Colorado 02 Sweet Dreams (33 page)

“You don’t burden a good woman with that shit, baby. You find out, you’ll know. You get a shot at her, you hook her deep, then you lay that shit on her.”

I closed my eyes and the silver hillside turned to black.

“Let’s have this and not fuck it up. We’ll talk about Wood later. Yeah?”

I opened my eyes and stared at the plants and flowers, unruly, unkempt, but I knew not planted by Tate’s hands.

“You don’t get this because you don’t know Wood. I know Wood. Trust me, you knew Wood, you’d get it and you’d know you don’t owe him shit.”

 I felt my lip tremble.

“The thing you gotta know before you climb back on the back of his bike is that Tate Jackson is trash too.”

I turned my head and looked at the six-seater dining room table.

Did a bachelor own a six-seater dining room table? I didn’t think so. Tate didn’t exactly strike me as a man who held dinner parties.

Maybe he played poker. Tate struck me as a man who
might
throw poker parties.

My eyes went back to the plants.

“In my life, three women have been on the back of my bike. One was his sister, who fucked up my life. One was his ex, who fucked up my life. Now it’s you, who’s been in his bed.”

I stared at the plants knowing it just by looking at them.

Neeta had lived there, or Bethany or, if not lived, then one of them was around long enough to put their stamp on it. Two women who fucked up his life.

Now, me.

His “type”.

The type to fuck up his life?

Really, what was a man like Tatum Jackson doing with me? Mini-skirt wearing, hotel assignation-exciting Neeta, yes. Crazy Bethany, I didn’t know. Me, I didn’t get.

In fact, what was handsome, gentle-talking Wood doing with me?

My mind moved to that morning in the forecourt of the garage.

“You’re on my bike,”
Tate had growled to me.

“She’s in the ‘Stang,”
Wood had growled at Tate.

They were fighting over me because that was what they did. No matter what Tate said, it was not because of me.

I considered this.

Not being mean or anything but there wasn’t a lot of female talent in Carnal. The best of the lot was Krystal and she was with Bubba, and also Wendy, but she was with Tyler and too young for Wood or Tate.

I’d been around awhile, I’d seen what was available in Carnal and for men like that, I was pretty much it unless they wanted to go the Jonelle somewhat-skanky route and there was a lot of that, even though some of them were very nice, they were still somewhat-skanky which was probably why they weren’t taken like, say, Krystal or Wendy or the rest of the cool-as-heck biker babes I’d met at the bar or in town and I knew were taken. And, clearly, neither of those men went for that.

I moved fully into the seat of the couch and curled up under the blanket, tugging it high over my shoulder and pulling my knees in my chest. Without any toss pillows, I used the armrest for my head. My temple throbbed but I ignored it as searched for it, trying to call it up, to hear the whisper because I needed it.

“Sweet dreams, baby.”

The memory of Tate saying that to me came, my eyelids drooped and I fell asleep.

* * * * *

I woke up when the blanket disappeared and my body was moved. My eyes opened as my body kept moving.

The sun was up but it was low, very early dawn, barely enough light to see.

I was cradled in Tate’s arms.

“Tate?” I whispered, my hand moving to his chest, my arm that was dangling curling around his shoulders.

“Quiet,” he growled.

Uh-oh.

“Tate,” I whispered again.

“Shut it, Ace,” he growled again.

I lifted my head to look at his angry, set profile and decided to stay silent at least until my brain fully came awake.

He took me to his bed and put me in it, following me in, yanking up the covers in an annoyed way and then pulling me under his body. Or, I should say, he
pinned
me under his body. I was on my back, he was mostly on me, his heavy thigh thrown over both of mine, his arm holding me tight about the waist, his face against my hair at the side of my head, his weight weighing me into the bed.

“Um…” I started.

He cut me off. “You curl into me.”

“Sorry?” I asked.

“My back,” he replied.

“Um…” I paused then repeated, “Sorry?”

“You curl into my goddamned back, Lauren,” he ground out and his arm around my waist gave me a rough squeeze.

