Page 22 of Savage Outlaw

Sure enough, Poppy turned around her phone to show Roux the picture on screen. A pygmy goat fast asleep on a pair of bare feet.

“You totally tamed that biker.”

Another pleased beam from her friend. “I did, didn’t I?”

Cinderella’s of the world had all the luck.

Maybe it was the way she tried to push certain assholes out of her mind that made her do it.

Maybe it was her alcohol induced warmness that was to blame.

Who knows the real reason, but after Roux dropped Poppy off at home to snuggle with her man and goat, she drove not far from there and parked around the block.

Before she knew it, she was creeping to a front door.

The large bungalow was in darkness.

With a few wiggles of the iron spike she always kept in her glove compartment for emergencies and you know…breaking and entering, the lock clicked open.

Adrenaline pulsed with her running heartbeat.

What was she doing?

Roux got to her feet, contemplating her next move, looking around to make sure no one was watching. The house wasn’t situated close enough for nosy neighbors but in the age of drones and spy cams, there was no telling who was watching.

It wasn’t too late to turn around and pretend this impulsive mistake didn’t happen. As she let herself inside the dark entryway, seeing two pairs of banged up boots lined up against the wall, she knew she wasn’t turning back.

Roux wasn’t tipsy, but something other than liquor controlled her cat burglar skills.

Stupid feelings.

Walking quietly, she turned left and entered the main living room.

It was lovely what she could see of it. The massive TV mounted above a brick fireplace was the focal point, of course. Two sectional sofas in L shapes faced it and there was a dark wood coffee table on top of a large floor rug in the middle. Cushions and pictures, photo frames she itched to look at. Was there any of her, she wondered?

Ha, fat chance.

She couldn’t recall taking any pictures together.

Their few trysts, as she’s started calling them, were fast hits and leave moments. These perfect pieces of bliss and happiness and then they were over. There was no real time for dates, walking around a fairground or taking stupid photos of each other. They’d never gone grocery shopping or to get tattoos together. She always wished he were with her on the yearly bike rallies too. They’d never done anything normal other than sneak around, fuck and then pretend it never happened.

Her petty resentment started to bloom in her chest as she took in his home.

The place was so tidy. How was it that he was such a neat freak? She was a slob in comparison, taking days sometimes to pick clothes up off the floor. And that was only when she was down to her rattiest pair of leggings and needed to do laundry.

The cause being she was raised by a pack of lazy, junk food eating wolves. Who expected someone else—usually a woman—to clean up after them.

Roux was a facsimile of her family.

Each of those men had a hand in the coarse woman she was today.

They taught her how to spit, drink and hot wire a car.

How to punch with her thumb tucked in and not take bullshit from any guy.

The quickest way to pick a lock. How to lie, steal, cheat and survive.

They taught her to be clear headed in times of danger and they were all with her for her first tattoo.

---