Strong and Steady Page 10
The voice on the line had my back stiffening. Jesus, would the asshole ever leave me alone? “What the fuck do you want now?”
“That’s how you treat your father? I call twice in one week. Whatever happened to family ties?”
I refused to be baited. Whatever feelings I had a moment before about Emory were crushed beneath my father’s grating voice.
“What do you want?” I repeated. “That’s the only reason you’re calling.”
“You hung up on me the other night. It’s time to talk.”
The last thing on earth I wanted to do was talk to my dad. After his call the other night, I’d blocked him out just like I always did. I pushed him and the fucking memories that went with him down deep. The running, the workouts, even sparring helped, but he had a knack for bring it all back like a scab ripped off and a wound bleeding again.
“That fight next month with Reed Johnson. I saw he’s one of yours.”
Reed was training for his third competition this year. He was two and O so far and, if he kept his head on straight, would have another victory.
“What about it?” I replied, my words a sharp bite. I leaned against the counter. Nothing was out of place. No crumbs. Not even a coffee cup in the sink. Emory was right—it was ridiculously clean. God, I didn’t want to think of her when I was talking to my old man, but she kept popping into my head at odd times, and when it happened, it felt like Christmas morning. Christmas morning for those who had Norman Rockwell childhoods not a fucker for a father.
“I’ve got money riding on it. Don’t blow it.”
I shook my head and laughed then pinched the bridge of my nose. That’s all he wanted from me—another bet. “Yeah, that’s why I’m training him to be the best, so you can make your money.”
My dad barked out a laugh. “You think I’m betting on your guy? Hell no. I’m betting on Ramirez. Just keep doing a fuck-up job of your life, and your kid’ll blow it, and I’ll rake in the dough.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear, slowly shook my head. “Fuck you,” I muttered. I heard my old man’s miserable laugh as I pushed the End button. Yeah, no sunshine and unicorns in my family.
How I could let my dad push my buttons after all these years was something I’d never understand. He was a fucking asshole, and I’d walked away after high school graduation and never looked back. Somehow, he kept getting my unlisted numbers and calling just to fuck with me. But betting against me? This was a new low, and it was hard to handle. I wanted to punch the shit out of something, and that’s why I had the gym downstairs. Instead of taking that shower, I jabbed the button on the elevator to go and hit the bags and work off some of the anger.
A few hours later, with my frustration tamed and my muscles sore, I finally got that shower. After, I climbed into my truck to head to a lunch meeting across town. The ping of a new text came from my pocket. I hit the air conditioning to high and grabbed the phone.
Emory: Is this a date? You said I’d know for sure when you asked me out.
I grinned, remembering my words. Whatever angst lingered from the shit with my dad slipped away as I typed.
Gray: It is if you say yes. Otherwise, it's a not-date.
I put on my seat belt.
Emory: I will be in my scrubs and gross, so I will want a redo.
I shook my head and shut my eyes briefly at her humor.
Gray: You can have a redo. Definitely. As many as you want.
I didn’t hear from her right away, so I set off for my appointment. She was at work and probably on some kind of quick break, so I didn't expect to hear from her right away. But five minutes later, my cell pinged again. I pulled into a strip mall lot to read the text.
Emory: I forgot. Someone is bringing me dinner. Long story. Come over at 7:30.
Later, when I walked up the sidewalk to her place a few minutes early, I knew the man and the boy sitting on Emory’s steps were part of the long story.
12
EMORY
* * *
Not used to attractive men waiting for me on my steps, I stopped short as I walked up the sidewalk toward my house. I couldn’t help but ogle the two men sitting there. Gray leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. The other man I’d never met but was most likely Jackson’s uncle. The boy sat on the step above, and the family resemblance was strong. Jackson’s hands waved in the air, animated and lively as he talked. While the man was focused on his nephew, Gray watched me as I approached, and I felt the familiar flutter at the sight of him. I was becoming used to the sensation, and I wasn’t afraid of it any longer. He was so relaxed, so at ease. So flippin’ hot in his cowboy hat. And he was here for me. Watching me. Taking a deep breath, I walked toward them once again. His dark eyes raked over me, from my work clogs to my scrubs all the way to my messy ponytail. I could only imagine what he thought of me dressed like this, in the outfit I considered man-repellant.
