Club runs were always on Sundays. They weren’t every week, but whenever they could do them. Once a month for sure. And one was scheduled for this Sunday.
She turned back and nodded. Any grief he’d caused from his questions were now wiped away, relief replacing it. Thank fuck.
“It’s no rush. I can stop at the paint store before Saturday and get everything we’d need.”
There was that “we” again.
If he was smart, he wouldn’t do this. He’d say no, walk out the door and never see her again. But he’d been told time and time again that he was stupid. Even called much worse. A name he wouldn’t call anyone. Especially a child.
So, of course, he’d say yes.
Probably regret it, too.
He pulled his cell phone from his back pocket, unlocked it with his fingerprint and handed it to her.
She took it, surprised.
He always deleted his texts after he listened to them so he wasn’t worried she’d see something she shouldn’t. Like club business. Like something about the Shirleys.
“Put your name and number in it.”
She smiled up at him. “That’s a definite yes?”
Fuck, that smile sent blood rushing to his dick. “Probably gonna fire me after the first room.”
She laughed softly, the corners of her big brown eyes crinkling behind her glasses. She dipped her head and entered her info into his phone. When she did, her long hair covered her face and he had to stop himself from tucking it behind her ear.
From rubbing those silky strands between his fingers.
From lifting them to his nose.
From gripping it in his fist, yanking her head back and taking her mouth...
When she was done, he snapped himself out of his fantasy and said, “Call yourself.”
Her eyebrows, which were only slightly darker than her strawberry-blonde hair, knitted together. “What?”
“Call yourself. From my phone. So you got my number.” He added quickly, “In case your plans cancel.”
“Cancel?”
Fuck. Cancel wasn’t the right word. “Change.”
For fuck’s sake, he was a fucking idiot. He knew better than to rush.
“Okay, I doubt I’ll change my mind or cancel.” She held out his phone and, when he took it from her fingers, his brushed hers. Color rushed into her face again and he could see her pulse beating in her delicate throat. “We didn’t talk about your fee.”
“Just... whatever you think’s fair, Mrs. Goodson.” He had tried to convince himself he was doing it for the extra scratch but, if he was honest with himself, that wasn’t why.
“Chelle, please. I plan on calling you Shawn. Not that I know your last name, anyway.”
She didn’t know his last name.
Jesus fuck. She didn’t even know his first name.
But that would be for the best.
If she paid him in cash, it wouldn’t matter. She could continue to think he was Shawn.
“Gotta go,” he murmured, tucking his phone into his back pocket again.
She followed him to the front door. “Again, thank you for dropping off Pumpkin and I’ll see you Saturday.”
He jerked his chin up at her. Because she was so close, he had to think harder about the word he said next. “Saturday.” When it came out correctly and she didn’t look at him funny, he opened the door and stepped out on the porch.
She followed him.
He kept going all the way back to his sled. He took his time to shrug on his cut, slide on his sunglasses, pull up his face covering and cover his hair with his skullcap.
Every one of those minutes, he struggled not to glance back at the porch. Where he knew she watched him.
Again, he figured it was more curiosity about the MC than anything.
After straddling his totally blacked-out HD Night Train, he started it. He let the deep rumble seep into his bones and bring him back to reality.
He belonged on his sled.
He belonged in his cut.
He belonged to the Fury brotherhood.
He did not belong in Chelle’s house.
He definitely did not belong in her bed.
Now, he just had to make sure he didn’t fuck that up.
He had texted her once he rolled out of bed Saturday morning to let her know when he’d arrive. It was later than he originally planned, but then his night up on the mountain ended up going sideways.
He’d almost gotten caught.
He had worked his way up past the main clearing trying to locate a male Shirley who was alone and accidentally stumbled across a bunch of the women working in a shed.
Making meth.
None of them wore any protective gear and, even as late as it was, a few young children were playing nearby with nobody watching them.
Mothers of the Fucking Year right there.
The shed was definitely not set up like a professional lab. They used everyday products they’d bought at Walmart, items like plastic sports drink bottles and allergy medicine. The technique they used was the most hillbilly, cheap way to make the drug.