FORCE: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Page 20

Teach's mouth twitched.

  "Don't tell me I made you smile, old man," J. growled in mock anger.

  "Don't get full of yourself, you little shit," Teach growled back. But he was stepping out from behind the counter, his arm already extended. J. grasped the proffered hand firmly, and looked into the older man's watery, but still sharp eyes and saw the pride there. "Congratulations, kid, you did good. Now keep your head down."

  J. nodded. "Plan on it."

  "You gonna work today?"

  "Yeah I gotta deliver that job tomorrow."

  Teach chuckled and shook his head, his long gray dreads swinging across his chest. "Weekend warriors. Gotta love them."

  J. grinned. "Long as they pay me."

  Teach nodded and wandered back to his catalogs. J. dropped his riding leathers into a heap behind the counter and stepped through the back doorway and into the garage.

  The bike he was building for the doctor in Rittenhouse was nearly complete. The weekend warrior had wanted all the bells and whistles J. offered him. J. wondered if he really was interested or if he was just intimidated by the color of his skin.

  J. had seen it a billion times. Teach's shop was famous throughout the Philly biker world as the best place to go to get custom work done. Rich suburbanites ventured nervously into the no-man's land under the Frankford El, and then were startled when they met an old black biker behind the counter. They were doubly startled when the head mechanic was a tall, broad-shouldered, bare-chested young black man in a patch covered cut.

  "Hey asshole, what're you doing trying to sneak off to work like that?"

  J. grinned at the voice booming over his shoulder. "Some of us actually work for a living, you lazy piece of shit."

  "Ha!" J. grunted when the impact of Case's bear hug nearly knocked him to the floor. Before he could react, his best friend had his arms pinned at his sides.

  "Put me down you Viking-looking motherfucker!" J. yelled, kicking his feet as Case lifted him off the ground.

  "Or what, you think you could take me?"

  "You snuck up on me."

  Case dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor of the shop and struck a fighting stance. His pale cheeks were flushed under his blond beard. He quickly tied back his dirty blond ponytail and raised his fists. "Go ahead, I'll even let you have first hit."

  J. balled his fists threateningly, then burst out laughing. Case yanked him into another bear hug and clapped him on the back with his huge hands so hard J. started to cough. "You're done right? Free man as of today?"

  J. coughed again, trying to catch his breath. "Yup, I'm done. Official parole documents filed with the county and all that shit."

  "You're done?" Crash's sleepy voice floated out into the shop from the bunk area. "For real?"

  "Way to pay attention, asshole," Case grumbled.

  "I pay attention. I just forgot!" Crash whined. "You know I can't remember shit, asshole."

  They heard the creak of springs as Crash heaved himself painfully out of his bunk. He appeared in the doorway rubbing his stubbled head blearily and squinting his pale blue eyes at the sunlit glare of the shop. "We gotta celebrate!"

  "You look like you did enough celebrating last night," Teach rumbled, taking in Crash's pale, puffy face and squinting eyes.

  "Just because you forgot how to have a good time, old man."

  "Don't look like you're having such a good time now," Teach shot back. He rifled through the drawer under the counter and came out with a flashlight, which he promptly shone in Crash's eyes.

  "Ow, fuck!" J. and Case laughed as Crash flailed his arms trying to escape the beam of light.

  "That idiot does have a point." Case poked J. in the ribs. "We need to celebrate. How long has it been since you had a drink anyway?"

  J. gulped and thought for a second. Imprisoned at eighteen, six years behind the walls, and then a year of parole. "I've never had one legally."

  Case whistled softly. "Yeah, that needs to change."

  Crash managed to dunk behind a wall of accessories, hiding from Teach's persistent flashlight.

  "Ya wanna go down to the Dog?" he called from his hiding place.

  The Black Dog Saloon was their normal hangout, a place to grab cheap whiskey, cheaper women and the cheapest beer.

  "Nah that place is a shithole. This is an occasion," Case scoffed. J. looked at his tall, blond friend and ducked when he saw the pride in his blue eyes. "We're going somewhere posh tonight."

