Sinners are Winners (KPD Motorcycle Patrol 5)

It was technically one that I’d had since high school.

A black halter top with black lace piping around the edges, it’d been cute as hell once upon a time. Now it was a little too small seeing as I’d grown boobs since I’d worn it last—growing boobs was par for the course when you gained weight. Apparently, when I gained weight, it went first to my tits, and then to my ass.

I’d yet to see the extra pounds anywhere but those two places, and honestly, I wasn’t really sure that I should even complain about it.

It was a good weight to add on seeing as I now had boobs to fill out my halter tops.

“Shit,” I said as I reached my finger up and stuck it down into my shirt, swiping it up and collecting it from the deep crevice.

I had a really awesome bra on.

Like, super awesome. I recommend every single person that has boobs to go get one exactly like mine. It lifted, separated, and honestly perked the girls up so well that they looked edible and fake.

I needed to go buy more if I was going to continue to wear it as much as I did.

Lock cleared his throat, drawing my attention.

When I looked at him, though, he was looking down at the countertop as if he could see something that I couldn’t.

“Thanks,” I said. “Do you mind getting the oven doors for me?”

He stood up as if he loved having a direction to be pointed in, and practically skipped to the oven and grasped the door handle, waiting for me to get to him. When I finally did, he opened it, steadied the pan, and waited for me to stretch up onto my tippy toes to get it into the oven.

“Almost too tall for you,” Lock chuckled as he once again retook his seat.

I closed the oven door and rolled my eyes at the man.

“I’m average height for a woman,” I told him. “Five-foot-six is about seventy percent of the female population.”

Lock’s brow rose.

“Actually, average height for a woman in the United States is five-feet-four inches,” he corrected me.

I snorted.

“Trust you to know the facts,” I teased. “How do you know that?”

“I know random shit,” he said. “I make it my life’s purpose to know random shit. Knowing random shit makes fighting with my sister much more interesting.”

“You still fight with your sister?” I asked in surprise.

He shrugged. “Not as much now as I did back when I was a kid.”

I felt my eyes crinkle at the edges.

“I don’t have any brothers and sisters,” I said. “My parents tried for years after I was born to no avail. But they did foster some kids when I was growing up.”

“Wow.” He crossed his arms and then leaned onto the counter. “That’s tough. I have a buddy that used to be in the foster care system. He raves about one foster parent he used to have. Some are definitely miracle workers. My buddy was really fucked up. The man and woman that took him in for a few months, though, straightened him right out. Talked him into going into the Navy. That’s how we met.”

I smiled.

“Tad actually used to be in foster care,” I said. “My parents declined watching him, though. They did refer him to someone in my father’s club’s Alabama chapter, however. That man ended up adopting him.”

“There’s no bad blood there between Tad and your family?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Honestly? I doubt it. It was pretty self-explanatory at the time why my parents said no. My father had gotten hurt on the job and was off work for about eight weeks. My mom was in the middle of classes—she’s a science teacher—and we already had two other foster kids—both of which were extremely high maintenance.”

“High maintenance how?” He took a sip of his coffee.

“One had severe PTSD from something that happened to her parents which brought her to us in the first place.” I paused. “Every time our lights went out, I remember her freaking out so badly that she had to be medicated. And, before you ask, I also don’t know anything about what happened. My parents might, but at the time I was just twelve or so and didn’t really care all that much.”

He grinned.

“And the other?” he asked.

I shuddered.

“He was a freaky little kid,” I admitted. “He was sixteen when he came to stay with us for a couple of months.” I thought back to that time in my life. “I wasn’t sure what it was that freaked me out about him. But you know those kids—or sometimes just people in general—that just give you the creeps? They don’t have to say or do anything, really. You just know that they’re fucking weird and you don’t want to be around them—especially not alone with them?”