Managed (VIP #2)(105)

Rye and Whip appear to be bringing out a small drum kit and portable keyboard. Only then do I notice that Jax and Killian have their guitars.

“Planning to sing for your supper?” I ask.

Jax plucks at his guitar’s strings. “For Sophie.” He gives her a wink. “Because she’s the best hostess.”

She blows him a kiss.

“Any requests?” Jax asks.

“Yes.” I lean in to tell him the song I have in mind, adding, “‘From me to you.”

He shakes his head, grinning wide. “No, man, that one is definitely from me to you.”

I pull Sophie onto my lap, and we make ourselves comfortable in a low-slung chair as the guys fiddle with their instruments. Though I rarely let it show, hearing my mates play, seeing their progression from bumbling lads who could barely coordinate a sound to seasoned musicians who create transcendent music, fills me with pride.

Sophie lights up as they begin to play “With a Little Help From My Friends.”

“Beatles for joy,” I tell her softly.

Her head rests on my shoulder, and she places a hand over my heart. “And for love.”

I close my eyes and let the music wash over me. “Always for love.”





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* * *



Liberty



* * *



There’s a bum on my lawn. Maybe I should use a better term, something more PC. Homeless person? Vagrant? Nope, I’m going with bum. Because I doubt he’s actually homeless or without means. His current state seems more a choice than a situation.

The big black-and-chrome Harley that’s smashed into my poor front fence is proof enough of some wealth. Fucker tore the hell out of my lawn on its way down. But it isn’t the bike’s fault.

I glare at the bum. Not that he’d notice.

He’s sprawled on his back, arms akimbo and clearly down for the count. I might wonder if he’s dead, but his chest lifts and falls in the steady pattern of deep sleep. Maybe I should worry about his health, but I’ve seen this before. Too many times.

God, he stinks. The cause of his stench is obvious. Sweat soaks his skin. Vomit trails down his black T-shirt.

My lip curls in disgust, and I swallow rapidly to keep from gagging. A snarl of long, dark brown hair covers his face, but I’m guessing the dude is youngish. His body is big but lean, the skin on his arms firm. Which somehow makes him all the more depressing. Prime of his life, and he’s fall-down drunk. Lovely.

I pick my way around him, muttering about drunk-driving *s, and then march back with hose in hand, taking careful aim. Water shoots out at high speed, hitting its target with a satisfying hiss and splatter.

The bum jerks and rears up, sputtering and flailing around, searching for the source of his torment. I don’t let up. I want that stench gone.

“Get off my lawn.” Because he’s filthy all over, I aim lower, drenching his pants and crotch.

“Mother f*cker!” He has a deep voice, and it’s raw. “Would you f*cking stop?”

“Yeah…no. You smell like shit. And I sincerely hope you did not actually shit yourself, bud, because that is a seriously low point to come to.”

I draw the jet of water up his lean body to his head. Long, dark hair whips in all directions as he sputters again.

And then he roars. The sound rings my ears, and really ought to put the fear of God in me. But he’s too weak to stand. One muscled forearm swings up, though, slapping the wet hanks of hair back from his face.

I get a glimpse of dark eyes blazing with confused rage. Time to wrap this up. Letting go of the spray nozzle, I lower my weapon. “Like I said, get off my lawn.”

His jaw ticks. “Are you f*cking insane?”

“I’m not the one covered in vomit and laid out on a stranger’s property.”

My lawn bum glances around like he’s just realized he’s on the ground. He doesn’t spare his clothes notice. Seeing as they’re soaked to his skin, he’s probably well aware of their state.

“Here’s a tip,” I say, tossing down my hose. “Don’t be such a cliché.”

This gives him visible pause, and he blinks up at me, water running in rivulets over his cheeks and into his thick beard. “You don’t know me enough to slap a label on me.”

I snort. “Literally fall-down drunk, crashing your bike—which I somehow doubt you actually ride other than on weekends. Over-long hair, a face that hasn’t seen the business end of a razor in weeks—again, probably because you want the world to believe you’re a badass.” I glance at his arms. Strong, ropy with muscles. “The only thing I don’t see are tattoos, but maybe you’ve got ‘Mom’ plastered on your butt for color.”