  Case flung his beefy arm around J.'s shoulders. "Mister Jeremiah Johnson is now a fully rehabilitated member of society. He needs to be reintroduced properly." Case grinned. "Let's go tear up this town."

  "Yeah!" Crash shouted from behind the accessories wall. He bounded out from his hiding place and instantly dropped to the ground when Teach shot him with the flashlight.

  "Stop that shit! I yield!" he cried, covering his eyes with his hands.

  "Go drink some water," Teach called, switching off the beam of light. Crash jumped up from the floor and bounced back into the clubhouse, banging his bum leg against MacDougal's bunk on the way to the bathroom. The old man swore in his sleep and immediately started snoring again.

  "To be young again," Teach proclaimed, listening to the cacophony of bangs and crashes coming from the bathroom. "Drowning in pussy and bourbon."

  "Yeah, but then you'd have to be Crash," Case pointed out.

  J. whistled softly through his teeth and Case grinned.

  "Don't insult the man when he isn't here to defend himself," Teach said. Case bent his head, chastened.

  The air in the room suddenly thickened as Teach spread his palms out flat on the counter. "What is it?" J. asked, the skin on the back of his neck prickling.

  Teach inhaled deeply. J. could tell he was weighing his words. "It's a good day, and I don't want to be the one to ruin it."

  J. felt a chill go through him. "What?" he pressed. Teach was freaking him out.

  Teach rounded the counter and stood before him. His weathered face seemed to sag even further. "Your sister called, Jeremiah."

  Case sucked in his breath and stepped back instinctively, stepping out of range as J.'s fists instantly balled at his side. J. took several deep breaths, willing back the red rage that threatened to overtake him right then and there.

  "You don't need that shit," Case muttered, reaching a tentative hand for J.'s shoulder.

  "Don't touch me," J. snapped, and Case pulled his hand back, looking wounded.

  "Jeremiah, hey." Teach's voice was both authoritative and soft at the same time. It cut through the blinding anger that clouded his sight. "Remember, Seneca. 'There is no battle unless there are two.' You can move on."

  "How am I supposed to when that shit keeps dragging me back?"

  J. hadn't been back to the neighborhood since he left for prison seven years ago.

  At first he had pined for the comfort of his family and the camaraderie of his friends. But as he did his time and kept his head down, he noticed more and more that the people from his past only weighed him down.

  Janelle, his mother...and Randall. The whole reason he ended up in prison in the first place. That fateful day when they walked into the convenience store. J. didn't know Randall had the gun. Randall never told him the plan. He just pointed it at the clerk and shouted at J. to grab the money from the open till. When the other clerk walked out of the storeroom, J. had acted on instinct, knocking him to the floor before he could press the alarm button.

  This elevated his charge from robbery to assault. And since his birthday was the week before, he had been tried as an adult. No amount of pleading had worked to get the sentence dropped, especially not when the clerk had showed up to testify with his jaw wired shut. Meanwhile Randall's lawyer had managed to cop a plea, claiming there were no bullets in the gun Randall used.

  And Randall was only seventeen when it had happened. He spent three months in juvie and then had his records expunged. He had been living free all this time.

  And
now he was dating J.'s sister. Living in J.'s old bedroom. Sitting down to eat with J.'s mother.

  When Janelle had told him this during one of her visits, J. flew into a rage that landed him three weeks solitary. Janelle claimed Randall wanted to make amends, to do right by his family while J. did his time.

  But J. couldn't accept it. He told Janelle to get out of his life. He cut off his mother, his sister and never told them that he had been released early. He moved right into the clubhouse when he got out and hadn't contacted them at all.

  Somehow Janelle had found him. The past had found him. Everything he had been running from for seven long years was catching up, no matter how fast he rode.

  "Hey, J. You're scaring me, man." Case's voice sounded far away. J. took another deep breath, counting backwards from ten like he had learned in anger management class.

  "You want us to take care of that piece of shit?" Crash's voice caught him by surprised. He hadn't realized he had reappeared at the doorway. MacDougal was looming behind him, his angry expression saying everything that needed to be said.

