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Chapter Eight
Mike
“Yo, Manny. You wanna grab a beer and some wings or something from Bull’s place tonight?” Mike asked his friend as they loaded their equipment back onto the trailer. It’d been a bitch of a week, and he wanted to unwind, not go home and sit there in front of his television alone. “Maybe shoot some pool after?”
“Nah, bro. Not tonight.” Manny groaned. “I’m sore as fuck, and Lisa promised she’d take real good care of me tonight. And knowing that she’s home waiting for me in that hot red number she pulls out when I’ve worked overtime is the only thing that got me through this shitty day.”
Mike wasn’t a hater, but fuck, that shit sounded nice, someone waiting for him at home to care for his aching body. “I feel ya on that, man. It’s cool.”
“Are you dipshits doing anything tonight? I’m up to whupping someone’s ass at bowling,” Mike suggested to his twelve-man crew. They were an eclectic group of throwaways between the ages of twenty-two and fifty who couldn’t get hired at a McDonald’s with the extensive records they had. But Mike had never had a more hardworking, loyal brotherhood since he’d left the gang life. They had another crew of nine guys who did the smaller properties, but Mike and Manny kept the big boys with them on the commercial contracts.
“Fuck off, Mike. I’m going home to soak my damn feet for the rest of the night and not think about any of you ugly motherfuckers until Monday.” Marcus, the oldest of the crew, flipped them all off and headed toward the truck, where he’d sit in the back seat and complain until they were back at the garage to unload.
The others pretty much mimicked Marcus’s feelings, walking with limps and slow gaits. Yeah, this week was a rough one—the start of summer was always their busiest time of the year. The lazy winter months and reduced hours always made his crew sluggish, and he had to whip their asses back into shape for the season. It was freaking pathetic how much these grown men were whining.
Mike’s sigh of disappointment wasn’t loud enough for them to hear. Only three of the guys that worked with him weren’t settled down, but even they had girlfriends they shacked up with on the weekends. No one was thinking about his lonesome ass.
Closing up the shop for the evening had been quiet and uneventful. They usually had a few taunts and laughs at the end of the day, but everyone seemed too beat down to even open their mouths. They gave him the wave-off as they got into their vehicles; a few had bikes and rode off, leaving him by himself to lock up.
Mike parked his RAM 3500 in his driveway and used the clicker on his visor to raise the garage door. His Fat Boy and Suzuki GSX called to him, but he didn’t have the energy to ride tonight. He never would’ve shown the guys how exhausted and beat up his body was too, but he hurt from head to toe. Fuck, even his fingers ached as he grabbed his lunch cooler and messenger bag out of the passenger seat and went inside.
Like a robot, he didn’t bother with turning on the lights until he was past the dining room and in the kitchen. Mike emptied his lunch containers in the sink and washed them along with his hands and splashed some cool water on his face. He scrubbed away the wetness with a rough paper towel, taking in the silence of his nice home. It was a decent-sized, two-story, three-bedroom house that he’d worked his ass off to pay for the down payment, something he was quite proud of, especially coming from the meager, depressing upbringing he’d had.
At the time Mike had purchased it, he thought that he and his ex-girlfriend, Erin, were about to plan the rest of their lives there together. And at forty-eight, Mike was more than ready to throw in his bachelor card, feeling his days of screwing random chicks were done. He didn’t want kids, and thank goodness, neither had Erin. They’d discussed a dog or a few fish, maybe those cool-ass neon yellow ones or something. Instead of growing a family, they had their goals set on traveling and seeing the world, but she had been too damn impatient.
It was great to dream and have aspirations. But goals without working hard to achieve them didn’t mean shit. They’d never come to fruition without some action put toward them. Erin wanted the big home and luxurious getaways, but she didn’t want Mike to work the long hours so that they could. Stockley Lawn Service had yet to make a name for itself at the time, and now that it had, Mike had the income and the home but no one to share it with. He didn’t miss her; he missed… he missed something. He was beginning to wonder if taking a trip to Europe by himself was an option. Why should he wait?
Mike always sought out easygoing, cool-natured women as girlfriends to help him stay level-headed. Two angry people in a relationship was a recipe for devastation. Though he was hot-tempered and quick to jump, Mike was still capable of listening when he had the right person talking in his ear. Someone he trusted. Someone whose voice was soothing to him. Only one person had ever fulfilled that need for him. One man had been different.
