He always has.

  “Because he cares what you think,” Gunz throws out in our son’s defense.

  Adam nods—once, twice. Slow and observant.

  “That’s a nice sentiment, but Adam’s never cared what I think. He marches to the beat of his own drum.”

  “This isn’t the same, Mom.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because you’re stayin’, right?”

  Without knowing my thoughts on the matter, Gunz answers in my stead. “Yeah. She’s stayin’.”

  Pressing my lips together to stave off a reaction, I let Gunz think or say whatever he wants because I refuse to discuss our situation in Adam’s presence.

  Let’s be honest. We haven’t known each other long enough to decide if I’ll stay or go. I can’t… No. I won’t make rash decisions like that. Not now. Not ever. Staying here for the time being is a godsend. Am I enjoying myself? Yes. Without a doubt. Does that mean I plan to live here indefinitely? Not at all. I’m an independent woman. I can think and act for myself. If I’ve learned anything in my forty-plus years on this earth, it’s you only have yourself to rely on. Being with Gunz makes me happy—right now. But it’s fresh. You and I both know what happens when you first fall for a guy. It’s magical. You’re the lovesick puppy, jumping through hoops to keep your fella interested. He’s as equally infatuated. It’s middle school all over again. The excitement. The hormones. Kisses and hand-holding. Butterflies. No matter how old you get, that doesn’t seem to change. The cycle remains the same. Eventually, the honeymoon phase wears off, and reality sets in. The things you once found endearing, you despise. It was the same with Jeremy.

  I thought it was cute that he liked to pick out my clothes until it became controlling. Until the fairytale wore off. He wanted me to pack his lunches for work and cook dinner every night. Again, I adored domesticity. I found it, for the lack of a better term, nice. But, once again, I grew resentful as the years passed. Jeremy only ever wanted to eat what he wanted, never caring what I liked. Hell, he probably never knew a single dish I loved. He definitely didn’t know fried pickles were my favorite. Had I told him, he’d have forgotten the same day.

  I know what you’re thinking. This kind of attitude isn’t helpful. Gunz isn’t Jeremy. Trust me, I’m aware. Just as I’m aware, I don’t fit in here as Adam does. I’m not a badass biker chick like Bink or even Loretta. I don’t ride Harleys, and I’ve never even been on a bike. Trust me when I say it takes more than tattoos, the love of loud music, and a jacked-up pickup to fit in with a motorcycle club. Gunz will learn soon enough, just as Jeremy did, I’m not worthy of his time. Thankfully, that’s never been my goal. All I want is for Adam to be happy. He’s here, with his father, talking. They’re laughing and having the best time. That’s what matters. That’s what makes my heart soar. This is what I’ve hoped for his entire life.

  Refusing to address what Gunz said about me living here, I focus on Adam instead. “Prospect for the club.”

  There. Done.

  I dust my hands together to let things fall where they may. It’s out of my control now. Not that it was ever in my control to begin with.

  “For real?!”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re cool with that?”

  Even if I wasn’t, I want him happy. “If you’re willing to put in the work and put down roots here, then do it. Commit.” For once in your life, I tack on in my head because Adam lacks stability. He’s practically a vagabond. Here, with the club, at least he’ll have brothers, his father, and a support system in place for whatever life throws at him. There will be structure and expectations. It might even keep his ass out of jail for once. That’s one hell of a bonus.

  Adam cleans the fork with his tongue like he’s done since he was a child when he eats cheesecake, savoring every morsel. “I want that.” He pulls a disposable napkin off the table, wipes his mouth, and drops the wadded paper onto his plate.

  “You sure?” Gunz double-checks.

  A round of eager head bobs ensue from our kid. “Yeah. I’m positive.”

  His father tips his head in respect as I articulate my consent. “Then you have my blessing.”

  Thrilled by the news, Adam shoots out of his seat, races around the table, and yanks me into the fiercest hug. Torn from my chair and into his arms, my son crushes me to the point I can barely breathe. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you!”

  “You’re… welcome,” I croak between shallow breaths.

  Gunz chuckles from the comfort of his seat as I dangle from our son’s arms. The tips of my toes sweep the floor.

