She was braless under her tank top—somehow I’d managed to lose it when I got our clothes off the rock. Shit happens, and all that. Now she wore the tank and her jeans, and I swear to God, she was a biker’s dream come true. Her hair hung down in water-kissed locks and she had just a hint of pink burn across her nose.
“You get that I’m keeping you, right?” I asked. “We can call it whatever you want, but it’s real. Admit it.”
Becca cocked her head, and gave a soft smile.
“Yeah, I guess it’s real,” she whispered, then she leaned down and kissed me.
Biker heaven, right there. Too bad I couldn’t get another rise out of my cock if my life depended on it—straight-up fucked out, more’s the shame.
Still, it was a great problem to have, all things considered.
BECCA
Puck snored. Not a whole lot, just enough to be really cute.
“Cute” wasn’t really a word I’d ever associated with him, but when he fell asleep there was something soft and almost gentle in his face. The scar was still there, of course, but now he was totally relaxed—happy—and it showed. I still wasn’t sure about the whole “I’m keeping you” thing, but I figured it would work itself out because he was right. Whatever this was, it was real and it made me happy, too.
What time was it? The clock said five in the morning . . . I wanted some water. Slipping out of bed, I padded softly into my kitchen to grab a drink of water.
We’d decided to stay at my place because it was nicer overall—homey and comfortable.
The blink of the message machine caught my eye after I got my drink. Someone had called—maybe while we were taking a shower together? I grabbed the handset and pushed the button.
“Becca baby, it’s Mom. I told you that it was okay and I’d be fine. I’m not fine, honey. I’m beat up real bad. My arm is definitely broken and I’m pretty sure I have a concussion. Some of the girls tried to take me to the hospital but I’m afraid to go. If the cops come after Teeny, they’ll only lock him up for a few hours and when he makes bail things will be worse. I really need you to send me money. A lot of money. Otherwise I’ll never get out alive. I hate to do this to you, baby, but this is for real. I don’t want to die.”
My stomach crawled up into my throat—she’d never sounded like this before. Like she’d been strangled. I knew how that felt.
He’d strangled me once, too.
I had to do something, I realized. Puck had been right—the woman was a con artist, no question. But she was my mom, and she truly believed she was going to die. I heard it in her voice.
You can’t fake something like that.
I walked over to my Singer and sat down in front of it, fingers running over the black enamel and gold leaf. It was more than a hundred years old . . . The most valuable thing I owned. How much was it worth? Should I try to sell it?
I thought of Regina’s kind, loving face, the wrinkles around her eyes . . . the way she’d held me while I cried.
Priceless.
The Singer was priceless and I had no right to sell it—it wasn’t really mine. I was just using it until it went to its next owner, because a thing like that can’t be bought or sold.
Instead I went over to my tip jar counting the piles of quarters, dimes, and nickels. Twenty minutes later I’d determined that I had $122.16, counting the hundred bucks I’d gotten from Prince Handsy. Combined with my checking account that made $144.79—my entire cash value as a human being, and that was before I paid my power bill or filled my gas tank.
It would have to be enough. I’d call her in the morning.
“You okay?” Puck asked as I slipped into bed.
“Yeah, it’s all good,” I whispered, hoping it would be. He grunted and pulled me into his arms protectively. Not even the memory of Mom’s voice could keep me up after that.
—
There’s something wonderful about waking up in bed with a sexy man. Well, lots of wonderful things, not least of which was the way he flipped me on my stomach and fucked me from behind.
Yeah, that part was good.
Even better, though, was the big breakfast he helped me cook. I didn’t have any ingredients, a problem he solved by walking across the roof and raiding his own kitchen. Together we made eggs, bacon, and coffee, then sat down to each together like a real couple.
“So what’s your work schedule like?” he asked. “I know you have school during the day . . .”
“I go to school about twenty to thirty hours a week,” I told him. “It’s usually a full-time program, but they made an exception for me. For now, Teresa has me on nights, Tuesday through Saturday.”