Train's Clash (Biker Bitches 4)

Hammer reached for Train’s T-shirt, tossing it back at him. “Right now, I’ll be happy if you put that back on. She’s mowed the same patch of grass three times.”

Train grinned as he tugged it back on.

“Truce?” Holding out his hand, the men reluctantly shook it.

The window in the kitchen opened, and the men turned to see Killyama’s mother.

“The only one I see out there working up a sweat is my daughter. Do I need to put my jeans on and show you how to nail on a shingle?”

Killyama would have snarled profanities at them. Peyton did it much more delicately, but her message was the same.

“No, ma’am.” Train winked at her as Hammer and Jonas scrambled back up the ladder.

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident as they worked in unison, sweat pouring down their backs.

Not caring if he made Jonas or Hammer angry, he removed his shirt and was about to call in a favor to Cash to help when he realized they were on the last row.

As he worked, the aroma of whatever Peyton was cooking wafted upward, competing with the sun to torment him.

“I hear your stomach from over here. Didn’t you have breakfast?” Jonas nailed a shingle with more force than was necessary.

“Only coffee and toast.” Train brushed the sweat out of his eyes.

“Don’t expect us to feel sorry for you. You have a clubhouse of women cooking for you. Peyton only cooks for us when Killyama invites us over.”

“I would have thought you were as close to Peyton as you are to Killyama.” Train didn’t expect either of the men to answer, so he was surprised when Hammer did after a slight hesitation.

“Peyton stays pretty much to herself … other than Killyama.”

“That’s hard to believe. She’s a beautiful woman.”

“She’s a one-man woman,” Jonas chimed in.

“Is Killyama’s father dead?”

Hammer stood up, giving Jonas a hard stare. “We’re done. Let’s go see if lunch is ready.”

The men climbed off the roof and went into the trailer that had seen better days. Train could tell it was cared for, but he bet the couch was the original one, and the curtains and the carpet were frayed around the edges.

Guessing they weren’t going to feed him any more information, Train found himself studying the woman who fussed over them after they had washed up in the bathroom while Killyama was washing up at the kitchen sink.

“You sit by Killyama, Train. Jonas and Hammer can share the other seat.”

The table was a four-seater booth that was at the side of the kitchen. Train slid over on the seat so Killyama could sit down, while Hammer and Jonas elbowed each other for room on the other side, fitting like two sardines in a can.

“Where are you going to sit?” Train asked as he started to get out, but was pinned in by Killyama.

“I’ll pull over a chair after I put the food on the table.”

Train expected Killyama to help her mother. Instead, she slid the huge bowl of hamburger pasta her mother had set down toward her, leaving Jonas and Hammer to start on the modest bowl of salad. They stared at the pasta that took up most of the table like ravaging wolves.

“Guests first.” Killyama gave him the serving spoon as Peyton placed her chair at the edge of the small table.

Seeing Peyton nibble at her salad, unobtrusively watching him, Train took a modest spoonful, placing it on his plate. He had learned to take small portions until he decided if he liked it.

“You sure you don’t want more?” Killyama asked, taking the serving spoon from him and ignoring the sulks from the other side of the table.

“I had a big breakfast.” Train stabbed a lone noddle with his fork.

“You snooze, you lose at this table. It’s Hammer and Jonas’s favorite. Mama makes it for them whenever they come over.”

Train waited until Peyton had taken a small serving before he took a bite of the dish. Not caring about being overly polite, Hammer filled his plate with enough pasta to feed three grown men. Jonas had no problem doing the same, leaving the bowl empty.

“I tried to warn you.” Killyama dug into her own large portion. “It’s kind of addicting.”

Train enjoyed the one bite he had taken. It was good, but it wasn’t great.

“It’s really good. Thank you for lunch,” he complimented.

“You’re welcome. It’s just poor man’s goulash. I used to fix it for Killyama when she was a little girl, when the budget was tight. A neighbor of mine gave me the recipe years ago. Her trailer used to be further down the holler. She would come over for visits until she passed away.”

Train listened as she talked. Looking down, he saw his fork was scraping an empty plate. Frowning, he stared at the empty bowl then at Hammer’s and Jonas’s still full plates.