Adler (The Henchmen MC 14)

"You mean did I fuck someone?" she clarified.

"Aye, that's what I meant."

"Just five minutes ago, you were throwing out cocks and cunts, and now you can't even ask if I have had one in mine since I saw you last?"

"Ya mocking me for trying to be a gentleman?"

She chuckled at that. "You? A gentleman? Come on now. Not even deaf, dumb, and blind people would accuse you of such a crime. But, no. I haven't fucked anyone. I haven't had time," she rushed to clarify. "Why would it matter to you? If I fucked an entire jail-block, it wouldn't be your business."

"No, it wouldn't," I agreed. "I was just curious."

"Why?"

I paused, unsure if I wanted to go there, if I wanted to expose that much, if I wanted to make myself seem foolish or, worse yet, romantic.

"I haven't either."

"And since you're bringing it up, I'm going to assume that this is unusual for you."

"Aye. Never go more than a few weeks without a solid lay, duchess. That's just the way of it."

"Itches that need scratching and all that," she agreed, nodding. "I've been in a dry spell for a long time. Things have been crazy."

"Nothing to do with me, huh?"

"If you are asking if I was offered a chance for mind-blowing sex, and turned it down because of you, then no."

"Please," I scoffed, drawing her raised-brow-look. "Lou, walkin' around lookin' like ya look, the chance for sex is there practically every moment. Whether it would be mind-blowin' is yet to be seen. But don't act like ya didn't have a chance to get laid if ya really wanted it."

"I know to a lot of guys, one snatch is just as good as the next for their purposes, but it doesn't exactly work that way when we're talking about dicks. Once you've had a lame one or two, you learn to be more selective."

"Duchess, there's nothin' lame about my dick."

She smiled at that, all teeth, but there was something sinister in her eye as she looked at me.

"You know, I have a feeling you're not bullshitting. But that doesn't mean I am interested in firsthand knowledge."

"Why not? You're in a dry spell. Ya said so yerself. And we both know ya wouldn't be in a drought with me around."

"It's tempting," she admitted hesitantly.

"Then why ya fighting it?"

"Honestly? I don't know." Her voice sounded exasperated. If I had to guess, at herself. Because she was feeling as worked up about the whole situation as I was. Wanting it, but thinking maybe there was more to it, but being fucking terrified of that potential reality.

Uncharted territory.

And while neither of us were chickenshite, were the types to run away from risky new situations, we also had something else in common.

Our guards.

Our scars.

Our pasts that clearly made us mirror images of fuckedupedness.

Scared of shite like connection.

Which this had the potential of having.

If we let it.

If we slipped.

And as she handed me back the leashes when we came up on the side of her Mustang, dipping down to a squat to give each and every dog a goodbye like she was going off to war, and may never see them again, I felt something inside I hadn't ever felt before.

A crack.

Small.

Infinitesimal.

But there.

And I swear to fuck, she started to slip in.SIXLouIt was my birthday.

And I almost forgot.

That was how you knew you were pretty much alone in the world.

Forgetting your own damn birthday.

Had I not stopped at the liquor store for a bottle of Turkey, and the guy at the counter carded me, and proceeded to wish me a happy birthday, I likely never would have realized it myself. I had skipped it entirely the year before.

Thirty.

It was supposed to fill me with some existential crisis, make me think my youth was over, make me contemplate the things on my bucket list that still needed to be notched off before I was too old and arthritic to get them done.

And, sure, there was some shit on there. Stuff I had been too busy with work and other things to get around to. Things I thought would bring some more joy into my life. Or, if I were being completely honest, put it there for the first time since I was a little girl.

Big things.

Like traveling, seeing more of the world.

Little things.

Like getting a dog, rock climbing, sitting on a beach with no dark thoughts crowding my mind.

But other things took precedent.

Other things mattered more.

I was supposed to feel other things too.

Like my clock ticking.

Like my eggs had an expiration date.

Which, well, they kind of did.

But I wasn't sold on the kid idea.

And producing life was one of those things you needed to be pretty fucking certain about if you asked me.

So if they went bad, they went bad.

Thirty was, well, just another day.

Nothing to go batshit over.