Sweet Dreams by Kristen Ashley
He’d taken a step back but other than that he didn’t move and he didn’t speak.
So I did. “I see I’ve made my point.”
“And I see we’re back at square fuckin’ one,” he returned.
“What?”
He leaned in, his face all I could see and I realized the aggressive way he did it that I’d vastly misjudged the situation and the atmosphere. I’d seen him very angry, scary angry.
Now, I realized he was enraged.
“Did you think,” he growled, “for one fuckin’ second, Ace, to maybe ask me about Neeta?”
But two could be enraged.
Because he showed me the promise of something special that night on his bike and through his kiss.
Then he walked away and didn’t even fucking call!
“Wood explained things pretty clearly,” I replied acidly.
“Wood,” he whispered.
“Wood,” I repeated.
“He fuck you yet?” Tate asked coarsely and I tried to step back forgetting I was already against the wall.
“That’s none of your business!” I snapped.
“He hasn’t fucked you but he will,” he stated. “Too bad for you there’s no one helpful around like Wood to tell you a few things about Wood.”
“Yes? Like what things?”
“Too bad, babe, with this scene, you lost out. You’ll have to find out on your own.” And with that he turned on his boot, walked away and I watched him, realizing I was breathing heavily until I stopped breathing because he stopped and turned back to me. “So all that’s for Wood?” he asked bizarrely.
“All what?” I asked back.
His hand did an annoyed flick that encompassed the whole of me.
“No,” I snapped.
“You looked better before, Ace. Now you just look like all the rest.”
And with that highly successful parting line, he disappeared down the hall.
Chapter Eight
Martinis and Manicures
It was the day after Tate came home and the day after I drove to Wood’s after work, pulled off my clothes, pulled on one of his t-shirts, crawled into his bed waking him just enough for him to roll me into his arms before he fell back asleep (but I didn’t).
In Wood’s arms, I didn’t toss and turn because I didn’t want to wake him but I couldn’t get that scene with Tate out of my mind.
Or his kiss.
Or him saying, But fuck Laurie, it’s good to be home.
Or him saying, You looked better before, Ace. Now you just look like all the rest.
Eventually I fell asleep and as usual Wood was gone by the time I got up.
I was lying out in the sun wearing my periwinkle blue tankini with a top that was made of netting that had royal blue embroidery at the hem and the top of the bodice. The shelf bra covered my breasts but the netting at my midriff hinted at the skin underneath. I had the royal blue sarong on the bottom of my lounge chair, a diet pop on the cool deck by my side next to my cell phone, sunglasses on my nose, sunscreen oil that made my body glisten and a trashy magazine in my hands.
I was also waiting for the last load of my laundry to dry. Ned and Betty had a laundry room at the top end of the building by their house, across from the room with all the vending machines in it. The washer and dryer cost a whack, much more than the Laundromat in town (I’d checked), but I paid it because it was convenient, just two doors away, so close, I could pretend it was just inside my garage instead of two hotel rooms away.
I was reading about celebrities going to jail and viewing pictures of them in orange jumpsuits when I heard the pipes of a Harley. It was summer. It was Carnal. Harley pipes were de rigueur so I ignored it totally.
That was, I ignored it totally until I heard the beat of motorcycle boots on the cool deck.
I looked around and up to see Tate heading my way. He was walking toward me but his head was turned to look into the parking lot so I twisted around to look over my shoulder.
Four Harley guys were outside looking like they were working on their bikes but two of them, one standing, one crouched, were looking in my direction.
My eyes moved back to Tate to find he was towering over me.
“Great show, Ace,” his rough voice growled. “Word gets out you live here, Ned and Betty’ll have a full house.”
Why had I ever even considered the option that this man, as beautiful as he was, was not a jerk?
“Can I help you?” I snapped.
“Yeah, baby,” he replied, his voice an insinuation and I knew that because his eyes were moving down my body. He had mirrored sunglasses on (and they looked good on him, which sucked) but I could tell his eyes were moving the length of me.
“Well?” I prompted irately, trying not to squirm under his stare. Tyler was a fantastic trainer but he wasn’t a miracle worker.
His shaded eyes came to mine.
“Krys needs you to train the two new girls. You’re on days for awhile.”
“And Krys couldn’t tell me this because…?”
“Because she’s at the bar on her own. We got some boys who rolled in and she’s busy ‘cause the minute Bubba saw me back, he took off. He was gone this mornin’.”
I stared at him. Then I thought about Krystal.
Then I whispered, “Darn.”
“So, you’re on days,” he finished and he looked like he was done and ready to leave.
“Tips during day shifts suck,” I muttered as my phone rang. I said this not to stop him, just to whine.
“You’ll survive,” he muttered back as I reached for my phone, his phone really as he’d paid for it, saw my sister’s name on the display and hit the button to take the call. This surprised me, she should be at work and she never called when she was at work.
“Carrie, honey, what’s up?” I asked.
“Laurie.” Her voice broke saying my name and my body darted up, my legs separating so both my feet were on the cool deck.
She didn’t say more.
