Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7) (16 page)

"Damn you're cute," Jim says from the other side of the bed. I blink up at him as he strides toward me and cups my face in his hands. My nose scrunches up in response as I muffle a yawn. "My grouchy girl."

"Shut up," I say. My cheeks heat, and a stupid smile plants itself on my lips. There he goes sweet-talking again. I don't know what's worse--the sweet-talking or the way his eyes bore into mine when he's not sweet-talking. I can't take it. "Where's Ian?"

He nods his head toward the couch and withdraws his hands. I turn my head to find my boy sitting up on the couch, his head tipped back and mouth hanging open like he's trying to catch flies in his sleep. The tension leaves my body immediately. Jim must have moved him from the bed. Ian's always had trouble sleeping and doesn't take to waking up in unfamiliar situations, so the fact that Jim moved him and my kid's fallen right back asleep is a big deal. With a big, stupid grin on my face, I look up at Jim and just hope he knows what he means to us. But in case he doesn't, I grab hold of his leather cut, pull him to me, and press my lips to his. He tries to deepen the kiss, but I pull back and step away. He just rejected me and I'm still all over him. This isn't going to end badly. It's going to end in a fiery crash that destroys me.

"We need to get going," he says, turning away.

"Are we in danger?"

"No," he says quickly but then lets out a heavy sigh. "Remember, you said you'd trust me."

I'm skeptical, but I'm already up and out of bed. I eye Jim as he leans down and scoops my sleeping boy into his arms. The sight of this man cradling my kid like he weighs nothing shuts down my fears. Jim's not like the rest of them. He's not Carlo or Ian's father. He's not the others. He's not perfect, for sure, but maybe he could just be perfect for us. If he wanted me, that is. Ian might not say much about Jim, but he talks about Ryan all the time. Those two are thick as thieves. And this right here? My kid sleeping through a man picking him up means a lot. For the kid who used to go days without sleep and could only eat certain color foods and who had a panic attack every single day to trust Jim enough that he can fall asleep in his arms does me in.

When Jim turns toward the door, I scramble to grab a bra and shove it in the pocket of the hoodie I grab and then slip on a pair of flip flops and follow him to the door. He stops, and I wait behind him awkwardly until he raises an eyebrow and nods at the closed door. I look at my sleeping boy in his arms, who isn't exactly small, and quickly move to open it. Jim walks through the open door and effortlessly carries my boy down the flight of stairs to the sidewalk below. He wastes no time getting Ian tucked safely into the minivan.

I pause a moment before shutting and locking the door behind me, still having no clue what the hell is going on. Jim seemed so earnest that I didn't have the heart to send him away. So without any argument, I make my way down the stairs and into the front passenger seat of the minivan. We ride in silence away from Fort Bragg's small downtown and through one street after another. The drive is probably not nearly as long as it feels, in all honesty. My brain is just not waking up. When I first heard Jim's voice behind me, I felt a jolt of energy that has since worn off in favor of the prospect of taking a nap. After only a few blocks away from Main Street, my eyelids grow heavy and start to force my eyes to close. We could be going anywhere and doing anything, so I need to stay alert, but I can't help my body's inability to muster up the energy to do so.

"No napping for you." Jim's voice laughs from the driver's seat and cuts the engine. "Come on inside before I lose those pretty eyes."

Somehow, through the will of God himself, I manage to pry my eyes open. We're parked in the narrow drive of a small bungalow in town. It's nothing special, with few accents to its exterior, and painted in a dull and fading gray. The lawn is freshly mowed, but the flower beds are empty save for the dirt-mud mix that should be housing the roots of brightly colored flowers. I know the color of the paint despite the time of night and that the flower beds should be filled because this isn't just any cute little bungalow in town. It's Jim's bungalow. For a moment, I don't understand why we're here, but then I realize that of course we'd be here. Ryan isn't in the car with us, and wherever we're going, we need to take him, too. My brain swims with a hundred possibilities. Everything from worrying about Jim leaving a sleeping boy home alone--especially
that
sleeping boy--to what's wrong, and how much danger we're in. I can't even keep up with my own damn thoughts and fears.