Gray stood, slipped his hands in his pockets. Once he saw me, Jackson’s uncle got to his feet as well. Jackson, too, only after a gentle nudge on the head.
“Hi, Miss Emory!” Jackson’s youthful exuberance had him knocking the men out of the way and jumping down three steps to give me a hug. The other men held back, clearly having learned about boundaries unlike the boy although I wouldn’t have minded if Gray grabbed me so eagerly. Over Jackson’s head, I glanced at him. His eyes gave away nothing about his feelings, but I hoped to discover them once we were alone.
I looked down at Jackson’s upturned face. “Hello. Have you been busy?” It was impossible not to smile at him.
His hair was mussed, and his cheeks were flushed. He wore shorts, T-shirt and sneakers once again. After spending the day in a well air-conditioned hospital, the air was hot. Already after seven, the temperature hadn’t dropped out of the eighties.
“I’m Frankie, Jackson’s uncle.”
The man came down the two steps at a much more sedate pace than his nephew and held out his hand, smiling. About six foot, he had the same black, curly hair as Jackson, yet his eyes were a pale blue. The contrast was quite striking with his olive complexion. Standing next to Gray, he was lanky, long legged, yet fit. He had the perfect build for a runner. I put him in his late twenties, and with his wicked smile, I could only imagine he had to fight off the ladies. Especially since he screamed biker like his father. Well-worn jeans, black leather boots, white T-shirt. Lots of tattoos. Wild about the edges. Rough. A total bad boy.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I replied. His grip was firm, his eyes were kind. “Do you have a biker nickname like your father?”
He grinned, and I had no doubt it made panties fall to the floor. “Road name? Sure, but you can just call me Frankie.”
I wasn’t sure if those things were a secret, and I didn’t ask. I nodded instead.
“We replaced your lights and dinner’s in the bag.” He pointed to a large brown grocery sack sitting by the front door. “While my father couldn’t be here, he asked me to give you his number. If you need anything, call.”
I glanced down at the book of matches he handed me. It was for the diner. I flipped it over, and there was a phone number handwritten on the back in dark ink.
“Thank you. You and your father have been very kind.” I turned to Gray, and my heart melted a little. “Hi,” I murmured.
Gray gestured hello with a quick tilt of his chin, the corner of his mouth tipping up. He wore worn jeans and a plaid snap shirt that hugged his torso snugly, showing off his lean muscles. A bodybuilder he was not, but there was no doubt to his strength. The fact that his biceps bulged was completely inconsequential. And those snaps… my fingers itched.
“I see you’ve met,” I told Gray, nodding to Frankie. God, the cowboy and the biker. Together. They were like two months out of a hot guy calendar. Right on my doorstep.
“Yes,” he replied. “Frankie and Jackson were just putting the new bulbs in when I got here.” His eyes narrowed when he finished, almost as if he were angry.
It was only courtesy that had me offering. I really wanted to get Gray to myself. I’d been anticipating it ever since his text earlier. To say it made a crazy afternoon in the ER a little better was an understatement. The way my heart had skipped a beat every time I thought about him in my house had me questioning whether I should be hooked up to the heart monitors. Was I crazy to ask him into my house? Was he expecting to spend the night? God, I'd been wondering these things all day, and I still had no idea.
Frankie looked between Gray and me. Grinned and ran his hand through his dark hair. He playfully grabbed Jackson by the neck and pulled him into his side. The affection was easy between them. “The meal’s for you. With my father’s thanks. With my thanks,” he said, his intent clear. “Gray, it was a pleasure meeting you.” By the look on Frank’s face, he knew who Gray was. “Say goodbye, Jackson.”
