Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Now that I think about it, over the weeks we’ve been meeting in the shack in the woods, the floor got swept, a brand new blanket covered the crappy sofa, and a little coffee table appeared, so we didn’t have to put our cups on boxes.
Fuck. I should have brought something too, but never thought about it.
“My mom had good taste.” He shrugs, but I can see he’s proud of the space. “And dad’s position paid for it. I’d be lying if I said I don’t enjoy all the perks.” When Clyde sits in an armchair by the bed, he resembles a king. Naked, powerful, wet hair slung over his shoulders.
Does that make me his consort?
I lick my lips, glancing at all the framed photos hung on one of the walls. I’ve punched many of the faces in them, though I can’t see Roy anywhere, which is a relief. Don’t want to think about that fucker when I’m resting after good sex.
“Is this her?” I ask, pointing at the portrait of a young woman in a biker jacket. The photo looks as if it was taken in the nineties, judging by the accessories and quality of the picture itself, but her features and the shade of her long hair are familiar.
Clyde smiles and walks up to it, absentmindedly touching the tips of his hair. “Yes. She was… a force. And so kind to me and Roy. Even when we were little shits.”
Fuck Roy. He didn’t deserve to have a nice mom.
“I recognized her because of the hair.”
Clyde sits cross-legged on the bed, staring at the photo. “I’ll tell you something but you can’t laugh. Or get all mushy about it.”
I glance at the club tattoo on his bare back, and then roll forward to sit next to him. “I won’t.”
“My mom used to tell me how nice I look with long hair when I was a kid, though it was only like, shoulder-length or so. I was thirteen when she got cancer, and when she told me, I got it in my stupid little head that I’d be her hero. That I’d grow my hair long and beautiful like hers, so she could have it after her chemo. I learned about hair treatments and things like that. I think it gave me some feeling of control when there wasn’t any. Like I could do something.
“But I couldn’t. Not really. I was there for her, took care of her chickens when she was in the hospital, but she died before I got to complete my plan. I didn’t have the heart to cut it short after that, like it’s a piece of her I still have. And believe me, I’ve been grabbed by it enough times to know it’s inconvenient in a fight. But she liked it on me.”
My chest aches, and I place my hand on his. What is there to say in response to this kind of story? I don’t care for people that much. Well, maybe for my club brothers, but our relationship is harder, more about being there and slapping each other’s backs while drinking away our sorrows. Then there’s Luna, Brigid’s daughter, who’s like a real sister to me, even though we don’t spend that much time together. I’ve always envied people who had… functioning parents, and listening to the story of Clyde’s mom leaves me with a weird emptiness inside.
“I’m sorry.”
Clyde squeezing my hand doesn’t feel like a prelude to more fucking. We do sometimes grab each other’s hands, but it’s always about pulling the other somewhere or guiding it for pleasure. We don’t go on hand-in-hand walks around the woods while picking flowers for each other.
It doesn’t feel awkward to sit like this in silence for a while. I don’t know what he’s thinking about, but I’m struck by him revealing something like that to me. As though he doesn’t feel he needs to be Clyde Turner, the Butchers’ fearsome club prince when we’re together like this.
Eventually, he turns to me with a soft smile. “So I hope you like the hair, because it’s not going anywhere.” Clyde leans in to kiss me, but then pushes me down to the bed, so he ends up on top of me. “Do you want something to sleep in?”
“Your hair,” I answer, because that’s the only thing on my mind.
He snorts, looking pleased with himself as he pushes the damp mane to one side. “How do we do this? You wanna be my mattress?”
A grin emerges on my face as I roll us over so fast he lands under me with a shocked expression. “Maybe you should be mine, Blue Eyes?”
“You’re too hot. I’d cook under you,” he says with a groan, and scrambles from under me, so that we lay face-to-face.
Then we realize we’re on top of the bedding, so we have to get off to get under the fluffy blanket. We try to slot our arms and legs together, but nothing feels all that comfortable.