Page 9 of My Darling Mayhem

“Yeah, you are.”

Brian’s eyes widened, and then his lip lifted in a sneer. “Who the hell even are you? I’m not?—”

I didn’t give him a chance to finish as I pulled on the back of his shirt and started dragging him back toward his car.

I heard Wren gasp behind me, but she didn’t stop me.

“Hey, wait…fuck,” Brian grumbled as he tried to get his feet underneath him. His hands twisted up, trying to break my hold, but I continued to drag him until he was next to his car, and I dropped his ass on the asphalt.

“When someone says no, it fucking means no. If they say leave, then go. If they say now isn’t a good time, then you leave. Period.”

Brian managed to get to his feet and pull his cell out. “I’m calling the police, telling them some redneck fuck in a motorcycle gang assaulted me.”

I kicked out, swiping his leg, which made him fall again, and his cell phone fell out of reach. I pressed my boot into his chest, and then I leaned down so he heard me quietly deliver my warning. “You want to find out exactly what this redneck fuck in a motorcycle club will do to you? For starters, have you ever had your leg crushed by a motorcycle's back tire? Or how about your face plastered to the side of one of our exhaust pipes after a long ride when it’s nice and hot. You want to fuck around and find out? I’ll make sure the police have a difficult time piecing you back together for their report.”

I released my boot and reached over to hand him his phone. I dropped it on his chest; he winced but caught it. He continued to stare up at me, and finally, with a jump in his Adam’s apple, he stood on shaky legs and opened his car door.

Once he drove off, Wren was behind me, her arms still crossed over her chest. Her caramel hair was twisted into a bun on top of her head, and little tendrils were left kissing her face. She was beautiful in a way that I hadn’t experienced anyone yet. I’d fucked plenty of attractive women, but I had never felt like I’d just watched my first sunrise when I saw any of them.

“Did you really need a screwdriver?”

I smirked, turning back toward my side of the yard. “Nah, just taking out my trash and saw you had someone lingering on your steps who couldn’t take a hint. Thought I’d offer to help.”

She turned toward me, even as I tried to turn to leave.

“He’s a work colleague; we hooked up a few months ago. He’s trying to get things started again.”

I nodded my understanding. “None of my business, but maybe?—"

Her laugh cut into my thoughts. She rubbed at her temple and muttered, “Fuck, he’s going to tell my boss…and when my boss finds out a motorcycle gang lives next door, she’s going to?—"

I cut her off mid-sentence, “The term gang is really fucking derogatory. I’m a part of a club; it’s not a gang…although, based on that tattoo on your arm, you’d be the expert on them.”

She tilted the back of her arm in front of her where the bleeding black heart was inked into her skin, with a bit of glare. I didn’t hear what else she said because I was already walking away.

FOUR

WREN

I’d never beenone to spy on my neighbors…until now.

My life had always been too busy to care or even notice what others did with their free time. This helped me never line my life up next to someone else’s and play the comparison game. The less I saw of happy families headed to soccer practice or playing in the yard, the less I envied them.

But, after last night and how I offended my new neighbor, I wanted to apologize.

Part of me wanted the divide because he was a part of a motorcycle club, and while I didn’t entirely know what that meant, I knew it wasn’t good. I should keep my distance, stay away…and let him think I didn’t give two shits about what I called his band of misfits…but the part of me that still existed deep down in my heart that had been called names merely because of my association to a group, made me want to apologize.

I knew how it felt to be judged merely based on an affiliation to something. In my case, that affiliation was terrible, but I still remember how much it hurt.

“Are we going to give it to him?” Cruz asked, peering up at me from his place at the window, where I watched Archer’s house.

I had made a pie.

It seemed so simple and so stupid. I’d told Cruz we would give it to him because he was new to the neighborhood, and that’s what people did when they moved in.

I’d bought a tin foil pie pan, so I didn’t have to worry about him returning a dish, and now it was covered in foil. I had no idea if he was gluten-free or allergic to anything, so I printed the ingredients out on a small piece of paper and taped it to the top foil piece so he wouldn’t kill himself by eating it.

“Yes. We’ll go over right now and give it to him.” Archer would have to be nice to me if I had my five-year-old son with me, right?

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