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“Nope. Just sleep tonight,” she said, heading for the door. “I’ll be in the other room if you want the pills.”
“Wait!” Another need surged through my lower gut as I thought about lying in this bed all night, and I didn’t think my lead-like body would allow me to make it.
She turned and looked at me with one brow raised.
Heat flushed into my face at being so helpless. I looked over the edge of the bed, then let out a frustrated growl. “I need to piss.”
She smirked. “I’ll get a bucket.”
7
Bou
Morning came too soon. Up half the night, I wasn’t ready to rise and shine when my phone buzzed on the coffee table by the couch. Only my overprotective brother would be texting me this early, and he could wait. I rolled over and winced as pain shot through my back. Sleeping on the tiny couch wasn’t going to last. I needed to find out how long Wilde would be laid up in my bed before I could have it back. It wasn’t that I minded having someone that large and hard and—Stop it, Bou! I hated that my mind went there. He was sick and in need, but something about him dripped sin and told me to stay far-the-hell away. If it’d be more than another night or two, I’d have to send someone to town for another mattress. Doc had a van; I bet he’d help out.
Zzt-zzt-zzt.
Dang. Guess I wasn’t going back to sleep. I reached out to the table for the phone, patting around until I found it. I had to blink several times to get my tired eyes to focus on the screen, but when they did, I read.
Celt: OMW over.
Celt: We’ve got a problem.
I sat up, tossed the phone on the table, and dropped my head into my hands. “Shit, what now?” After several more minutes of trying to wake up, I ran my fingers through my tangled and unruly curls and got up. In the bathroom, I spit bathed, changed, and tied my hair back then stopped by my bedroom door and looked in on Wilde. He had his good leg thrown out over the blanket and his unslung arm draped over his eyes. His chest and abs were relaxed but still hella cut. The colorful tattoos over his one shoulder and arm only added to the definition of his tight muscles. My mouth watered. I considered seeing if he needed anything but decided not to wake him. He needed the sleep more than he needed anything else I might offer.
In my shop, I raised the garage door and looked across the road and over the field of sage brush. A tumbleweed rolled in the distance, but everything else was still. At the workbench, I inspected the tank I’d been working on. It was ready after that last coat of paint, so I went to the cabinet for the clear-coat and larger sprayer. As I was getting it all hooked up, a cop car and van pulled in, kicking up dust.
Celt stepped out of the battered black and white sedan. To say he was dressed in uniform would be a stretch. His Justins tapped across the concrete as he strutted into the shop. He wore jeans and a tight black tank. The police uniform shirt hung open. He dragged a hand through his hair as he strode toward me, marking each step with purpose. “How’s he doing?”
“Nice of you to ask,” I said, pitching my voice to match his acerbic tone.
Celt glared.
“He’s fine. Sleeping.”
Doc came through the garage door with a toolbox in one hand and crutch in the other. It always made me smile to see how he carried the tools of his trade in a red metal craftsman toolbox.
I waved, shop rag still in my hand. “Hey Doc.”
“Bou,” he answered and tilted his head toward my apartment. “Awake?”
“Not last time I checked.”
“Well, time to wakey. Daylight’s wasting.” Doc pivoted toward the room. “I told Kimmers we’d ride up to the lookout today.”
I tucked my chin to bury a smile. They made the cutest damn couple, and I adored how Doc put on this rough- and tough-guy demeanor but treated his old lady like she was a princess.
Celt grunted.
I dropped the smile and threw the rag on the table. “What’s our new problem?”
“Several boys with the AX3 rolled into town last night while Doc and I were here.”
“Shit.” I put a hand on my hip. That gang was bad news through and through. I looked at the door to my apartment, considering the leather jacket I’d removed from Wilde last night. Across the back, it read Diablo. An MC I’d never heard of, so likely a small one somewhere near LA. Wilde didn’t have a cut bearing the AX3 MC’s patch, so it might be safe to assume they were after him.
Celt nodded. “Yeah. Stopped at the clubhouse and chatted up Rex for a while before they headed on toward the border. Apparently, they’re out for revenge. Looking for someone who—I quote—‘didn’t pay their taxes’ and brought the LAPD down on their heads.”
I blinked. “So, he’s small time, screwed over one of the bigger gangs by keeping their cut of his sales, and is on the run.” Holy hell, why did everything in this armpit of America have to be wrapped up in the trafficking biz? No matter how handsome that man was, there was no goddamn way in hell that I would wrap myself up with someone neck deep in the life. Even if it was a passing affair.