"Inside," he says again, this time louder. His voice carries enough that Ian stirs in the backseat. When I don't get moving, Jim goes about extracting himself from the vehicle and then scooping Ian up and walking toward the front door. My brain kicks into gear, and I chase after him, knowing the drill. But he doesn't need me. The front door swings open and out steps Rage. Jim wastes no time slipping into the house with my boy.

Standing on the stoop, Rage stares me down. His black beard has gray streaks and is tamed by a messy braid that he let Nicole try on him. I bite my lip at the memory of this big, mean man letting a tiny little girl braid his beard. Rage has a soft side, and I didn't know it until today. Knowing this about him now, I give him a soft smile and point to the beard. He huffs, a near snarl forming on his lips.

"You're a softie, George Stone."

"Used to like you," he says with a grunt. I close the distance between us and let my smile take over my face. I yawn halfway through, but even the sleepiness can't steal this moment from me. Rage just walks past me and heads for the Harley that I now see is parked on the street.

"You still like me," I say boldly. I don't know that he really likes anyone except for his wife. He must like Sylvia, because she has that huge-ass closet in the cabin he built for their retirement. He probably likes Jim well enough, since the man made it through childhood and puberty to live until thirty and meet me. I'm thinking he's got to love Ryan, because I don't know a soul alive who wouldn't fall in love with that little punk. But Sylvia and I are tight, and she likes me, so I'm thinking Rage does, too. Or at least that's what I'm choosing to tell myself.

"We'll see."

I stand and watch as Rage mounts his bike and takes off like a light. Only when he disappears around the corner do I let myself in and marvel at the state of Jim's house. I haven't spent a whole hell of a lot of time here, but enough to know that it's probably never been this clean before. There are no empty beer bottles lying around on random surfaces, and none of Ryan's toys are on the floor for me to step on. This place normally looks like a minefield of sharp objects and old food. I don't know what the occasion is, but I like it.

The house is made up of the average-sized living room that looks over an L-shaped kitchen and small dining area. On the other side of the house is a short hallway with a small hall bath and two rooms just big enough to not be small, with two shallow linen closets set on either side of the bathroom. With Jim nowhere in sight, I let my curiosity get the better of me and I sneak into the kitchen. There's not a lot of storage space in here, but enough for what few dishes Jim has. Normally the cabinets are pretty barren, but as I poke around, I find that they're full. Full of dishes and serving platters. Full of boxes of food and plastic storage containers. There's so much
stuff
that all that space I thought this kitchen had is nonexistent. Even the fridge is full of food. Real food that's used to create meals, not just beer and cheese sticks with the occasional expired luncheon meat.

"Either you're looking for leftover cake, or you're trying to figure out where I hid all the debris from the floor," Jim says. I jump in place, right myself, and slam the fridge door shut. Shit, busted. When I turn around, my cheeks are red, and I'm doing my best to meet Jim's eyes. I'm not normally shy, but we've had sex, and I'm kind of totally in love with this man, and he's arching one of his brows in this faux judgmental manner than makes my stupid tired brain kind of hot.

"I found the leftover cake--second shelf. The debris is still MIA, though," I say.

"You ran out on me." He walks toward me and stares down into my eyes with a fierceness that I'm really not used to.

"You had to go home," I say. I mean, that's what happened, isn't it? Or did I get my signals crossed?

Jim brings his face down to my level and shakes his head. He smiles as he says, "No,
we
had to get home. But
you
didn't give me a chance to explain."

His explanation makes sense, but I don't feel it in my soul the way I felt the words he spoke earlier. I'm left with the impression that he feels obligated to do this stuff for me and my son. It's like he thinks because I do a lot for and with Ryan that he has to somehow make it even with Ian. He doesn't. Nothing's worse than pity, but being somebody's obligation is a close second. I've been an obligation, and I don't like it. I want to be somebody's option instead.