“Bye, Mr. Outlaw, Miss Emory,” Jackson said with a little wave. They walked away, Jackson’s little legs pumping to keep up with his uncle’s long gait. A car passed on the street, and a siren wailed in the distance. The sun had dropped behind the houses across the street, and the air was heavy. Hot. And I was alone with Gray.
Once the duo rounded the corner, I turned to face Gray, who’d been watching me. “I really am the only person who doesn’t know who you are, aren’t I?”
He shrugged. “One of the few.” When I frowned, Gray ducked his head, so he could look me in the eye. “They don’t really know me, Emory.”
GRAY
* * *
I watched as Emory dropped her work shoes in an old milk box that sat on the porch then unlocked her door. I followed her inside, holding the food bag. By the weight of it and what Frank had said, there was plenty.
The house was small. The living room had comfortable furniture, well-worn and lived in, plants scattered about, framed artwork on the walls, family pictures on side tables. It was… lived in, unlike my place, which seemed cold in comparison. I remembered her mentioning this was where she grew up, so the place had been in her family a long time. It suited her well, for it felt… comfortable. This was a home where parents loved their kids, helped with homework, watched their soccer games. It only reminded me of the differences between us.
She glanced at me with those expressive eyes, and now they held a hint of nervousness. “I always take a shower right after work and get out of my scrubs.” She tugged at the bottom of her top as she scrunched up her nose. “You don’t want to know what kinds of things I saw today.”
“Yes, I do,” I countered in a quiet voice. I really did. I wanted to know what she saw, who she interacted with, the kinds of cases she had, the problems she dealt with. I wanted to know it all.
She looked surprised. “Oh, um, okay. I’ll be down in a few minutes. The kitchen’s straight back.” She pointed, then went up the steps. “Ignore my breakfast dishes in the sink,” she called as she went upstairs.
I took a few seconds to admire her ass beneath her blue scrub pants before I headed toward the back of the house. It was getting harder and harder to keep my hands off her.
The kitchen hadn’t been updated in twenty years, the fridge covered in photographs and clipped coupons were tucked beneath a magnet. A phone with a long cord, like one from when I was a kid, hung on the wall by the back door. The air conditioning was on and besides the sound of the water running upstairs, I could hear the air blowing from the vents in the floor. Placing the bag on the counter, I removed the food containers and found dishes and silverware from various drawers and cabinets.
My cell beeped indicating a text. I pulled it from my pocket. My dad. “Shit,” I muttered.
She must be one hot piece of tail.
His text had me seeing red. I shoved the phone back in my pocket and paced the small space, rubbed the hand over the back of my neck. Fuck. He was watching me. Turning, I tugged off my hat and replaced it, my fists bumped the counter, and I considered that he knew about Emory, knew where she lived. That meant he was having me watched. He was two hundred miles away on the fucking ranch. So why?
To irritate the fuck out of me, to piss me off, to sour the only thing in my life that wasn’t tainted by him. Hearing the water shut off, I knew I had to pull myself together, not let my fuck-up father mess with this date with Emory. By the time I found glasses and filled them with iced tea from the fridge, I’d settled.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, pausing in the doorway. She could tell something was wrong. I couldn’t seem to hide it from her.
I realized my shoulders were tense, and I sighed, forcing my body to relax. Just looking at her helped with that. She was all shower fresh and soft, and… God, I had it bad. How did this woman, whose hair was damp and long over her shoulders, face makeup free, wearing a pale blue tank top and cut-off jean shorts make my heart lurch? Her legs were long and lean, and her feet were bare, hot pink nail polish on her toes. She was the girl next door, and she should steer clear of a guy like me—a guy with a past and a father who was an asshole. She had a kid and parents and a house that was a home. What the hell was I doing with her?
I swore under my breath and leaned a hip against the counter. “Nothing, just a stupid text from my dad.”
