Walk away, Nathan. This chick is not your speed—slow and dowdy. She’s not your Naomi. Not anymore.
“As you don’t recall who I am, I don’t suppose it matters what you think I did or did not do before.”
Shocked by the snap of her tongue, my grip on her wrist tightens and my thumb strokes harder, rubbing deeper at the pulse of her vein.
You’re the girl I can’t forget, and I don’t want you to have forgotten me.
“Of course, I remember you. I saw you at the Piggly Wiggly last week.” It’s not what I intend to say, but I’m struggling to come to terms with all I want to tell her. Her mouth pops open and she blinks. The sudden expression brings another flash of memory. A girl shocked by the things I said I wanted to do to her and then a slow smile giving me permission. A grin written for sin. A mouth that made a man linger as I did that night.
“I don’t even know who I am most days, how can I expect you to remember me.” Her lids lower and she turns her face away from me. Her quiet self-reflection, muttered under her breath, is eerily familiar.
Who am I? I wonder most days.
“Three weeks,” she reminds me, tapping a finger on the books. Then she tugs her arm to release herself from my grip. I don’t know why, but I don’t want to let her go.
I’m stuck on you.
Once outside, I try to shake the weird vibe radiating over my skin. I’m going to be late from lunch and I don’t miss the irony of Naomi as my cause.
One more kiss. It’s the reason I was late, once upon a time.
I’m still puzzled by the woman inside the library as I sling a leg over my bike—a 2012 CVO Softail Convertible Harley—and set the books inside my side satchel. On days like today, I love my motorcycle just a little bit more. A brisk ride through fresh air and over quiet roads will reset me. Clear of Naomi’s presence and those leering lick-me eyes, I relinquish thoughts of her.
I don’t need the local librarian.
I have Charlese.
With conviction, I decide to pay her a visit on Friday night and rid my mind of one mysterious library worker. The idea rumbles through me as the sound of my metallic baby roars to life. After my two daughters, Dahlia and Dandelion, this machine is my life. The vibrating hum is music to my ears, although she’s running loud today, as I peel onto the road leading to my current build. Maybe I need the engine checked. Maybe I enjoy the noise, drowning out the sounds in my head. Ones I wish to forget from a particular night eighteen years ago. I will myself not to think of then, telling myself I’m just wound up from seeing Naomi again.
Then I glance over at my side view mirror and notice two bikes flanking my rear.
Shit.
More reminders I wish to forget.
The Iron Wraiths. Specifically, Catfish and his sidekick, Drill, are behind me. It’s rare to see the two separated, however, the first time I saw Catfish after returning to Green Valley he was with Dirty Dave. I’m surprised the old buzzard Dave was still alive. Actually, I was surprised to find Catfish still living. All the shit the Iron Wraiths have done makes my skin crawl, even though I know that most likely not every member has participated in the various rumors I’ve heard.
You owe me. His voice rings through my head—deep, determined, and dangerous. It’s the new tone of my old acquaintance, Curtis Hickson, aka Catfish. I can no longer give him a friendly label. I deserted him, and he will spare nothing to remind me of it. When I returned to Green Valley, I did my best to avoid him. I flew under the radar for months until I went to the damn racetrack with my older brother Todd, and his best friend, Big Poppy. Catfish was as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Sixteen years banished from my home. Had that night been a mistake? Undoubtedly, the Iron Wraiths would have been the biggest mistake of my life.
“You were never to come back here again,” Catfish growled.
“I have family here. Kids. A home. A job.”
“So, you’re living the straight and narrow life, and you think all can be forgiven?”
“Have I done you wrong in the years I’ve been gone?”
My response had stumped Catfish. He knew I was right. I hadn’t shared a club secret in all the time that had passed. I didn’t know anything new about them other than what the general public heard. Incarcerations. Disappearances. Suspicious activities. I wasn’t anymore a threat to the Wraiths than anyone else.
Still.
I did know a few incriminating details, and I’m sure Catfish remembers one particular night involving me. Our secrets keep us locked together, circling each other, but I want to stay on the periphery, not at the center.
I turn into the drive leading to the construction site and release a breath. I don’t look over my shoulder as I cut my engine and hear their bikes continue down the mountain road.
If Catfish wanted to run me off the road, he could have done it.
You owe me.
If he wanted to shoot me in the back, he would have done it.
You owe me.
But Catfish hasn’t done any of those things. Yet. He has other plans. He wants me to patch in again. Been there. Done that. And not a chance of Jon Snow resurrecting Eddard Stark will I return to the Wraiths. They could run me off the road or shoot me in the back, and even then, I wouldn’t consider being one of them. I paid my time. I did my banishment. I just want to live in peace.
I enter the job site, grateful Bill Monroe isn’t present, and head for the third floor of the monstrosity we are building. Among the stud-framed walls, peacefulness triggers a certain someone with lick-me eyes and deep maroon lips. I shiver at the possibility of her anywhere near my history, even when she’s a slivered part of said past. She’s too good for me. I knew it back then. I know it now.
I don’t have to fully recall what she wore, or what we did, or what we said. I remember the feeling of her as if it was yesterday. I’m stuck on you. There’s something about her—something different—unique even. But Naomi looks complicated, and I don’t do complicated, I think as I find my toolbox on the third level, strip off my jacket, and strap on my toolbelt.
I’ve had enough complication in my life. Been burned twice by complicated women already. What I need is Charlese—simple, sensual, specified. The routine of her keeps me away from random barflies and one-night stands—both of which have been trouble for me in the past—so I stick to a regular girl now. My girl Friday.
I’m stuck on you. I shake my head and double-check the plan for the bathroom I’ll be framing out, but my mind wanders.
Charlese isn’t someone I’d bring home to Ma and the girls, but I like her just fine. When I want the physical interaction of another body, Charlese is willing. We don’t need to talk. We don’t share feelings.
Get in. Get it on. Get out.
It works.
It works well enough, my heart thumps.
It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement as Charlese has no interest in a serious relationship. We keep things between us carefree and low-key. Easy. However, my heart hammers within my chest, my memories swirling like a buzz saw. A wild beauty acting recklessly in the wrong bar. Teasing me. Wanting me. Giving in to me.
The woman in the library merges with the girl in my mind’s eye. Long curly hair of gray and silver blur over the raven color in my memory. Eyes the hue of smoldering charcoal brighten a little to sterling silver. A twist of red lips whisper of sweet kisses turned eager and electric.