Mike pulled a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, because what else could he do as his mind forced him back down memory lane. It wasn’t often he thought of Jameson because whenever he did, his chest would pound, then burn as if someone were piercing him with a branding iron. He was the one man who’d ever gotten under his skin. That made him feel things he didn’t think he was capable of. And Jameson had done it effortlessly without Mike even noticing. By the time he did realize what was happening to him, it was too late. He was already hooked.
Mike’s smile grew wider on his face. I wonder where the hell you are right now. Stealing some other man’s heart, I guess.
That’s why the club—well, Mike—had nicknamed Jameson “Slick.” He was smooth, calculated, and untraceable. Moved as fluid as water. Always so damn calm and collected, and he and Mike had clicked the second he’d joined the club as a Prospect. Hell, Jameson had even slithered his way up in the ranks faster than possible… until he was sitting right beside Mike as the SGT at Arms.
He chuckled but wasn’t the slightest bit amused as he reflected back on those days. There was nothing “good ole” about them, but they were his past, and he respected it. Loved it. But he didn’t miss it. He’d long ago forgotten about the toxic gang life, but he’d never in his life forget that man. The one who’d opened his eyes to a whole other world. To a real connection. A rougher, stronger one that he could never quite capture with a female. Not once. And he was beginning to think he never would again. But he’d be damned if he didn’t feel a similar sensation around Rayne.
Rayne. With those light eyes and silky hair that Mike wanted to run his calloused fingers through. He imagined pulling it and— Fuck! What am I doing? He’s a sex addict.
Mike didn’t want to make Rayne’s life more difficult than it already was. He didn’t know him well, but it was evident that he still struggled with his recovery now and then. It sounded like he had a hard time being around lovers and watching outward displays of affection. Mike remembered Rayne sitting on the porch alone the other week, breathing softly with the setting sun’s golden rays glistening over his alabaster skin. Mike realized he could’ve stood there all evening while Rayne meditated and practiced how to be a peaceful man.
He’s not gonna be into you. He’s too gorgeous. The little pitch-forked devil that kept watch over Mike’s left shoulder whispered negative thoughts in his ear, but he shook it away. Rayne’s eyes didn’t lie. He could feel there’d been something between them. No. You want there to be something. But it’s nothing,the devil on Mike’s right shoulder chimed in. You don’t deserve someone that beautiful. Mike trudged to his bedroom as the devils celebrated in agreement, the negative thoughts causing the tension in his neck to tighten more.
He needed an angel.
Mike took a long, hot shower in hopes it would make him feel better and less sore, but it didn’t appear anything would stop the ache. Not when it was everywhere and all at once. He was starving and needed to order some dinner before his stomach growled so loud it scared him. With a towel wrapped low around his waist, he glanced down at his cell phone on his nightstand and saw he had a missed text from his son. A lopsided smile appeared instantly, and pride bloomed in his chest. If he never did anything else in his lifetime, he did get one thing right. Bishop was everything he wasn’t and more.
Dad Eddie is on grill tonite. Come over & eat. Trent and Wood r here.
Mike responded right away. On my way n half hour.
It wouldn’t take him long to throw on a T-shirt and jeans because there was no way he was missing Edison’s cooking. While he was tugging on a wrinkled shirt from his laundry basket, a thought hit him. Rayne might be there. Damn. Mike tossed the shirt away, went to his closet, and chose a black, short-sleeved button-up and black jeans. No matter the time of year, he always wore hiking boots, but at least he had a nice pair of dark gray Columbias that weren’t for mowing grass. He tried to ignore how pathetic he felt worrying about his appearance for a guy who was probably half his age and not the slightest bit interested in his old ass. But he was trying not to let the pessimistic attitude take over, and instead, he kept his thoughts centered on the way Rayne behaved when he was around him and the whispery voice he used when he spoke to Mike. That’s all he had to hang on to, but it was enough.
Stop overthinking it and just go. Mike picked up his helmet and jacket off the bench in the garage and straddled his Harley. It was a gorgeous night, and his son’s home wasn’t that far away. He could use the fresh air and the company.
