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“No. Why? Do you not like ‘em, or are you more of a cat person?”
Felines and I do not mix. We had a tabby growing up, I’m positive was Satan’s right hand. Since then, I’ve sworn the furballs off.
“Does it matter?” I return, hoping he’s not secretly obsessed with cats like he is suckers. There are bowls of them everywhere, and I do meaneverywhere.
Raising both eyebrows, he strokes his goatee. “Maybe?” The hint of a devilish grin hooks at the corner of his mouth and is gone a breath later.
“Gunz…” I groan, waiting for him to tell me why he’s curious.
“Deb raises and trains dogs here.”
“To fight them?” I guess, considering the source of where we are. It isn’t too far out of character for an outlaw motorcycle club to run a dog-fighting ring, is it?
Scratching the side of his head, Gunz looks moderately offended by my assumption. “God. No. To sell ‘em to people who need dogs for protection. Not for fighting.”
Whoops.
* * *
Gunz
I’m fuckin’ this up. Can’t say this has ever happened before. Kit wakes up, sits with me and Dom in the living room, keepin’ to herself, and I struggled with ideas for us to do while she’s here. We can’t go on a ride—it isn’t safe. Can’t fuck—too messy. I don’t trust the brothers around her, and I definitely don’t trust the Sacred Sisters. Bink’s been blowin’ up my phone with questions about my lady friend since Big told her who Kit was. I’ve not responded. As much as I love Bink, this part of my life is mine. I’m not gonna defend it to anybody. I expect them to respect Kit, not because they wanna, but because I demand it. My choice, my business. If I thought she could play nice, I’d give Bink the opportunity to meet Kit again after Big exposed her identity. I know better. She’s overprotective. Anything she’ll say will only cause problems I don’t need right now.
I’m also a selfish bastard.
Sharing Kit’s time means less one-on-one. Less learning about Adam and her. And I’m likin’ that a whole helluva lot.
To quit boring her to death, I escort Kit out the back door of the clubhouse. I even do the gentlemanly thing and hold it open, to get a spectacular view of her butt in those tight jeans as she steps into the grass. I’m an ass man. Sue me.
We say little as we cross the road that runs through the middle of the compound to visit Deb’s kennels. The dogs are running in their outside pens as we approach. They bark in welcome, then sit without being told as Kit reaches in to scratch a blue nose -pitbull on the head. His tongue lolls out the side of his mouth in excitement, yet he doesn’t move an inch as he enjoys Kit’s ministrations. She coos on and on about how great of a boy he is, and I swear an unfamiliar piece inside my chest starts to unravel. I’m also half jealous of how sweetly she talks to him.
In comfortable silence, we hit all ten kennels with the same result. The one on the end holds Debbie’s newest recruit—a short, brawny French bulldog with blue eyes. I heard Dallas talkin’ to his old lady about the breed—how she’s trying ‘em on for size, for people who want companionship with watchdog capabilities. More bark than bite. He sure is a cute fella with pointy ears and a flat nose.
He snorts in pleasure as Kit kneels outside his pen to love on him.
“You’re the cutest little guy, aren’t you? So sweet. I just wanna take you home and give you lots of cuddles.”
I want her to take me home and give me lots of cuddles.
Shit.
I shake my head to clear such thoughts. Not the place, and definitely not the fuckin’ time.
In response, the Frenchie’s ass waddles, and I smile at the scene. Might even snap a couple pictures when she’s too preoccupied to notice. They’ll come in handy on a lonely night.
One of Deb’s boys, who helps run the business with their mom, exits the side door of the building and waves. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I lift my chin in greeting as the lanky kid joins us.
“He’s so cute,” Kit croons, lookin’ between me, the teen, and the pup, unsure where to set her sight.
Deb’s youngest pulls a treat from his pocket and drops it into the pen. Vibrating with pure excitement, the Frenchie swallows it whole. “He’s Mom’s new favorite.”
“What’s his name?” Kit asks, scratching behind the pup’s speckled bat ears.
Kneeling too close to my lady for my liking… I mean, Kit… the kid reaches in beside her to pet the pooch. “Unofficially, we’ve been callin’ him Chibs,” he explains as I watch to make sure his fingers stay on his own side of the pup, not getting anywhere close to hers. When they damn near touch shoulders, thanks to Chibs rolling onto his back for belly rubs, my teeth clench down on the sucker stick, my abs drawing tight as I resist the urge to snatch the kid up by the scruff of his neck and force him to leave. If I thought Kit wouldn’t get pissed, I’d do it.
I scuff my toe in the dirt to get this… whatever is goin’ on in my head, under control.