  Loving his innocent affection beyond words, I let Adam’s hug linger as long as he wishes. Turning my head to the side, I rest my temple against his collarbone as he carries on a conversation about the club with Gunz. It isn’t until he notices the time from a clock on the wall that he sets me back on solid ground and steps away, stuffing his hands into his front jean pockets.

  A broad smile varnishes his handsome face. “Thanks again, Mom.”

  Happy to have made his day, I chuck his dark, stubbled chin. “Don’t thank me. You’re puttin’ in the hard work.”

  “I am, which means I gotta jet.” He thumbs toward the door. “Deke said I should drop by his place tonight to talk shop.”

  Seeing our son to the porch together, Gunz types on his phone, then stows it away before giving Adam a one-armed man hug. Our son reciprocates the gesture. It’s quick and contains a single back slap. On his way back inside, Gunz drops a single kiss on the side of my head and squeezes my shoulder before leaving us for a private mother-son goodbye. Taking advantage of the moment, I embrace my son again, my arms around his muscled middle. This one I am left on the ground for. Resting his chin on top of my head, Adam rumbles an emotional, “I’m glad you’re happy, Mom.”

  Grinning into the cotton of his shirt, I whisper, “Me too, baby. Me, too.” I’m afraid to let the realness seep into the universe. Afraid this could evaporate at any moment.

  “He’s good.”

  I nod. “I know,” comes as another whisper.

  “I like him.”

  My grin stretches at his admission. “I know that, too.” I pat my son’s back in understanding.

  Having said what needs said, Adam breaks away and trots heavy-footed down the steps of the porch in a new pair of black leather boots. Jogging over to Deke’s, he throws a quick wave over his shoulder as I lean against the house, my arms tucked over my chest, watching him go. My boy is not a boy anymore. That mop of dark, styled hair and broad, muscled shoulders are not the body of a kid. He’s all man now. A man who needs to buy bigger clothes or he’ll be hulking out of that t-shirt in no time.

  As if he knows I’m watching, Adam turns, throws me a brilliant, all-tooth smile, and wave, before disappearing into Deke’s. I wave back, fondly recalling the times we did this when he was a kid. I’d stand on the porch as he ran his little heart out to the bus stop down the road. Halfway there, he’d slow, wave to make sure I was still watching, then carry on to join his friends. Right as the bus would pull to the stop and turn on its lights, he’d look again, we’d meet eyes, and he’d smile, too cool to wave to his mom in front of the other boys. Not wanting to embarrass him, I’d smile back.

  Scrubbing a palm down my face, to clear such memories, I push off the house and turn to head back inside when I’m met with a different person—Debbie crossing the street. In her arms is the pooch I have a soft spot for.

  “Hey,” I greet, offering a small wave.

  Stopping at the base of the stairs, Debbie lets Chibs down on all fours. Either remembering me or being a total affection slut, he clambers up the steps to sit at my feet. Debbie removes a backpack she’s wearing and sits it on the bottom tread just as I hear the front screen door open and Gunz’s voice. “Thanks, Deb.”

  “Anytime. Everything he’ll need is in the bag.” She gestures toward it.

  Wait. What?

  “Anybody gonna fill me in?” I glance at Gunz standing beside me, then down to Deb, as she props a foot on the bottom step, her hand curved over the porch railing.

  Kneading the back of his neck, a Dum Dum between his lips, Gunz jerks his chin at the pup. “You like him. I’m gonna be back to work soon. You’ll need someone here to keep an eye on things. Figured he could be yours.”

  Holy hell.

  “You got me a dog?”

  Removing the paper stick from his mouth, Gunz points to Chibs with it. “No. I got you that dog.”

  “Chibs,” I comment for no other reason than I’m gobsmacked.

  “Yeah. That gremlin-lookin’ one with the smooshed face.” Again, he points to the dog with his sucker.

  “You said smooshed,” I blurt out of nowhere, before mashing my lips together to keep from saying anything else stupid.

  We have breached the twilight zone.

  Giving zero damns about what he said, Gunz shrugs one shoulder. “Well, look at him.”

  I blink a couple of times and do as I’m told. “I can’t believe you got me a dog.” With blue eyes, like his and Adam’s. Not the exact shade, but similar. Big, bright, and beautiful. Kinda buggy, but I love that. It adds charm.

