Damon:A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel(42)

He winked at that and surprised her, rolling over and taking her with  him, until she was on her back with his weight, sturdy and strong, above  her. His green eyes didn't look so shadowed anymore. Her fingers found  his biceps, played gently on his muscles, running up and down.

"Are you gonna say yes?" he growled teasingly. "Or am I gonna have to beg you?"

"I like the way that last option sounds … " she purred, eyes half-lidded.

"Tricia Garland, will you help me do what a gypsy does best?"

"That depends, what does a gypsy do best?"

"Go where he wants, when he wants, how he wants … all while loving the shit out of his woman?"         

     



 

Tricia leaned up, met his lips with her own, pulling him down with her as her head hit the pillow once more.

"Is that a yes?" he asked, whispering in her ear. She wrapped her arms  around him, feeling the steady pulse of his heart against hers.

"Can I DJ?"





Epilogue





Tricia turned over on the air mattress. She was freezing. And it was  Damon's fault. She knew it would be too cold for camping, even deep in  the desert. Not that he hadn't done his best to keep her warm … while he  was awake. She still felt the byproduct of his (and her) favorite way to  keep warm between her legs.

Tomorrow night, we get a room, she thought, backing up until she felt his warm body against hers.

For six months, they'd been crisscrossing the states, going wherever  their fancy called them. Damon had hired someone to take his place at  the store, and Tricia had been living off her savings; camping was  cheap, splitting gas was cheaper, and they only splurged for nice  dinners once or twice a week. And it didn't matter to Tricia whether  they ate at Michelin-starred restaurants or McDonalds; as long as she  was sitting across from Damon, it was alright with her.

They'd seen Wall Drug, Mount Rushmore, Big Sur; breezed through the Big  Easy and the Windy City and the Twin Cities; spent nights under the  lights of Las Vegas and days under endlessly blue skies in Utah; caught  in desert rainstorms, mountain mists, and oceanside heatwaves; bought  cowboy boots in Nashville and went clamming in Nantucket.

Tricia had never been happier, and Damon seemed like he was a different  man altogether. He was less dire, less dark. Those shadows in his eyes  had slowly given way to a lightness.

Tricia had never believed in soulmates before, but she couldn't explain  the way she felt about Damon any other way. Most relationships took a  while, moving from like to love over the course of months. With Damon,  it had taken days; and even more, even stranger, it had lasted. They  fought, as all couples do, but they made up sweetly, softly, easily.  Neither were too proud to apologize.

They were happy. They would have been happy regardless of what came from  Miami. But what came from Miami happened to make happiness easier.

Damon had been mostly right; his witness statement was too little too  late, the confession he'd conned out of Curly not admissible evidence.  But Ricky had gotten in touch with the detective who'd worked the case  twenty years earlier, and he'd pulled some strings in the department.  They could point to Damon's statement if and when anyone questioned why  they'd re-opened a twenty-year-old case, and why they specifically  sought Curly Gottlieb's profile from the DNA database of the state of  New Jersey, where he'd been arrested on felony assault charges in 2005.

And when they examined his DNA in comparison to the pubic hairs and  semen collected from the crime in Providence, there was sufficient  evidence for an arrest  –  and, subsequently, a conviction. He was not  given leniency based on his age at the time, or the fact that it was so  many years ago.

If anything, the fact that he'd been able to walk free for so many years worked against him.

Damon never heard from the woman Curly attacked, the woman he'd failed  to save. Curly took a plea deal from the DA, so it never went to trial,  never required him to return to Providence and bear witness. But it  didn't matter. He had redeemed himself as best he could, and made peace  with the ways in which he would never feel wholly absolved.

Which made life all the easier for Tricia as she took up her role of  co-pilot, DJ, food critic, audience, entertainer, and  –  most importantly   –  lover.

Except for that night, when Tricia could only focus on how damn cold she  was. Her nose felt like Rudolph's. She considered waking Damon up and  telling him they needed to sleep in the car, or drive back into town and  get a room. But as she was weighing the possibility of sleep coming  eventually versus a cranky, just-woken Damon, she heard a telltale  buzzing from her knapsack.

Going to get her phone would mean separating herself from Damon's  warmth, something that seemed unbearable for even a few moments. But if  someone was calling at 3 in the morning …

She groaned, rolled over, and darted a hand out, searching for her phone  with her head under the blanket. She found it. Kim's smiling face  spread across the screen. Tricia's heart doubled. She'd been waiting for  this call.

Six hours, two flights, and a rental car later, Damon and Tricia were  running through the halls of Mercy Hospital, just outside of Kingdom.  They already knew they'd missed the main event  –  but not by much. As  they counted down the room numbers, slowing their pace, catching their  breaths, they both felt a giddy sort of nervousness. They hadn't seen  anyone  –  Kennick, Cristov, Mina, Kim, or Ricky  –  since Miami, except  over video chats. They talked regularly, but this would be the first  time seeing their families, both blood and extended, in over half a  year.         

     



 

They found the room where Ricky was recovering; they didn't need to look  at the number on the door. There was a window looking in, and they  paused before it. No one noticed them as they peeked in.

Damon wrapped his arm around her, kissed her temple. Through the window,  she saw Ricky and Kim on the hospital bed, tears rolling down their  faces. Cristov had the baby in his arms, was looking down with a smile  that Tricia had never seen on him before. Kennick stood behind his  brother, beaming over his shoulder at his new nephew. Mina held Ricky's  hand with one of her own, her other hand on Cristov's shoulder.

"Ready to go in?" Damon said, feeling her torn soul. She wanted to be  with them. She wanted to feel a part of their family. And she knew there  was a place for her there. She knew there would always be a place for  her with Ricky and Kim, just like there would always be a place for  Damon with his brothers and sister.

No matter what had happened … no matter what things had forced Tricia and  Damon to feel separate, to feel unwelcome, to feel out of place …

"I'm ready," Tricia said, but held tight to Damon's hand when he started  to lead her to the door. He looked back at her, a question in his eyes.  "I don't just mean that I'm ready to go in. I mean … I'm ready for us to  come home."

Damon smiled, one hand on the doorknob. He nodded.

"Me too," he said, yanking until she stumbled into his arms. They  entered the room together, a chorus of happy voices welcoming them back,  welcoming them to stay.





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Part I





1





Oh great, a used condom.

Oh, wow, super, a bloodstain.

What is this even, yogurt?

Who does this to a pillow?

Was it very necessary, whoever you are, to completely cover the walls with shit?

What is this … oh please … don't even … no … yup, it's piss.

Jesus Christ, is it that hard to put your used needles in the damn trash can?

Oh … a dollar tip, how nice, considering they left an entire week's worth  of rotting fast food and half-empty beers all over the floor.

How did they manage to get cum on the ceiling?! That's actually impressive, I can't even be mad …

All in a day's work for me. I pushed my cart from room to room, arms  sore from scrubbing at mysterious stains, clothes splotched with bleach,  mind numb to what wonders might await me behind the next door.

People are animals, I tell ya. No one knows that as much as a cleaning  lady at a hotel. And, no, before you start dreaming up my identity for  me, I'm not an "illegal alien". I am half-Latina, but I'm a full-blooded  American citizen, born and raised, and I speak perfect English, thank  you very much.

What is it about staying at a hotel that can turn even a mild-mannered  person into an untamed beast with no problem pissing all over the floor  or dumping an ashtray onto their sheets before checking out? Is it  because it's not their home, so they don't care what happens to it? Is  it because they don't realize someone like me has to come and clean it  up? Or  –  and perhaps this is the scariest possibility  –  is it possible  that they're actually like that at home, too, and you just never see it?