“Carrie, talk to me, what?” I prompted urgently, too focused to note that Tate had stopped walking away and was moving back toward me. “Carrie!”
“It’s Daddy,” she whispered and then burst into tears.
I curled into a ball, it was automatic. My knees came up, my heels went in the lounge and my torso pressed to my thighs.
I did this because I loved my Dad and the tone of my sister’s voice made me lose my tenuous hold on my new biker babe and regress straight to an eight year old Daddy’s Little Girl.
This was a bad trait I had. It must be said I was not good in a crisis. It was all Dad’s fault, he had three women in his house and he was the kind of male who was all about being the man of the house so he was. He was the one who took care of everything most of my life and made me into a Daddy’s Little Girl.
“What’s Dad?” I whispered but she didn’t respond. “Carrie, baby, what happened to Dad?”
Tate crouched down by my side but I was still focused on the phone.
“Heart…” she hiccoughed, “heart attack.”
I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead into my knee. “Talk to me,” I croaked because my throat had closed. When she didn’t, I begged, “Please, honey, talk to me.”
“He’s… he’s alive, Laurie, but they… they’re worried.”
My body bucked with the sob and I barely felt my cell slide out of my hand. Though my hand knew it was freed because both my arms curled around my legs as I listened vaguely to Tate speaking while I wept.
“This is Tate Jackson, who’s this?” He paused. “I’m a friend of Laurie’s, you’re her sister?” Another pause. “All right, is there someone there with you?” Another pause. “Give him the phone.” Pause. “This Mack? Tate Jackson, friend of Laurie’s. What’s happened?”
I felt strong fingers wrap around my hand and then it firmly, but gently, guided me up and forced me out of the lounge and to my feet.
“Hang on a second,” Tate said into the phone.
Automatically, I did as I was told. Once I had my stuff and slid my feet into my flip flops, he took my hand and guided me out of the pool area toward my room.
“Back,” he said into the phone. “I’ll get her sorted out and on a plane.” Another pause. “Yeah.” Another one. “Right, call back in an hour.”
We were at the door, he touched the phone and then slid my key out of my hand which I had held against my chest because most of my stuff was cradled in my arm.
“What’d Mack say?” I asked.
“Inside, baby,” he replied gently and opened the door.
I walked in and tossed everything but the can of pop on the bed. I put the pop on the nightstand and turned to Tate.
“What’d he say?”
“He’s in surgery,” Tate answered and I closed my eyes. “Babe, you need to get on a plane.” I opened my eyes.
“Right,” I whispered.
“Get in the shower,” he ordered.
“Okay,” I whispered, dutifully starting toward the bathroom.
Tate headed to the door but I stopped him when I called his name.
“Tate?”
He turned and looked at me.
“Did Mack say…” I swallowed. “How’s Mom?”
“Hangin’ in there,” he lied.
“Tate,” I whispered, wrapped my arms around my middle and Tate’s long legs had him in front of me in what seemed less than a second.
His hands settled on my neck right where it hit my shoulders. “She’s not good.”
I fell forward so the top of my head was against his chest.
“He’s the strong one,” I whispered to the floor.
His hands gave me a squeeze. “Laurie, get in the shower.”
My head tipped back and I looked at him, holding myself up with hands planted in his abs.
“Of all of us,” I was still whispering.
“What?”
“He’s the strong one of all of us,” I explained and the tears started to fall in such great waves I didn’t know where one stopped and the next began. “We… we… girls. His girls. We fall apart,” I finished, a loud sob tore up my throat and it sounded only slightly less painful than it felt.
Then I was in Tate’s arms.
* * * * *
“Laurie, baby, wake up,” I heard Tate call and my eyes opened.
We were on a plane and I was snuggled into him, head on his chest, my arm wrapped around his stomach.
I tilted my head back and looked up at him.
“We’re landing, we need to put the seatbacks up,” he told me quietly.
“Right,” I whispered and pulled away, pulled my hair out of my face and sat up.
Tate was on that plane with me for reasons known only to Tate. All I knew was, he managed to get me into the bathroom at the hotel and then he disappeared. By the time I was out of the shower, Betty was in my room, my clean clothes from the laundry folded on my bed. She coaxed me through my makeup and blow drying my hair drill and I dressed in an outfit she chose for me. She packed for me while I was doing this, grabbing my makeup and hair brush when I was done.
Then there came a knock on the door and, like I was a celebrity, Betty shoved my sunglasses on my nose and I was whisked from my room by Ned who guided me into a big, black Ford Explorer that had Tate at the wheel.
“What’re you doing here?” I asked Tate after Ned tossed my bag in the backseat.
“I’m your ride,” he replied and then we were off and I barely got a chance to wave at Ned and Betty who were both standing outside my room.
“Whose SUV is this?” I asked once we were out of Carnal.
“Mine,” he answered.
I looked at him. “You drive a Harley.”
“Not big on puttin’ bad guys on the back of my bike when I hunt them down, Ace. Fucks with my street cred.”
“Oh,” I mumbled, turned to face the road, black thoughts assailed my brain and I fell silent.