“I was… uh…”

“Pissed,” he finished for me. “You can go to bed pissed just as long as you don’t wake up that way,” he informed me like this was a rule written in blood somewhere that all men and women must abide by under threat of certain torture although he seemed to have done just that. “You do not get up in the middle of the fuckin’ night and crawl outta my bed to go be pissed somewhere else.”

“I… um…” I took in a breath, “didn’t actually do that. I couldn’t sleep and I was restless, so –”

“You don’t do that either,” he declared.

“What?”

“You can’t sleep, you can’t sleep here. You don’t go somewhere else.”

“But I don’t want to wake you.”

“You wake me, I fuck you or we talk until you get back to sleep. You don’t sneak outta the goddamned bed –”

“I didn’t sneak,” I interrupted him quietly.

He ignored me. “You sleep here or you lie here not sleepin’.”

“Are you…” I hesitated and started again, “are you angry I didn’t want to disturb you?”

“You’re quick, babe,” he muttered sarcastically and gave my waist another rough squeeze.

“Tate –”

“Three weeks, after fuckin’ you, knowin’ what you taste like, what you feel like, the sounds you make when you come, three weeks I’m on the road and all I got is a couple minutes of your voice on the phone every night. Fuckin’ you, that’s all I can think about, like a teenager, at night in the dark, it’s the only thing in my goddamned head. So I jack off, hopin’ to cut through it, but nothin’ compares to you.” I stopped breathing at this admission and he kept talking, “Then I know you can’t sleep so I can’t fuckin’ sleep wonderin’ if you’re sleepin’. That shit’s whacked and I come home, fuckin’ beside myself it’s over. First night you’re in my house, you sneak outta my bed and sleep on the couch. What the fuck is that?”

“I was trying to be nice,” I informed him.

“You failed, Ace,” he informed me.

I felt a chill seep into my bloodstream.

“Which one are you?” I whispered.

“What?” he asked.

“Are you the good guy, the sweet guy who takes care of me or are you this guy who’s kind of a jerk?”

His answer was instantaneous. “I’m both those guys, babe. Your job is to get used to it.”

There it was, another order. Not even an ultimatum. Just, “get used to it”.

“Tate –” I started.

“It’s simple, Lauren. You’re in my bed or
any
fuckin’ bed with me in it, you don’t leave it.”

“But –”

“That can’t be hard to sink in.”

“Tate –”

“Now can I get some goddamned sleep?” he asked on another squeeze and I could tell he was done with this conversation.

Therefore the conversation was done.

“Yes,” I whispered.

And he could because he did. It was just me who couldn’t.

Or, at least it would take awhile.

* * * * *

I woke up to an empty bed.

I turned to my back, lifted up to sitting and pulled my hair out of my face. I saw movement at the window and sleepily watched Tate walk along the deck toward the balcony area.

Once he disappeared from sight, I stared out at the bright sunshine. Then I threw the covers back, got out of bed and wandered to the window. I looked out and to the right to see Tate dressed in jeans and a tight, army green t-shirt, no belt, no shoes, sitting in a lawn chair pulled up to the railing. He was slouched in the chair, his feet up high resting on the railing, crossed at the ankles. He was staring out to the woods and drinking coffee.

His hair was wet but curling and drying fast in Colorado’s arid climate.

Apparently I couldn’t take a shower without Tate but he could take one without me.

Figures.

I walked as quietly as I could to the dining area and retrieved my bag where Tate dropped it, taking it with me back to Tate’s bathroom. Buster came with me and glided around my ankles as I pulled my hair in a ponytail and surveyed my face in the mirror.

There was some purplish-blue bruising but hardly any swelling at my temple. There was a dull ache too but only when I thought about it. I brushed and flossed my teeth and washed my face. Then I bent and picked up Buster and put her on the vanity counter so she could keep me company while I put on moisturizer, powder, blusher and mascara. She watched me do this, her tail hanging off the edge of the counter and flicking, her eyes blinking but curious. This was new to Buster. Tate obviously didn’t moisturize or apply makeup.

Then I got dressed in jeans and a girlfit, faded aubergine colored t-shirt that on the back had a set of black wings. It wasn’t really me but Wendy found it, made me try it on and it fit really well, I liked the wings at the back, they screamed
Biker Babe!
so I bought it. Under this I wore my purple underwear with black lace.

