Strong and Steady

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?”