Ride Steady (Chaos, #3)(42)

So it was frequent when High’s kids were asleep that he’d leave the woman behind in a home that was far from happy, come to the Compound, and throw a few back.

He quit thinking about High and focused on Shy.

“She get home okay?” he asked.

“Do you give a shit?” Shy returned, and Joker felt his frame come alert.

He was not doing this again.

“Think I made this clear the other night, not your business who I f*ck,” he returned. “But, just sayin’, Stacy was ridin’ the edge of smashed, the bitch has no problem drivin’ in that state, and so she wouldn’t f*ck herself up, or someone else, I took her ass home. Then I took a ride. I didn’t hook up with shit.”

Shy visibly relaxed.

“She likes you,” Tab said softly.

She was right.

Carissa definitely liked him.

Then again, Carissa didn’t know him, so Tab was also wrong.

“She likes havin’ people in her life who give a shit,” Joker returned.

“There a reason you got a block about this bitch?” High asked.

Joker didn’t do this. He didn’t share.

He looked to High.

High didn’t share either. High was a hard motherf*cker who kept himself to himself.

But High had once laid it out to Joker over vodka and brotherhood that home was no good. It made him miserable. And worse, he was worried the mask was slipping and his kids could read it.

Joker had been shocked as shit when the man shared. He’d also felt grateful. His brother giving him that said a lot about how he felt about Joker, and Joker didn’t miss any of it.

And he’d decided it was time to do this.

So he said, “I’m not that guy.”

“What guy?” High asked.

“The guy she needs,” Joker answered.

“How do you know?” Shy asked.

Joker looked to him. “Because I don’t like butterflies. They’re beautiful, but they’re delicate, and I don’t got it in me to handle anything with care.”

“Maybe you’re wrong,” High noted.

“And maybe I got a life that proves I’m right,” Joker returned.

“You can’t know unless you try,” Tabby put in.

“And chew her up in the meantime?” Joker asked and shook his head. “She doesn’t need that shit.”

None of them had an answer to that and he knew why.

They knew he was right.

“She’s home safe,” Tabby told him. “She texted me when she got there. But before she took off, she went for a ride with Snapper.”

Fuck.

Joker clenched his teeth, pushing the thought of Carissa wrapped around his brother on his bike to the back of his mind, where, for her sake, he’d put their f*cking unbelievable kiss—and the fact she’d laid that on him, not the other way around—doing that hoping like f*ck, if she wanted to find a man to get her off, she took that shit off Chaos.

“Good to know she’s safe,” he muttered, tipping his chin to them and moving away.

No one stopped him so he went to his room, took off his clothes, and fell into bed.

He laid in bed and as he did it, he smelled the fading scent of fabric softener on his sheets.

So he did it thinking of Carissa.

And he didn’t sleep.

*

The next day, Joker rode his bike onto the cement that made up the forecourt of the two-bay garage. The place was a mess, cars everywhere, tires stacked all around, the large square-paned windows of the office dirty, one cracked and held together with tape. He saw the doors of both bays up, cars in each, men working on them.

Taking it in, Joker knew it wasn’t rundown because it was rundown. It was rundown because they had so much work, they didn’t have time to straighten it up.

He liked this.

He parked, swung off his bike, and stood by it, eyes on the bays.

He’d come. Finally.

Now the man had to come to him. He didn’t know why, but he figured it had something to do with Carissa. She’d been around him more than once, took his tongue, whimpered into his mouth (and Christ, he had to bury that shit as well, that whimper alone had him near to losing control and ripping her clothes off), and still, she didn’t know who he was.

This had to go a certain way.

If it didn’t, he’d get on his bike and leave it behind.

All of it.

Forever.

He saw a man come to the end of the bay, wiping his hand on a rag.

“Yo, bro! You need something?” he yelled.

Joker didn’t reply. Just stood by his bike, cut on—the patch on the back he had no clue if the man had seen. But if he had, the guy would know he was dealing with Chaos, and how he handled that would tell the tale. Joker also had his arms crossed on his chest, shades covering his eyes, which were aimed at the bay.

“Dude, seriously, you need something?” the guy shouted.

Joker didn’t move.

The man stared at him, swung his head to look behind him, then his eyes came back to Joker. A few beats later, a big black guy came walking to the end of the bay.

There he was.

The owner of this establishment. The man who’d bought it five years ago and made it thrive.

Joker braced.

The man looked at him, and even from a distance, Joker could see him looking harder.