Rock Chick Reborn (Rock Chick #9)(35)

A hug.

He held me to him in his living room like he intended to do that all night.

And I could stand there all night.

I could stand there for weeks, held in Moses Richardson’s arms.

Eventually, he asked, “You want ice cream?”

“Yeah.”

He lifted his head and looked in my eyes. “You wanna make out some more before, after or in the middle of ice cream?”

I shot him a grin. “All of the above.”

He grinned back.

When he dipped his head that time, it was to capture my mouth.

He kissed me soft before he slid his tongue inside.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed against him.

He angled his head and took the kiss deep.

I cupped the back of his head with a hand to hold him right where he was.

It didn’t feel good being held to him like this, feeling his strength pressed against me, his tongue stroking mine leisurely, taking it slow, giving, sweet.

The wonders of all that had no words to describe them.

And I lost myself to whatever that was.

Since I was lost, happy where I was, in his embrace, connected to him, Moses gave me all I was willing to take.

He did scoop out some ice cream for us.

He just did it . . .

Later.





Choices

Shirleen

AFTERNOON THE NEXT day, I was sitting in my Navigator, staring at the high school, my phone in my hand, my heart in my throat.

This was because Roam’s history teacher had called and asked me to come in to have “a discussion.”

I hated schools. I’d take visiting a hospital or walking my ass into a police station over walking into a school.

And with my old profession, both of those were saying something.

Not to mention, with my membership in the Rock Chicks, being able to visit a hospital or walk into a police station was an important skill to have.

Moses told me he often didn’t have his phone on him when he was at work.

Still, for whatever reason, I pulled up his text string, which had seven texts (yes, I counted). Him giving me his address. Me confirming I got it. Him saying something sweet after I confirmed. Me telling him I was on my way to his house last night. Him confirming he got that and telling me he was looking forward to feeding me. Me texting that morning to say I’d had a good time the night before. Him replying, telling me he did too.

I’m at the school. Roam’s teacher called. I’m worried, I typed in.

Neither boy had had trouble with school. It took some tutoring to get them up to scratch when they started back after being out for so long, but then they just assimilated.

Easy as pie.

Which freaked me out.

I’d talked to Jules about it because I’d found that odd. I thought that would be a battle too and was surprised when it wasn’t.

“We’ll keep an eye, Shirleen,” she’d said. “But not for the normal reasons. Sometimes, when kids get it good after they’ve had it bad, they try overly hard to prove they deserve to have something that’s just their due. Like an education. They don’t want it taken away, so they go beyond the pale to make certain it isn’t.”

It didn’t seem like they were trying overly hard. I didn’t have any practice, but it just seemed normal. They didn’t have an aversion to school like I did when I was their age. They didn’t jump for joy every morning at the prospect of hauling their asses out of bed, shoving their books in their bags and heading out with a pep in their step.

Since it was seemingly normal, we just rolled with it.

And now I’d been called by a teacher to come in “as soon as you can, Miz Jackson,” and have “a discussion.”

I stared at the text, wondering if I should send it.

In usual circumstances, I might text Daisy, and it wasn’t that I wasn’t talking to her that I didn’t type the text into her string.

It was just . . .

Now there was Moses.

Before I could chicken out (of a lot of things), I hit send, opened my door, pulled myself out of my car and hoofed it on my high heels to the school.

School was out for the day so the halls were quiet, but I could see through the windows there was a woman at the reception desk in the administration office.

It took a lot, but instead of giving in to my heebie-jeebies I was in a school and turning around to walk right out, I walked in there.

She looked up.

“Hey,” I greeted. “I’m Shirleen Jackson. Mr. Robinson called and said he wanted to talk about my boy.”

She nodded. “Just out the door, to the left, down the hall, take a right at the end. Mr. Robinson is in the second classroom on the right.”

I nodded back, muttered my gratitude and took off, my heels echoing on the tile in the empty hallways, my hackles coming up.

I’d had to have meetings with the folks at school to get the boys admitted. I’d also had to go to parent-teacher conferences for three years running. None of this had been comfortable, and not because I was worried about my street-tough boys in new environs (or not only because of that).

And I was seeing right then it was because it was bringing it all back.

This wasn’t just Leon and starting things with him when I was a junior and he was a senior and how bad that all went.

It was that, back then, I hadn’t come into me. I was awkward. Uncertain. My older sister was popular, I was not. I hadn’t found my way and looking back at it, I’d always felt embarrassed, even humiliated at how I’d handled myself.