  J. knew if he said the word, Randall would be history. His brothers had his back. "This isn't your fight," J. exhaled.

  "Yeah it is," Crash declared. "That coward ruins your life and now he's moved in on your sister? Scum like that needs to be wiped from the earth."

  "J.?" Case's voice was calm but concerned. "You tell us what to do. But you have to do something."

  "But not today," Crash protested. "Today we drink."

  Chapter 7

  Emmy

  "How are you today, Miss Hawthorne?"

  I was hurrying to get to our elevator, but I couldn't bring myself to ignore Officer Wilkens. The retired officer sat behind a glass walled booth at the entrance to our building and his sharp eyes didn't miss a thing.

  "Hey there Joey, did you see Robert come in yet?"

  "No Miss, I haven't seen him yet." Joey Wilkens still had an old-fashioned formality about him that I liked, even if I still found it strange to accept.

  "Thank you," I breathed, hoping the relief in my voice wasn't audible.

  Robert wasn't home yet. That would give me time to collect myself before he arrived. Sammie had rattled me deeper than I cared to admit. He doesn't have to hit you to leave a mark.

  I smiled at the older man, hoping to get him going on one of his old stories to distract me. "How late are you here tonight, Joe?"

  "I just started an hour ago, Miss."

  I felt a rush of panic flood my mouth with its metallic taste. Robert could have come home before Joey's shift started. He could be up there waiting for me right now, wondering what was taking me so long at lunch. He would be angry at me for not being there for him. He always needed me to be there when he got home from work. I was his refuge. He had told me that a million times. How long was it going to take me to remember?

  "Oh, well I hope it goes quickly!" I sang out as I hurried to our elevator. Mentally I began to prepare my lies. I had left the CD of my work at home and had to double back, so lunch hadn't started until later than I said it would. That would work. Robert always believed stories that involved me making mistakes.

  When the doors whooshed open, I held my breath waiting for him to call, "And where have you been?" But I was greeted with silence.

  "Hello? I stepped off the elevator into our massive living room. I looked into the front closet. Robert's bag was not hanging in its usual spot.

  I exhaled slowly in relief.

  I kicked off my shoes and set them tidily in the closet. Then I flopped on our white sectional, daring to drape my legs over the arm, and stared at the ceiling. I lay with my arms flung out and watched the fan in the vaulted ceiling high above me. It rotated slowly, and I focused on watching one blade at a time. It was always on, day and night, winter and summer. Robert insisted on what he called "airflow," and had a precise way he programmed it. Something about counter-rotation pushing the warm air down out of the ceiling. If I so much as dared to change the speed or direction of the fan, Robert would notice. Even if it seemed to me like I had exactly replicated Robert's methods, he would still notice.

  I let my gaze flit from blade to blade, concentrating hard on keeping my thoughts at bay. But my anger at Sammie crowded everything else out of my head. How dare she? She was supposed to be my best friend and yet she couldn't even be happy for me that I had found someone so wonderful. Someone who cared enough about me to try to make me better. To raise me up from my white-trash upbringing and introduce me to the finer things in life. Sure Robert had his own way of doing things, and sure he expected me to follow them. But that was because his way was the right way. It wasn't his fault I kept screwing things up. I was trying hard to be worthy of him, and it was mean and childish of her to try to undermine that.

  Abuse. I scoffed at the word. I knew abuse. Abuse was when my father trapped my mother in the corner, shouting at her until she wept and pleaded. Abuse was when my mother locked the front door on Andy, forcing him to spend the night outdoors. Abuse was when I had to throw myself on top of Andy to keep my father from beating him bloody. What I had with Robert was nothing short of true love.

  The doors swooshed open and I sat up with my heart in my throat. "Hey babe, you're home!" I called, hurriedly twisting myself around so that I was seated on the couch properly.

  He walked past where I sat and headed straight into the kitchen without a word.

  I paused. I never knew if he wanted me to follow when he did this. I waited a beat and then made my way behind him.

