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“I have a feeling I’m going to want it a lot,” I told him.
“Baby, you have no idea,” he said, giving me that boyish smile I liked so much. “We have a lot of surfaces we need to break in around here.”
“You live with a bunch of people,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, we do,” he agreed, and the change was subtle, but impactful. “So?”
“So… maybe they wouldn’t appreciate us having sex on the common surfaces.”
“That’s what all-purpose cleaner is for,” he said, dragging a little laugh out of me.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
And, the thing was, I did.
In fact, I was pretty sure I not only loved that, but I loved him.
At that moment, and many that would follow over the next few days, I’d naively started to believe that nothing could ruin this new kind of happiness I’d found with Sway.
Until, of course, that past of mine caught up with me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sway
“That’s him,” Coach said, jerking his chin toward the gates of the prison where a tall, kind of lanky guy was making his way out wearing fleece sweatpants and a white tee.
Sometimes, you left prison wearing what you had on when you’d been arrested in the first place. In Rook’s case, though, I imagined his clothes had been evidence, covered in the blood of the bastard he’d nearly beaten to death for fucking over his mom.
In cases like that, the prisons would sometimes provide release clothes—sweats or jeans, a tee, a jacket if it was cold, and a pair of awful bright orange canvas deck shoes.
It looked like they’d even tossed in a duffel bag for him to keep his shit in that he might have accumulated on the inside.
How, I wasn’t sure. Since his mom was institutionalized, and he had no other family to put money on his books.
Seeing Coach and I standing there, leaning against the SUV, Rook’s head tipped to the side, his gaze taking us in, our clothes, our cuts, likely putting pieces together.
“Shouldn’t you be riding your bikes if you’re wearing your cuts?” he asked, walking right up to us, like he knew we were there for him.
“After years locked up in there, we figured you might appreciate not having to ride bitch on the way back to the clubhouse.”
“And I’d be coming to your clubhouse, why?” he asked, shoulders lax, seemingly unbothered by the possible answer to that.
“For a job opportunity,” I told him.
“I know you,” he said instead of responding to that as his gaze took in Coach. “Coach or something like that, right?”
“Yep.”
“You joined a bike club fresh out?” he asked.
“One of those kinds of offers a smart man doesn’t turn down,” Coach said, shrugging.
To that, Rook nodded, looking off at Shady Valley as a whole. “You guys know where they’re keeping my ma?”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding.
“You’ll take me to see her?” he asked.
“You’ll get a bike and can take yourself,” I told him.
His gaze drifted again, mulling something over.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, cutting to the chase.
“Your skills,” I told him, seeing no reason to lie.
“Doing what?”
“Tracking down a trafficker that is obsessed with my girl,” I said.
If he was surprised by that, he didn’t let on.
“You got a good laptop for me?”
“Probably not, but you can pick one out.”
Rook reached up, scrubbing a hand down his face. For a moment, I was sure he was going to turn us down.
“Alright. I’m in,” he agreed.
Rook was quiet on the short ride back to the clubhouse.
I wasn’t sure if it was just his nature, or if his time on the inside had taught him to hide whatever was on his mind, but he had no reaction to the clubhouse as we pulled up to it.
He followed behind us silently as we made our way inside.
“Oh, fuck,” he finally said as he stepped inside, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t think I’d ever smell real coffee again.”
Sure, there was coffee in prison. In the commissary if you could afford it. But it was instant. If it was available in the mess hall, Coach said it tasted like cigarette ash and dirt mixed together.
“Help yourself,” I invited, watching as he dropped his duffel bag and all but flew across the common space and into the kitchen, taking the mug Detroit offered him with a distracted Thanks, man before pouring an almost overflowing cup, and drinking half of it down without waiting for it to cool. Then he took a deep breath, finished the rest, and refilled.
Only after he’d finished his second cup did he take a deep breath that had his shoulders relaxing.
“Not to be dramatic,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure that was better than the first fuck in a few years will be.”
“First fuck was great and all,” Coach agreed. “But stealing the building supplies of one of our shitty C.O.s was priceless.”
