Say It's Forever (Redemption Hills #2)(9)

“Didn’t mean in my bed, darlin’.” He angled forward again, his breath caressing my skin, sex and seduction rising to the surface. “But that sure would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

The air locked in my lungs, and he was chuckling low and looking at me like he knew the flush of desire he elicited in me. Then the man so casually strode away, overpowering his kitchen, so sexy when he dipped into the black metal refrigerator and grabbed a beer. He twisted the cap and took a long pull, then he lifted it in the air, facing me as he backed away. “Goodnight, Wildcat. Guest room is all yours. Make yourself at home. I’ll see you in the morning.”

My mouth dropped open as he disappeared back through the same double doors, catty-corner to the room where I’d taken a shower.

The room with that giant, luxurious bed where he expected me to sleep.

I stood there in the dark for at least ten minutes, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do, because this was crazy, while the heavens continued to dump and pour and deluge.

Finally, I accepted that I was stuck there tonight and reluctantly crept to the guest bedroom where I shut the door and locked it.

I slipped under the covers and sank into the plush comfort.

I typed out one last message on my phone and prayed at least someone would receive it.

Me: I still can’t get through to anyone. My car broke down, but I ran into a friend who offered me a place to stay for the night. I’ll be home first thing. Please don’t worry, I’ll be fine.





A friend was stretching it.

But they didn’t need to worry even more than they already would be.

Then I relaxed into the warmth beneath the heavy comforter as the exhaustion from the day pulled me under. Lulling me into a dream. Sleep taking me down to the darkest depths of consciousness.

Where everything faded and drifted and took old shape.

Where dreams possessed and nightmares haunted.

Where the here and now and the past intertwined. Where they merged and crossed and slayed.

Where grief whispered and crawled and sucked the life from the air.

Where I had no idea what time it was when I jolted awake. When I heard the muted roar. A roar of pain. A cry of agony.

And I wasn’t sure if it was his or if it was mine.





THREE





JUD





It didn’t matter that it wasn’t even eight in the morning, heavy metal blared from the speakers that hung at each corner of the soaring ceiling of Iron Ride.

Had slept like shit last night, tossing and turning with the thought of Salem in the room right next to me, that fiery wildcat who could so easily get under my skin.

Apparently, the only thing it took was a hot-as-hades stranger standing wet in my living room to make me lose my mind. My rationale. My sense and reason.

My purpose.

So, I’d gone and done something so ridiculous as tell her I wanted to get to know her.

Seriously fucked up.

A chuckle of disbelief rolled up my throat as I studied the piece of metal on the worktable.

What did I think? She was going to get to know me and be cool with who I was? And why the fuck had I even suggested it? Thought for a second that I wanted it?

I knew firsthand it didn’t go down like that. The second I’d let it slip from my mouth, I’d known I was setting myself a trap. That it ran contrary to everything I knew. Everything I was striving for.

But still, it’d been there, tangled in my guts—interest—and not just in that tight little body.

At least the girl’d had a little sense and shot that shit down, but still, it’d left me rattled, my dick hard and my brain mottled as I’d slunk away to my room, hoping by shutting myself behind my bedroom door, I might be able to shut off thoughts of her.

Hardly.

I’d finally given up when the sun breaking at the horizon had snatched the darkness from my room. I’d pulled on some clothes and made my way down to the shop.

Had plenty to do, anyway, so it didn’t hurt to get a jump start on my day.

Besides, Iron Ride was where I found my peace. Where I created beauty when my past life had created devastation.

It was where I welded and sanded and painted and rebuilt. Brought back to life the worn and run-down. The dilapidated and decayed. Priceless gems left to rot in backyards and in forgotten lots. Cars and bikes that I would take back to bare bones, then restore them to a newfound glory.

Art manifested of my hands.

Dirty hands that I was doing my best to make clean.

I got lost in it. Entranced in it.

Ears full of the pounding, thrashing beat, I watched through my protective mask as fire scored through metal. Sparks flew and spit as I made the precision cut.

I was hyper-focused, though somehow enthralled by the movements, like my soul had jumped in on the revelry.

I heaved out the breath I’d been holding when the metal for the bike fender finally cut apart, the tension bound in my muscles draining away. I shut off the torch so I could study my handiwork. My finger covered by a leather glove glided over the cut.

Ensuring perfection.

Nothing less was tolerated in my shop.

The only thing going out these doors was going to be spectacular.

Awe-inspiring.

I mean, fuck, I’d made old bikers weep when they’d come to claim their ride. If a man shed a tear or two when he saw his beast for the first time? That shit was a win.