Rock Chick Reborn (Rock Chick #9)(19)

“He’s six foot four,” was my reply, and if Moses had a vagina (which thankfully he did not), he would understand this was all I had to say.

Moses had no reply to my reply.

Clearly I had to say more.

“And his portrayal of Eric Northman adheres to my philosophy on how to be a vampire.”

A surprised chuckle bubbled from him as he asked, “You’ve got a philosophy on how to be a vampire?”

“Who doesn’t?” I asked back.

Moses again had no reply, but this time he did it looking like he was trying real hard not to bust a gut laughing.

“It’s simple,” I stated.

“Share,” he urged.

I did.

“Own it. You’re gonna live forever and gotta do that by drinkin’ blood and raisin’ hell, why not? Live it up. Go for the gusto. Bust it out. And make no apologies.”

“Maybe there’s somethin’ for you to learn from this fictional vampire guy,” he’d said quietly.

That was when I had no reply.

Until I did.

“There you go, making it all deep.”

“I don’t know what’s deeper than finding out what kind of vampire a woman would wanna be.”

And that was when I burst out laughing.

That had been it.

After a rocky start, it was good conversation with delicious food and cocktails that led into fantastic wine, and now my ass was beside his in his truck where he was driving me home.

How did this happen?

One second, I was “puttin’ on the Ritz” to hit the town with my girls.

The next, I was sitting beside a hot guy in his truck after having a good date.

No, a great date.

No, a fabulous date.

Damn.

“We’ll hold hands at the movie theater, but tonight, baby, I’ll just walk you to the door. So you can settle down. It’s been beautiful and I don’t want you to get all nervous now. That would fuck it up.”

I turned my head to look at him.

The last thing Leon Jackson did before he left our home and then got whacked was backhand me into a wall.

And I knew without asking, the man sitting beside me had never raised a hand to a woman.

Hell, he might never have raised his hand to a man, unless he was sparring with him at his boxing gym (I did not know if Moses belonged to a boxing gym, but it was a good thought).

He glanced at me, his beautiful lips quirked, before looking back at the road.

“You good?” he asked.

What did I say?

My dead husband regularly beat the shit out of me? And the last years of our marriage, sex was more like habitual rape since I never wanted it but he took it anyway, and by then I’d learned not to fight it? And since the man got dead, I got myself a little somethin’-somethin’ here and there but it never lasted and it never meant anything? Now I’m sitting next to Moses and I worked with good men. And through them and my friends, I witnessed every day how a functional, loving relationship survived.

But I had no clue what I was doing and how I got my ass here beside him.

“Shirleen?” he prompted.

I turned forward.

“Okay, baby,” he said gently, “we’ll let whatever you got goin’ in that head of yours slide.”

Thank the Lord.

“For now,” he finished.

Shit.

He drove.

I sat beside him listening to the soothing strains of vintage R&B punctuated with his GPS guiding him to my driveway since he made me give him my address to program it in (okay, he didn’t “make me,” as such—he asked and I gave him my address), as well as my phone number.

He let the silence settle, and I had a feeling it was all right with him. Moses struck me as a man who could be comfortable in silence.

I was not.

He pulled into my drive, put the truck in park, turned it off and then twisted to me.

“Boys home?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I told them to text me when they got home. They’ve learned to do that without fail. And they haven’t done that, so no.”

“I’m walking you to your door.”

Moses bringing up my boys made me think of them and the fact they wouldn’t be home any time soon since it wasn’t yet eleven and that was their curfew when they were working at NI.

But maybe Jack at the office who usually manned the control room for the night shift was feeling some alone time and let them go early.

This was my last thought before Moses opened my door.

The man opened a woman’s car door.

Oh sweet Lord.

He offered me his hand.

I took it and the warmth and strength of his long fingers wrapping around mine made me freeze solid as I stared at our hands. His unrelentingly masculine, mine had long fingers, rounded knuckles with the skin darker there, my nails long and now coated in a silvery metallic with a hint of soft purple.

And staring at them, it hit me there was nothing more beautiful than two clasped hands.

“Shirleen?”

I tore my eyes from our hands and forced myself to shift my body to get out of his truck.

He held me gripped tight as I negotiated my dismount.

And he kept hold on me as he guided me out of the door, closed it, and walked me up to my front door.

He stopped us there and I stared at it so I wouldn’t turn my head and stare at him.