"You don't have to do this."

"What's that, momma?"

I repeat myself, only louder this time. He stares at me incredulously before taking my hand and silently dragging me out of the kitchen and down the hall to Ryan's bedroom. He opens the closed door slowly and cringes when it squeaks, then gestures for me to go in. I assume the boys are passed out on Ryan's bed, but that's not what I find at all.

Ryan's bedroom used to make the living room look like it'd been visited by a maid. He had a twin bed with a single dresser and a toy chest that was always closed but also always empty. All the toys were on the floor. Half his clothes were in a pile near the closet, and the clean ones were usually half hanging out of open dresser drawers. But that's not what I'm seeing now. The miniature window blinds are half-open, allowing a stream of light to come in from the street and giving me enough visibility to really look around. In the corner of the room, a new set of bright red, metal bunk beds takes place of the old twin. My attention is fixed on my boy, sprawled out like he hasn't a care in the world on the bottom bunk, only half-covered with the action-figure comforter. Not just any action figure, but his favorite action figure graces the comforter, pillow, and sheets he's lying on. I take a few steps into the room to find that Ryan, on the top bunk, is curled up under a similar bed set with his favorite superhero's cartoon likeness printed all over it.

"I don't understand," I whisper. Jim's presence looms behind me, simultaneously taking up space and making me feel safe and protected. It's a dangerous feeling. I could get used to this.

"I said we have to get
home
."

Jim's words sink in slowly as I take in the rest of the space. A second dresser sits next to Ryan's. It's a little newer-looking, but not by much. Above each dresser is a metal placard that's almost the shape of a license plate.

One has Ryan's name stamped into the metal.

The other has Ian's.

I gasp, but before I can say anything that would wake the boys, Jim leads me out of the room. Is he moving us in? What the hell is he doing? He can't really be moving us in. That's crazy. Back down the hallway and through the open doorway of his bedroom, we make our way to a private space that's ripe with possibilities.

I'm pretty much dead on my feet, but the prospect of being with Jim again has me alert in a way that nothing else tonight has been able to do. Jim's room, just like the other rooms, is clean. I'm not surprised by it, but rather grateful. I want to fall into Jim's bed and make love until we pass out. Or just pass out. I could honestly go for either right now. All the while my internal monologue is contemplating whether or not I have enough energy to have sex, Jim's been closing the door, making note of the working lock, and shedding himself of his clothes. The leather vest goes on the back of a nearby chair. The rest of his clothes, save for his boxers, get tossed onto the floor. When he's done, he starts to work on my clothes. I could fight, but a sexy, mostly naked man I love is stripping me when I'm dog tired. There is literally no way I could manage to pitch a fit right now.

"Now, you listen good," he says as he frees me from my slip-on shoes. "I don't ever feel like I have to do something, except maybe listening to my fucking father in Church. I know the men in your past never did treat you good, the way you deserve, but I'm not them. I tell you that you're it for me and my kid, I fucking mean it. You're the kind of woman that men bleed for, the kind that men bleed other men over. You're a great mom, not just to your kid, but to mine, too. I told you earlier that I remember every detail of the day I met you, and it didn't seem to make a fucking difference."

I'm down to my panties--a fresh pair that are also decidedly unsexy and almost as worn as the last pair he saw--and my pajama top. There wasn't a whole lot to undress considering the two a.m. pseudo-kidnapping he masterminded. Jim's hands trail up my bare legs and rest beneath my shirt, on my hips, above my panty line.

"Woman, you must be off your fucking rocker if you thought I was gonna tell you I love you for the first time while my dick's wet. I had a plan, and your horny ass ruined it. I set this place up, had some of the lost girls get it clean, and was going to bring you back here after the party.
Then
I was gonna tell you I love you, and
then
I was gonna get my dick wet. You fucked up the order of operations, babe."