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“That sums it. You gotta get him and his bike well enough to ride then say, ‘happy trails to you.’ And we all better hope there’s no ‘until we meet again.’” Celt scowled—a look he was wearing way too much of these days.
I pressed my lips tightly.
Celt opened his arms and made a little come here gesture.
“Yeah, yeah. I get it,” I said, because I did. “But would you quit quoting old country songs?” I looked at the floor. My brother’s habit of quoting those reminded me too much of Pops, and I didn’t want him to see any hint of sadness that might have appeared on my face.
“And Bou?” He waited for me to look up. “Don’t let anyone know he’s here. I’m going out to make sure there’s no evidence left along the road to tip anyone off.”
Celt left me standing there sad, a bit pissed off, and sorely disappointed. I’d known Wilde would be bad news. He was too striking and built to be anything but trouble; definitely someone who’d bring me further inside a business I wanted no part of. I loved The Ridge, my artwork, my shop, my brother and some of his closer friends, some of their old ladies, and Doc and Kimmers, but I’d probably die an old biddy in this town because every bastard within a hundred miles was wrapped up in trafficking.
Doc returned. “He’s awake.”
“Can he get out of bed?”
“Yeah, he should be able to walk on that cast with a crutch. Idiot says he doesn’t need one. I left one for him anyway. Good luck with him.”
I rolled my eyes. “Pain?” I asked. “He hasn’t taken any of those pills you left.”
“Yeah, he’s in pain. I saw the full bag on the table.” Doc placed his toolbox by the door and stood, hooked his thumb into his denim pocket, and flashed a sly smile. “I offered the needle again, and he was quick to swallow a pill.”
“Celt went to see if there’s anything left on the side of the road.” I turned back to my spray gun to finish prepping for the first clear coat.
Doc wandered over, tension in his step and a hint of hesitation like he was struggling to find words. “How’re you hanging in there, Bou? It’s only been a few months since your pops—” He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m tight. Still miss having him around here to help out with the shop, but I’m getting on.” I glanced up at the man who’d been Pops’ best friend before Pops had taken that bullet. “What about you?”
He tried to play like it was no biggie, but in the lines the gruff doctor wore around his eyes, his pain showed. We shared the sadness over losing something neither of us would find again. “Oh, you know me. Keepin’ on.” Doc shrugged and looked over his shoulder just as Celt wandered through the door with a couple of stray parts. “Anyway, you got any food? Wilde should eat a bit before he passes out again.”
I wasn’t paying attention to the spray gun I was assembling, and my hand slipped. “Shit!” I said, tossing the airbrush on the bench. Blood welled from my knuckle, so I reached for a clean rag. Pressing it to the scrape, I hissed then answered, “Yeah, I’ll get him something. I need some coffee anyway.” To Celt, I added, “Drop those over there. I’ll take care of them later.”
“Gotta get back, sis. I’ll stop by after work. You need anything else?”
“I’ll text you once I go through his bags. May need some clothes still.”
“Right. Tonight then.” He left, a cloud of sand trailing the black and white.
“I’m out too,” said Doc.
I waved with my rag-wrapped hand and went to the kitchen, brewed two K-Cups, and grabbed two packets of Pop Tarts. The epitome of health, right there in a foil wrapper. Holding the cups and the little silver packages was a juggling act, but I kicked open the doors and made it back into my bedroom without spilling. Wilde shot me a silly grin with half-lidded eyes—drunk on the Oxy, for sure.
“Heya,” I said, placing my breakfast on the nightstand and offering a packet to him. “Brought you some food.”
“Na-sure you can call Pop Tarts food,” he slurred like his words needed to get a running start and clumsily ripped into the foil.
My body froze as I watched him devour the Pop Tart despite declaring it non-food. Hell, everything about him stood out—the way he broke off the bready stuff at the edges and ate the middle first, the way his pec jumped as he lifted the pastry to his mouth, the muscle tick under jaw stubble. Why did everything about him have my mouth-watering?
Shit, Bou. Stop imagining his mouth on your body, the way he’s devouring the Pop Tart! He’s the kind of danger you don’t need.
The Ridge had always been neutral territory—no Mexican Mafia, no Aryan Brotherhood, none of that shit. We were Switzerland—far enough away from any of the big gangs in LA, Vegas, or Phoenix to never land on anyone’s radar. In fact, the weed grown in Park Ridge was sold to anyone willing to pay, without discrimination. And though I never played the games, I couldn’t risk the people I loved because I thought this man in my bed was hella hot. I swooped up the bundle of bloodied clothes on the floor and made to leave.
He stopped eating and flicked his eyes up to me. The dopey expression from the drugs fell away leaving his stare crystal clear. “I don’t need looking after.”
“You’re welcome,” I snapped back irritably, picking up the wrapper he’d dropped on the couch. He grabbed my arm, forcing me to look at him.
“I mean it,” he growled. “I’m grateful and all, but I don’t need a housemaid. I look after me and mine. Always have, always fucking will.” He squeezed my arm slightly too tightly then let go.
I pulled it back and glared at him. “You know what. Go back out and lay on the side of the road then. Stay there until the crows eat you, you ungrateful sack of shit.” Thoughts of his hot body melted away with the anger burning through my veins.
