Page 21 of Scotch: Unraveled

I wait for him to continue.

“Frankie, will ya take care of the girls while I’m gone?”

Uh… “What?”

“They’ve spent more time with ya than anyone else and I trust ya with their lives. Please. I’ll try to get one of the women to watch ’em, but it’d work out better if ya did it instead. They can go to the daycare with ya in the mornings and come home with ya like they do now.”

There’s my answer. Now I know my role: babysitter. I bite down on my bottom lip while I consider it. It’s a little disappointing that he’d use kisses to butter me up and I’ve got my hands full at work right now. Do I really have time for the girls, too? If they were mine, I’d have to deal with both. They aren’t mine, however. Yet I kind of feel like they are. He’s right; I spend more time with them than he does. I know their cries when they’re hungry or need a diaper change. I know how long to give Mollie cuddles before Macie starts to get squirmy for her cuddles.

The fact remains that I’m the most logical choice. No one else would watch these girls the way I would, like they’re mine. I look at Rory and sigh. “Okay, let’s get them packed up before I head home.”

“No. I need ya to stay here, Frankie.”

“That’s not happening. I have an apartment big enough to accommodate the girls for a few nights.”

“It could be up to a couple of weeks, lass, and I need to know yar safe. Sleeping here, I can be free to get done what needs doing knowing yar all safe behind the gates of the compound.”

Two weeks? That’s a whole lot of commitment and responsibility to take on for a friend. Or more than a friend, that’s a thought for a different, less hectic day. Speaking of friends, I owe Brighton a phone call tonight. Spending so much time with the MacGregor clan, she’s bound think I’ve disappeared and call in a missing person report.

Still, who else would I trust to take the girls for that stretch of time? The answer remains no one. But sleeping here for two weeks?

“I’ll watch the girls, but I like my bed, Rory. It’s the biggest, softest king in the world. No offense, but I don’t know how you sleep on that pullout every night.”

“We’ll bring yar bed up here. Yar right, the pullout is trash, but it was here when I moved in and I’ve not had the time to shop for myself yet.”

“We can’t bring my bed here,” I protest.

“We can. I’ll get Hannah to come sit with the babes while we go down, pack ya for a couple weeks and I’ll get one of the brothers to help me pack yar bed.” And before I can protest further, he whips his phone back out, presses a button incontacts, and says, “Blaze, brother. Ya busy?”

How did this conversation spin out of control so fast?

As I ponder this, I look around the room. This could really be a nice place if he slapped some paint on the walls and bought some new furniture. Maybe hung some artwork. I remember singlewides being cramped, but this is very much a newer model. Maybe a couple of years old and laid out to get the most from each square foot of space.

The kitchen, dining, and living areas flow into one large space with the dining area delineated from the kitchen with a bar that with some stools would make a nice snack or homework area for when the girls are older. Or more places for people to sit and eat if he ever holds a dinner party, not that bikers give dinner parties. The change in flooring separates the dining from the living areas. Laminate flooring runs into the kitchen under the table and the rest of the floor was carpeted at the factory in a pretty tan color.

I blink and return to reality when I hear him say, “Hannah, can ya come sit with the babes for a bit? We need to get Frankie’s bed.”

When it hits me how that might sound to her, I slap his chest. “Don’t tell her that! She might get the wrong idea.”

“The wrong idea about what?” he asks. “Aren’t we going down to get yar bed?”

“Yeah—yes. But she might think it’s for a far different reason.”

“Oh, she definitely will.” He laughs as my panic grows.

“Rory, this isn’t funny. The more I think about it, they’re all going to think something else. I can’t stay here.”

“Listen to me good, Francesca.”—Francesca, yikes!— “I’ll not push ya, promised that already. But yar the only one not admitting where this is heading, so I don’t give a fuck if every damn brother, old lady, hot mama, or piece of ass who walks onto these club grounds thinks yar in my bed. Because ya will be soon as ya get yar head out of yar ass.”

Oh, he’s lucky when the knock comes at the door right before it opens to a beautiful woman with light honey-brown hair, who must be Hannah, saying, “Knock, knock.” Lucky because I was just about to administer my win-any-argument-with-Rory combination knee to groin and nipple twist. He always twisted his thigh to keep me from hitting the target, and the nipple twisting used to make him laugh. Come to think of it, we ended up falling into bed more times than not when I ended arguments this way, so it’s probably a good thing she interrupted us.

And honestly, I’m not exactly sure what he wants with me when women like her hang around the clubhouse. I’m not Quasimodo by any stretch, but she’s exquisite.

“You must be Frankie,” she says sweetly and I kid not, she walks over to hug me.

“Yeah, nice to meet you.”

“Frankie,” Rory says, “Hannah is Blood’s old lady.” She glares at him hard and he clears his throat. “Or she will be once he gets his head out of his arse, too.”

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