I found out after the silent ride but somewhat hair raising drive to Denver International Airport (I would understand much later that this was because my plane was leaving and Tate didn’t have a lot of time to get me to it) he wasn’t just my ride. This was because he didn’t drop me off. He parked in short term parking, guided me to the ticket counter, we checked my bag and got two tickets (though I didn’t know that) and we both got in line to go through security and throughout almost all this Tate had two bags, mine in one hand (my hand mostly held in his other), an overnight bag slung over his shoulder but I was too out of it to notice it was his.
“You can’t go through if you don’t have a ticket,” I informed him.
“I’ve got a ticket,” he replied, looking over my head and down the line.
“To where?” I asked stupidly and his head tipped to look down at me.
“Indianapolis,” he answered.
I felt my brows shoot into my hairline. “You’re coming with me?”
“Gettin’ you there, comin’ home tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Ace, you’re a fuckin’ mess. I’m gettin’ you to your family and I fly home tomorrow.”
“That’s insane,” I whispered.
“It’s what I’m doin’,” he returned.
“But –”
“Shut up, Ace.”
I stared at him.
Then I said, “Okay.”
Then I went through security with Tate and got on a plane with Tate.
Now I was landing in Indianapolis with Tate.
We landed. We taxied. We were let loose from our seatbelts.
Tate got up and was so big, still had his beard, his hair had grown longer and was not only curling around his ears but also his neck, he was wearing a skintight black tee, very faded jeans, motorcycle boots and had a very cool tattoo slithering down his bicep I’d never noticed before because he was always in long-sleeved shirts, and therefore he looked exactly like what you’d expect a bounty hunter to look like (but even cooler, scarier and more handsome) so the other passengers let him have his space as he pulled his black, leather overnight bag out of the overhead compartment. Then he grabbed my hand, pulled me out of the seats and pushed me in front of him with his hand in the small of my back.
We walked through the airport and I started running when I saw my sister’s partner Mack’s tall, dark blond head peering over the crowd at the end of the terminal.
I hit him straight on so hard he went back on a foot.
“Laurie, honey,” he whispered as his arms went around me.
I just started crying again.
He let me cry and had a man-style nominally syllabic conversation with Tate while he held me tight.
“You Jackson?”
“Yeah. Tate.”
“Mack.”
“News?”
Silence.
“Right.”
Mack pushed me to his side, slid his arm around my shoulders and he guided me to the escalator that would take us down to baggage claim.
“Got another situation,” Mack said when we’d exited the escalator and when he said it his arm gave me a squeeze.
“Yeah?” Tate asked and my head tilted back to look at Mack.
“What?” I whispered.
“Your Dad’s out of surgery, he’s in ICU. Only your Mom’s been able to see him. They’re keepin’ a close eye and they want him to rest,” Mack told me.
“Okay,” I replied.
Mack was silent and we stopped by our baggage claim.
Then he pulled in a breath. “Brad’s at the hospital.”
I tore out of his arm and took a step back, shouting, “What?”
“Laurie…” Mack said.
“Ace…” Tate said.
I looked at Tate and informed him, “That’s my ex.”
He got close to me and took my hand. “Okay, baby.”
“My ex as in my ex-husband who spent five years of our marriage fuckin
“Yeah, babe, I know,” Tate had pulled my hand up and placed it palm down on his chest with his hand over it.
“He’s at the hospital,” I screeched, “where my father is in I…C…U!”
Tate’s head bent so his face was close to mine. “Calm down, Laurie.”
“No!” I shouted in his face. “What a jerk!”
“Do you want me to beat the shit outta him when we get there?” Tate asked, sounding serious and I blinked at him.
“What?”
“I will,” Tate stated.
“You… you’ll… beat the shit out of him?”
“Say the word, babe.”
“Would… wouldn’t you get arrested for something like that?” I asked.
“Probably,” he answered.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t,” I decided.
“Your call,” he muttered and turned to the baggage claim, moving my hand so it became my arm wrapped around his waist and sliding his arm along my shoulders.
“You’ll yell you see the case,” Mack instructed but he sounded like he found something funny.
“Yep,” Tate said, his eyes on the now moving carousel.
“You’re good, by the way,” Mack went on.
“What?” Tate asked.
“Took me five years with Carrie to figure out how to talk her down from a drama. Laurie’s been in your town for what? A month? Shit, man, you’re the master.”
Tate chuckled.
This conversation didn’t penetrate me. I was post-shouting at the Indianapolis Airport, pre-visit to the hospital where my father who I adored but had left worrying about me for six months (or longer) was in ICU and my ex-husband was hanging out for reasons that could only mean he’d gone insane.
Therefore, I collapsed into Tate’s side, resting my head on his shoulder.
His arm around my shoulders got tighter.
It wouldn’t be until much, much later that I would remember that I hadn’t called Wood.
* * * * *
Apparently the tear reservoir had run dry by the time we made it to St. Vincent’s Hospital because when I hit the waiting room and Mom and Caroline fell on me, all I could do was hold onto both of them in our mini-huddle.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Mom whispered in my ear, “missed you so much, hon.”