She looked at me the way she probably did her son when he kept important things secret—like hiding cigarettes in his room or getting home an hour after curfew. “Are you going to tell me about him sometime?”
I eyed her, seeing her right now for what she was, a calming influence. Just having her come into the room, seeing her questioning look, had me realize what was important, and it wasn’t my dad. He wanted to ruin this moment, this impromptu date, and that was not going to happen. I took a deep breath, let it out, let it all go. For some reason, in this moment, it was easy to do.
She cocked her head to the side. “What?” she asked.
I just gave a little shake of my head. Now wasn’t the time to talk about stupid shit. “I hope you’re hungry. It seems the Baker boys are smitten. I’d really like to know how you’ve gotten the president of the No Holds Barred motorcycle club wrapped around your finger.”
Her eyes widened. “Who are you talking about? Frankie?”
I shook my head. “His father. Quake Baker.”
“How do you know he runs a motorcycle club?”
“It’s common knowledge. Plus, when we were waiting for you, Frankie introduced himself. It wasn’t hard to make the connection.”
“Frankie’s in it, too?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t get on their bad side, but you’ve done just the opposite.”
If I thought for a second Emory was in danger from a fucking motorcycle club, I’d have gotten her the hell away from Frankie. Hell, away from Brant Valley. That wasn’t the case at all.
“Jackson fell off his bike and got scraped up. I helped him. He says he lives a few blocks away.”
“I think he lives with Frankie, but the club is on the far side of town. Near the diner.”
She went over to one of the foil to-go containers and pried off the lid. “Well, I put on some Band-Aids and gave him an old bike helmet. I wouldn’t say I did all that much. Mmm, pulled pork. Macaroni and cheese.” She glanced up at me. “What?” she asked again.
I took in her pert nose, the spray of freckles across them. The soft lines of age around her eyes. “You have no idea, do you?”
She frowned. “What?”
She invited me into her home instead of wanting a fancy dinner. She was standing in front of me, her hair unstyled and wet, no makeup. No high heels. No pretense. I could see her, the real Emory, clearly. “The effect you have on people.”
She glanced away, and I saw a flush creep up her neck.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the broken lights?” I asked, realizing I was bothered she hadn’t told me about it although that was somewhat ridiculous s
ince we barely knew each other. I felt possessive toward her, and I didn’t know what to do about it. Protective, too.
She rolled her eyes, taking a lid off of another container. “It’s just kids, and I didn’t think it was important.”
I frowned. I didn’t like the idea of anyone fucking with Emory, even if it was just kids. “Clearly Quake thought it was important enough to send over his son to fix it.”
“Quake, is it? You two are on a first name basis?”
I put a plate in front of her. “Never met, but I know of him. Just like people know who I am.”
“I assume Frankie told you why he brought food and fixed my lights?”
“Yeah.”
She opened another entree. Spaghetti and meatballs. Some red sauce got on her thumb, and she licked it off. “He was just being courteous.”
Perhaps, but Quake Baker wasn’t known for being courteous, and they did more in Brant Valley than run a diner. While they weren’t typical one percenters, the outlaw gangs who dealt in everything from prostitution to drugs, they weren’t Boy Scouts either. From what Frankie told me before Emory got home, his father was shrewd enough to offer protection where needed. While I was reassured to know she fell under the man’s sights and clearly under his protection—and that of an entire motorcycle club—I wasn’t excited about the fact that the old man thought she needed it.
“Did they knock out anyone else’s lights?”
She frowned, but when she did it, a cute little V formed at her brow. “I don’t think so.”
Why would someone just screw with her? “Do you have lights in back?”
She took off the lid of the last container, Greek salad. The guy’d sent her a little bit of everything. “Yes, motion sensors.”
“Did they knock those out as well?”
That gave her pause, and she looked to me. “I don’t know. I never go out the back because there’s no parking.” She went over to the back door, flipped the deadbolt and opened it. She looked up and to the right where I assumed was an outdoor light, but I was looking down in front of her.