Gwen scowled at me. “My vagina looks great! Better than before, in fact,” she argued defensively.
I patted her hand. “I’m sure it does, sweetie. You’re just an exception to the rule. It’s like playing Russian roulette with your downstairs area.”
Gwen gave me a look. “It’s also the most amazing thing, having a little human who you love more than life itself.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess you’ve got a point.” My mind wandered to how much I already loved Belle and to the day when Brock held her so tenderly. Maybe I would risk my vagina for having that with Brock.
“So,” Gwen turned to me. “Cade had no explanation as to why this was happening. Since he was in badass mode all I got were sexy grunts and orders. Spill,” she demanded, changing the subject.
“Yeah, I didn’t get any of the lowdown—even Lucky seemed grim. Tell us,” Rosie chipped in. I wondered if it was more out of motivation to get the subject away from Luke.
I sighed and filled them in on the parking lot showdown. When I was done they both gazed at me with mouths agape.
“So this guy is just handing over his freaking son? That is beyond cold. That’s crazy!” Rosie exclaimed with a disgusted look on her face.
“Yep,” I agreed, unable to believe this was my life. We were in a biker clubhouse talking about the man who tortured me getting handed over to my boyfriend by his own father. My boyfriend, the sergeant in arms of said motorcycle club, was most likely going to kill said torturer. This way a far cry from sitting around a table in Manhattan drinking overpriced cocktails and talking about the latest it bag. Granted, I had been away from my island for over a year and this isn’t the first time I was involved in a club ‘lockdown’, but it was the first time I was smack dab in the middle of it. I frowned at the empty glass, feeling slightly miffed at Gwen for draining it. This, like so many problems in my life, was a job for alcohol. Glancing at Gwen I realized she might have needed it more than me.
“You okay, Gwennie?” I asked softly.
She jerked up, her eyes focusing on me. “Oh yeah, it’s all in the job description of being an old lady, right? Discussing a father setting up his own son’s murder. A murder my husband will most likely be involved in.”
“I still think I’d rather live this life than have to face nightly dinners with my mother,” I replied honestly and Rosie smirked.
Gwen sighed. “That’s the thing. Even with all of this I wouldn’t change it for the world.”
Neither would I.
“Are we going to get to sleep in a room that hasn’t seen more traffic than Grand Central station tomorrow night?” I asked Brock sweetly as I rubbed moisturizer on my hands.
He shrugged his cut off and placed his knife and gun on the desk across from his bed. “Can’t say for sure, babe, but the prospect is looking likely,” he replied, undressing.
I looked around his room. It was messy like the last time I had been in it, but this time I was a verified ‘old lady”. It felt different. I also felt vaguely sick thinking of the other women who had shared this bed after me.
“Sparky?” a soft voice asked.
I jerked back to reality and looked into Brock’s eyes. “How many?” I asked.
Brock looked confused. “How many what, babe?”
“Girls,” I said quietly. “I know I have no right to ask and I’m not going to claw your face off when you tell me the truth. I just need to know.” I hated myself for asking this. It was like emotional self-flagellation, but the unknown was worse.
Brock sighed and ran his hand through his hair before directing his gaze back at me. “You want the truth?”
I nodded, even though the sensible Amy shook her head internally.
“Those first few weeks, before I got a taste of you, before I knew what it felt like to be inside you, I tried to fuck you out of my system. Not gonna lie, babe, there were girls. But every time I sunk into some bitch all I could see was red hair and the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.” He stroked my face. “After I got in there—” He slipped his hand to cup me between my legs. I felt myself get turned on, despite the subject matter. “After I felt what it was to be inside you I was fuckin’ ruined, Sparky. All the shit we went through—sometimes I fuckin’ wished I could forget about you, go back to mindless fucking.” His eyes met mine, blazing. “I couldn’t. You had me under your spell, baby. For months I didn’t get to touch you, get to slip into your heat. I thought I’d fuckin’ die from blue balls.” He smirked slightly. My breathing got heavier as his hand worked between my legs. “I tried to forget long enough to fuck some sweet butt. I swear my dick shriveled up the moment I touched them,” he murmured.
My shoulders sagged.
We were silent for a moment. I didn’t miss the fact he didn’t ask about Ian, about if I slept with him. Guilt washed through me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered brokenly.
He looked surprised. “For cluttering my dresser with perfume and shit? I don’t care, babe. Fuck, I like it,” he teased with a smile.
I paused then shook my head. “For everything. For pushing you away when we first met, for not letting you in…then for completely blocking you out after Ian died.”
“Babe—” Brock stroked my cheek.
“Let me finish,” I cut in. “I was fucked up. Not only from Ian but from the train wreck that is my family. I’d never seen love, never received it, apart from Garrett. My family never showed it nor gave it. My father was never purposely cold, just indifferent. He was fond of me, but never actually let on he loved me. My mother was openly hostile. I couldn’t figure out why. So I steered away from love, or more the rejection I would feel from not getting it—the rejection that I lived with for eighteen years.”