  Once again, not one to take credit for anything, Gunz explains, “Well, technically, he’s a gift from Debbie.”

  Lips sealed, I stave off a smile, knowing he’s full of absolute shit as those butterflies from earlier run a conga line in my stomach. To save face, I pretend this is normal, that I’m not affected, and that this isn’t crazy.

  Shaking her head at Gunz’s obvious BS, Deb chimes in, “He got you a dog.” She huffs in barely concealed laughter, refusing to take credit for this unexpected creature sitting patiently at my feet, looking up at me with those oversized eyes, his speckled bat ears standing proud.

  See… he got me a dog.

  A French bulldog named after a sergeant-at-arms, just like him.

  Gesturing for me to take the furball inside, Gunz speaks to Debbie a bit longer on the porch, as I enter the house with the cutest pup. Chibs heels the brief journey, ears and eyes on high alert. In the living room, I sit on the couch, and he roosts between my feet without a single command. I’m speechless.

  A few minutes later, Gunz returns, and takes one look at me and the dog before a smile the size of California breaks across his face. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the kitchen.

  I watch him leave because I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to do. I’m afraid to touch Chibs because what if this isn’t real? What if I’m still in that hellhole, dreaming? What if the handsome man now dressed in ovary-exploding jeans and a fitted Harley shirt is a figment of my imagination?

  Stuff like this doesn’t happen in real life. Not in mine, anyhow.

  See. I know I shouldn’t have said those words aloud. Admitted the truth.

  A handful of minutes later, the same man reenters the living room, wearing the same pants and shirt, looking just as yummy. “His food and water bowl are in the kitchen, love.” A body lowers beside mine on the couch. A strong hand guides my shoulder back until my spine connects with the sofa. A furry snort box is lifted off the floor and deposited onto my lap. The same animal fits itself along the seam of my legs, turning into a loaf of dog, butt against my belly, speckled paws on knees.

  The sexy biker pats the top of the pup’s head. “Deb said he doesn’t need a leash. She said he’ll sit by the door when he needs to go to the bathroom. Just let him out. He’ll come back when he’s done.”

  Right. Let the dog go out by himself.

  When I don’t respond, a pair of soft lips meet my temple. Dropping a simple kiss there, heat permeates the cotton of my beanie when Gunz speaks. “You tired, love?” Whispered concern weaves through his words.

  I shake my head.

  “Do you not like the dog?” he questions next, trying to get a bead on how I’m feeling.

  Unable to do anything but, I stare at the aforementioned pup—at the single white spot on his right butt cheek. The lack of tail. Nothing more than a tiny tootsie roll of a stub. It’s cute. His shoulders are broad and muscular, like you’d expect a biker’s dog to be—brawny.

  I’ve never had a dog.

  Not one.

  Not ever.

  My ex refused to let us have any pet. He said they were too much of a hassle. As a child, my parents barely cared for us, let alone any kind of animal. My apartment complex didn’t allow anything with fur, and I’m not much of a fish or bird lover.

  Carefully, I lift both hands and just as carefully lay them on either side of this living creature. He breathes, his body moving up and down beneath my touch, fur soft. Chewing my bottom lip, I blink away tears, knowing damn well I promised myself I wouldn’t cry again after the silly pickle incident in the kitchen. Or the shower one… which we don’t need to mention.

  Dammit.

  “Sweetheart.” Gunz thumbs away a lone tear as it descends my cheek.

  Sliding my palms upward, I finger Chibs’ soft bat ears at the tips and work my way down to give them the best scratchy scratches. They twitch and I smile because how could I not? They’re cow print, a stark contrast against the rest of his body. Out of my periphery, I note Gunz’s smile, too. It’s reserved as he watches me with laser focus. Not wanting him to get the wrong idea, I swallow down my pride, my fear, and my concerns, to say what he deserves to hear, even if now’s not the perfect time.

  “I don’t know if I can stay with you.”

  When Gunz opens his mouth to respond, I raise a hand to stave him off. If I don’t get this out now, I’ll chicken out later. “When you said I was staying… I don’t know if that’s true or will ever be true. I… I’ve never had a dog. I want this dog, but I can’t keep him if there are conditions.” I don’t think I could take another thing being torn from me. Another thing I care about gone. Poof.