I packed everything up, an activity Buster wanted nothing to do with and I knew that because she pranced out of the bathroom.

I went back into the bedroom and gathered my clothes from the floor and shoved those in my bag too. Normally I would make the bed but there was no point in Tate’s room. The floor was littered with clothes and the surfaces of his nightstands and dresser were covered with the flotsam and jetsam from his life (likely from his pockets) – change, receipts, slips of paper. There was no point tidying.

I walked out of the room, down the hall and all the way to the mudroom where I dropped my bag by the door to the garage. Then I went into the kitchen and searched the cupboards for mugs. We hadn’t done the dishes last night. The bacon fat was still in the skillet. The plates in the sink.

I didn’t tidy those either, mostly because I heard the sliding glass door open.

I didn’t turn. I went to the coffeepot and started pouring.

My mug was mostly full when I felt bearded lips at my neck and an arm slid around my ribs.

“Mornin’, babe,” Tate muttered against my skin as he pulled my back into his front.

“Morning,” I said to the coffee and put the pot back under the filter.

“Come out and sit with me on the deck,” he ordered, his lips just under my ear, his soft words vibrating on the sensitive skin there in a way that would be delicious if I wasn’t heartbroken (okay, maybe it was an invitation voiced as an order but I was in no mood mainly because I was heartbroken).

“Thanks but I need you to take me home,” I told him. “Go for a swim.”

I felt Tate’s body go still.

He didn’t speak so I asked the coffeemaker, “Can you let me go? I need milk.”

He let me go but only so his hand could curl around my mug, pull the handle out of my fingers and put the mug on the counter. His mug joined it then his hands came to my hips and turned me around. He stepped in and I had no choice but to press my hips into the counter because of the limited space he allowed.

He put his hands on the counter on either side of me. I tilted my head back to look at him and saw he was studying me.

He did this for long moments so I repeated, “Tate, milk.”

“What’s up your ass, babe?”

Okay, now I was thinking maybe I was hallucinating during all those times Tate was supposedly sweet. He was most definitely a jerk.

“Nothing,” I lied. “I just need caffeine.”

His eyes moved over my face.

Then his voice changed to gentle when he asked, “You nap?”

“Sorry?” I asked back, confused at his tone and his question.

His hands on the counter came to my sides and slid around to my back, pulling me to him so he was holding me against his body. Because of this, I had no choice but to put my hands on his biceps.

“You don’t get enough sleep, baby.” His voice was still soft. “When do you catch up?”

“I don’t,” I told him and looked toward the fridge. “Now, if I can get some –”

“Ace,” he cut me off and I looked back at him.

“Tate, I’d like some coffee.”

He ignored me. “Everyone needs sleep.”

“Like I keep telling you, I’m used to it.”

“Yeah?” he asked as if he didn’t believe me.

“Yes,” I answered like I was getting impatient which I was.

His eyes moved to my temple as his hand slid up my back and then wound my ponytail around it, coming to rest with fingers curled around the back of my head.

“Your head hurt?” he asked.

“Only if I think about it,” I answered.

“Bruised,” he muttered, his eyes still on my temple.

“It’s not that bad,” I pointed out and it wasn’t. This was surprising, considering how much it hurt when it happened, but it was true.

His gaze moved to mine.

“What’s wrong, Laurie?”

 “Nothing
will
be wrong once I get my coffee.”

“Why do you wanna go back to the hotel?”

“To swim before I have to go to work.”

“Deck time now. I’ll take you to the hotel and hang while you swim after work, before we come up here.”

I shook my head.

“I’m not coming up here after work,” I told him.

His fingers at my head tensed and his arm around my body tightened.

“Come again?” he asked.

“I’m not coming here after work,” I repeated and his face changed from searching and gentle to a little bit scary.

“Why not?”

“I’ll need to call Mom, Dad, Carrie, check in. Make sure everything is still okay. I haven’t called for a couple of days.”

“You can do that here.”

“It’s long distance.”

“So?”

“We talk a long time. It might be expensive.”

“Been leakin’ money awhile, babe, but just got two big paychecks and I wasn’t destitute before that. Think I can cover a long distance phone call.”