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Goddamn, that simple skin-pricklin’ word hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.
“I-I’m glad you’re here,” I choke out, curling my fingers in the grass to get a tight grip. My nails sink into dirt, my forearms throb with tension, and my balls ache.
“Me, too,” she whispers.
“When I’m gone, I’d like to keep in touch.” Every day. After this, she’ll be lucky if I let her outta my sight.
This is fucked up.
I’m fucked up.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“I’d like that, too,” she agrees.
Just like that, things settle in my world as we sit side by side in the grass, almost touching but not quite. Scratching a sleeping Chibs in her lap, we watch the sun begin to set on the horizon. The oranges and pink hues are a perfect send-off to the day. Later, when we’ve gotten our fill of fresh air and alone time, I’ll fix her dinner at my house. If she’s anything like the woman I believe her to be, there’s no way she’ll turn down a hot grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. Then Kit will stay the night, in my bed, while I take the couch. But only after we finish readingDark Lovertogether. To some that may sound boring as fuck, but after the weeks I’ve had, peace is all I want. And with her around, it seems to come in spades.
CHAPTERSIX
KIT
I’m not crying inside a gross jailhouse bathroom. Nope. I’m not sitting on top of a toilet, inside a stall, bawling my eyes out, and using the equivalent of tree bark to wipe my snot. That’s not me. I’m not that woman.
Except… I am.
We’re here.
I’m here… with Gunz.
He’s out there on those same benches I told you about. The cold ones. The ones that suck the soul from your marrow. He’s here withme. Melanie. Adam’s mom. The woman who dropped unceremoniously into his life thirty-six hours ago. Nobody’s ever visited this place with me. Not a single person. But he is, wearing a handsome smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes because he’s having a small mental freakout about what we’re about to do. He drove his truck behind me the entire way, then removed his Sacred Sinner vest when we parked in the lot across from the jail. They don’t allow colors inside, and we don’t need to draw unwanted attention.
There’s a metallic screech as the outside door opens. Somebody clears their throat, and it’s not female. The thud and scrape of heavy bootheels cross the cracked linoleum and stop beyond my stall. I am… or was, alone.
Another gruff clearing of the throat. “Babe?”
My stomach swoops and crashes at my feet, then I’m the one clearing my throat. “Y-yes?”
“Whatcha doin’ in there?” He raps on the stall door with a solidknock, knock.
“Peeing?” I scrub both hands down my face to regain a semblance of composure. How embarrassing is this?
The same screech echoes ominously as another person enters the facilities and gasps at the sight of Gunz—tattoos, muscles, well-worn jeans, bald head, goatee—the whole biker package.
“This is for women,” the newcomer chastises.
“No shit,” comes from my visitor.
“We’re in a jail and you’re in here creeping on women.”
The omnipotent sound of Gunz’s boots scrape beyond my door. I catch a flash of skin out of the corner of my eye as he faces the lady with a bad smoker’s rasp. His hand cuffs over the top of my stall. Trimmed nails attached to long, strong fingers and a skull ring relax there. Like a weak fool, I stare in wonder at them as I dab the remaining tears from my cheeks with toilet paper.
“No, ma’am. There is no creepin’ to be had. I’m here with my old lady, takin’ care of her before we go see our son. You gotta problem with that?”
I swallow hard as his words echo through the space.Here with his old lady. Seeing our son.
“Oh. Um. Sorry. No. No, problem.” The woman coughs to cover her discomfort.
“Good.” The fingers draped over my stall double-tap the metal before they disappear, and he moves toward the exit. “Now, I’m gonna step out so you can do your business. Then, I’m gonna come back when you’re finished. ’Cause, like I said, I’m here to take care of my woman.”
