Rock On (Bad Boy Bandmates & Babies)

I knew I’d need to go down there any time and every time I wanted to cook, which I did a lot. That meant I would have to go right through the space I’d given her. If we were to keep out of each other’s way, it really wasn’t the best plan possible.

Clearing the perimeter, I made it into my cool, track-lit haven, relief already coming on in laps and waves. Once my essence was back and I was totally in control of myself again, I lit the sacred flame on the custom-made stove and got down to the other of the two things I did best: making food meet heat in a most glorious communion, as beautiful as the sound of music. Spatula at the ready, I conducted my symphony, steering clear of any of the more controversial foods, not certain what, if any, modern fad diet Petra might be on or what she liked to eat.

It had been so long since I was even close to her age that I had no idea what the younger generation liked to eat. Perhaps it might have even been a stretch for someone in their early 20’s, but I was just over the border of 30, which tended to change one’s perspective, usually for the better.

As far as I could tell, at least in retrospect, being in one’s 20’s was much like having a virus. There was nothing to be done; you just had to wait for improvement.

As much as I resented her very presence in the depth of my essence, she was already here, and that was thanks to me volunteering the space, so it was through no fault of her own and I might as well make her comfortable.

The highland hospitality embedded in my scotch-flavored genes kick-stepped into high gear. I could only hope I didn’t start speaking in the family brogue.

I figured that cooking anything with meat in it was completely out of the question. And I decided I might have to resort to porridge, depending how many instances of breakfast were on the horizon. Some extra brown sugar should overpower the influence of the ancient and sacred oats, consumed by my clan since the Roman border skirmishes that inspired Hadrian’s Wall.

The ferocious might of the highland warriors was too much for even the Empire to bear. That old toss about the ‘Romans in Britain’ was really more ‘Romans in England.’ The jumped up, skirt-wearing jackasses getting butchered into oblivion any time they ventured north of Newcastle.

Pacing around the kitchen like a pirate hunting for his treasure, my feet swept around the chromatic and smooth tiles. I arrived at the table where award winning dishes pleasantly welcomed existence. Satisfaction from a job well-done almost accounted for the violation of my sanctum, self-imposed as it may have been.

I had nothing against Petra personally. No more than anyone else in the world.

In fact, I really didn’t know her well enough to draw any firm conclusions about her personality one way or the other. The only facts I had were that she was gloriously fuckable, in danger of being homeless and deemed good enough for Seth Black to employ at Suspicious Activity and that should be enough for any man.

Setting the table piece by piece, I tried to muster the courage to face the new reality, avoidance and denial being my usual tactics. Some things needed to be faced, however, and I couldn’t let the girl go hungry.

The text message had warned that anyone found violating the shelter in place order could be arrested and without me, Petra might be on the streets. At least I was saving her from a possible jail sentence!

Once the table was pretty as a picture, I went to do what needed to be done, reminding myself it was for the greater good, and that it was keeping the prisons a little less full of essentially innocent people.

I couldn’t deny that my cock jumped up at the prospect of keeping such a fair maiden out of harm’s way. Because it meant I had to keep her close to me, and under my lock and key.

Chapter Five – Petra

The cool marble lost its appeal after the first hour or so. The allure would no doubt return after a certain period but, for the moment, I amused myself on the bed.

I was lying flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling, which also white marble, counting the gold veins running through it. It was a game I’d learned as a kid, when I’d be sent to bed early for minor infractions. Theo was always managing to get me food, despite the ostensible short-term ban on dinner.

“Five-hundred fifty-seven, five-hundred fifty-eight...”

Were it not for the destruction of such natural beauty, I might have well gotten to the point of marking the days on the walls and then crossing through each set of four. If only I had a harmonica, that would be ideal.