  Resting a hand on my thigh, Gunz chuckles warmly as if he finds me amusing or something else entirely. “He’s yours whether or not you stay, love. I told our son you’re stayin’ ’cause you are, for now. Even if it’s only for another week or a month. He needed to hear that.”

  “He did,” I agree with a shallow nod.

  Gunz keeps talking. “We both know if he joins the club and works with me, he’ll be a helluva lot more successful than he would be on the streets. I’ll make use of his talents. Keep him out of jail.”

  That’s all I could hope for.

  “Thank you.” There’s no way I could ever repay Gunz for what he’s done. What he’s taken on with grace and maturity. A thank you isn’t sufficient, I know this, you know this, and deep down, I hope he knows this too, but I have nothing more to give.

  Squeezing my thigh, Gunz knocks his shoulder into mine, expelling a grumbled, “No, love. We’re not doin’ that.” He pauses, inhales, and exhales before carrying on. “No thank yous. No misplaced appreciation. I’m helpin’ our kid because I wasn’t there when he was growin’ up. I’m keepin’ him close because I wanna get to know him. It’s selfish on my part. And… Chibs is your dog. He was your dog the moment you held him. You stay. You go. You never wanna speak to me again. None of it changes the fact he’s yours if you want him.”

  “I want him.” Without a single doubt, I want him.

  “Good. ’Cause he suits you, and I don’t want you here without protection when I’m gone.”

  This man… Always one step ahead. I need clothes. Gunz produces clothes. I need food. We have food. He wants me protected. A dog literally shows up at our doorstep. I’m worried about Adam. He swoops in and offers our son a job to work with him at his club, without knowing Adam more than a few days in person.

  Rubbing our dog’s back, I rest my head on Gunz’s shoulder. “He’s gonna protect me?”

  Another kiss is deposited onto my beanie, reigniting all the warm-and-fuzzies inside. “Maybe not as well as Deb’s other dogs, but hell yeah, he’ll guard the house.” Alongside me, Gunz pets the pooch with a single finger. “He could put the hurtin’ on someone if he wanted to. Deb trains these dogs to fight. There’s a booklet in the backpack with commands you’ll need to learn.”

  Okay.

  I guess that’s that.

  I now have a dog with fancy instructions, an attractive man seated beside me, and a son pledging to be a Sacred Sinner, or whatever they call it when a person tries to join a motorcycle club. Prospecting? I think that’s what they call them. Prospects.

  What’s next?

  My head still resting on Gunz’s muscular shoulder, I peek up at his face. Well, the side of it and the gray scruff mixed with goatee there. Out of the corner of his eye, he’s watching me watch him. Our eyes meet. He smiles, soft and sweet. I return the sentiment with a shyer version of my own. Warmth pools low in my belly. He winks.

  “Another movie, babe? Or book two in bed? Your pick.” Ever so gently, the sexy man brushes his fingertips over my cheek, down to my throat, and over the marks he made there, eliciting goosebumps in his wake.

  I shiver. “Book.”

  Decision made, Gunz urges me to sit up, thumbs one of his markings around my throat with a quick admiring sweep, then heads to the bedroom as I take Chibs out to potty. Standing on the porch, I watch our lil guy make quick work of his bathroom duties in the front patch of grass before we both join Gunz in the bedroom.

  With the bed turned down, pillows fluffed, the sexiest biker alive spreads out on his side of the mattress, arms tucked behind his head, elbows out, ankles crossed, in a pair of boxers. Only boxers. Tight boxers. I can see everything. Every. Freaking. Thing.

  Nearly swallowing my tongue, I stand at the edge of the bed and stare. It’s impossible not to. This is the most I’ve seen of his skin. Chest hair, defined abs, his bullet wound patched, solid pecs with a valley down the center, tattoos for days, including the skull tat poking out from the top of his low-slung boxers. The outline…You know what I’m referring to is… semi-hard. The tip, there’s a definite impression of a hoop or barbell of some sort there. I wanna ask if he’s got a dick piercing, but I won’t. Those legs—long, defined, dusted in hair, and covered in more ink. Where my tattoos are vibrant, full of color, his are darker. Black and gray, with other shades thrown in here or there. Roses and skulls in more places than one. The same symbol the men wear on the back of their vests.