they are the best test subjects, eating everything I put in front of them. And I love that I can take care of them. They are my blood; we’re a big testosterone-heavy, dysfunctional family. Looking around the trash-talking group, I can’t imagine living my life without every single one of them.
“Where did Gunn go?” When it’s quiet, you can always expect he’s up to no good. Dude has the face of an angel and the devil stuck on his shoulder.
“Went out to get the other drinks from the truck,” Austin says, his mouth full of chips.
“I’m right here,” Gunner answers, kicking the door shut, carrying two, no make that three, six-packs of beer. “Hey again, sis,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. We are twins by a couple of minutes. Two peas in a pod. The difference being, he has been sporting a mullet since high school, which should make him look ridiculous with his hair shaved at the sides, but every girl in Nashville loves it.
Mix it with this whole cutoffs-and-flannel-shirt phase he has going on, and people think he’s an up-and-coming country singer.
“How’s life in the fast lane?” he asks, brushing his hair back. I cross my arms, following him around the kitchen, and focus on the leather vest he’s wearing.
“Better tell me what’s up with you, Mister Supermodel?”
He grunts in response but his eyes always give him away. He gives me a cool look, hanging his cut over the dinner chair.
My brother got patched by the Devil’s Sons MC about a year ago. They are one of the biggest motorcycle clubs in the States, originally from California. Gunn is a member of the Nashville chapter.
“What happened?” My voice is stern as I turn from my brother to assess the merry band of misfits.
They all pretend to be busy, not meeting my eyes. Not even Evan. Bunch of chickens. Gunner sticks out his tongue like he is still six years old, opening the fridge. “Do we have anything to eat?”
“Do not change the subject. And it was your turn to do the shopping. I came straight from the airport this morning when you fuckers were still sleeping, dropped off my shit, and headed for the studio.”
“I’m not changing the subject,” Gunner says over his shoulder, still peering into the empty fridge.
“And I thought models didn’t eat?” I mumble, filling my mouth with an Oreo cookie and leaning against the kitchen counter.