  His broad back was towards me. The dark blue of his crisply tailored dress shirt showed off the wide expanse of his shoulders perfectly. I let my eyes wander down his arms and settle on his trim, narrow waist. His suit jacket was folded over one strong arm and the other was lifted as he poured himself a tumbler of single malt Scotch. I hesitated in the doorway, waiting until he had his liquor in him before I spoke.

  "Why are you hovering?" he sighed, his back still turned to me.

  "I'm not, I just..." I ran over my options in my head. He didn't look like he wanted a bubbly greeting. Maybe a shoulder rub? I stepped towards him. "Bad day?"

  He snorted and knocked back a long swallow of the Scotch.

  "Anything I can do?" I stepped backward and pressed my back to the wall, taking up as little space as I could.

  He scoffed again. "Do what you always do. Nothing."

  My stomach dropped. There were two ways I could approach this. I could leave and give him his space, hoping he would come to me later. That was the riskier option. I could very easily earn the silent treatment that way, and have to beg his forgiveness for being cold and abandoning him when he needed me. But the other option was risky too. Stay and try to wheedle him out of his bad mood. If I did that, I risked being relentless ball and chain who never gave him space. I would then have to apologize for being up his ass the minute he walked in the door.

  I studied the tenseness in his shoulders and the vein at his temple, hoping for some kind of sign.

  "Here," I tried. "Let me at least take your bag."

  When he didn't protest, I decided to go for the second option. I took his bag from the counter and trotted to the front closet and hung it on its designated hook. Then I hurried back to where he still stood in the center of our gleaming gourmet kitchen. Carefully, I placed my hands on his shoulders, barely letting him feel my presence.

  He didn't say anything, but he didn't swat me away. I began to knead the tense muscles, digging my fingers into the rock-hard muscles of his back. I stroked my hands up his neck to the base of his skull and threaded my fingers through his chestnut waves, scratching my nails across his scalp like he liked. The slight floral scent hit my nose, spicy yet sweet.

  "Don't mess up my hair," he barked. "I might have to go back in."

  I snatched my hands away and moved them down to the small of his back. I wasn't going to think about the perfume. That would be a bad idea. I smoothed my palms over the small rise of
his buttocks, and let out a small sigh. His warm, unyielding bulk felt good under my hands. I untucked his shirt from his waistband and let my fingers wander under his T-shirt to find the smooth, tanned skin underneath. "You feel nice," I whispered into his back, pressing my lips to his spine.

  He sighed and lowered his shoulders, allowing me to dig my thumbs into the rigid muscles. When I reached his shoulders, I slid my palms back down each arm and snaked them around to his front. Hugging him around the waist, I stood on my tiptoes and murmured into his ear.

  "Come upstairs, babe."

  "You're done already?" he muttered.

  "Oh! Sorry." I quickly moved back to massaging his shoulders.

  He leaned against the refrigerator, bracing himself so that I could dig deeply. I sank into a lunging position, putting my full body weight into pressing and kneading up and down the whole broad expanse of his back.

  He hadn't yet turned around to say hello.

  "This would be easier if you were lying on the bed," I coaxed.

  "Really Emilia?" He drew up, pulling himself away from my touch. "I had a shit day and that's what you're after? Can't you just give for once and not ask for something in return? Christ." He stalked out of the kitchen.

  "With all I do for you..." he muttered darkly and strode upstairs, leaving me standing with my arms still reaching for him.

  Chapter 8

  Emmy

  Robert had gone upstairs, taken a shower, changed his clothes and left. All without saying a word to me.

  I spent the rest of the day in a blank daze. I moved from distraction to distraction: my email, Facebook, gossip websites, but nothing was able to fully hold my attention. No matter how loudly I played my music, or cranked the volume on the TV, I couldn't get the scent of perfume out of my nose, or drown out Sammie's voice in my head.

  He doesn't have to hit you to leave a mark.

  There was a place, right above my navel. A hollow, hurting place. It twisted and churned like a knife in my guts. It hurt so badly sometimes that it took my breath away.