Page 60 of Ridin' Free
I wanted to fly.
I wanted Twister.
Shaking my head at myself, I shifted my ride into gear, and I drove off the compound. I didn’t give it a second thought. Much as my brain wanted to taunt me with warnings meant to scare me away, I ignored them all.
I knew it was late when I pulled into his driveway. Chances were good he was asleep. Stupidly, it didn’t even occur to me that he might not be at home at all until I started walking toward his front door. Nevertheless, I didn’t let my doubt prevent me from stepping onto his dark porch before I reached for the doorbell. I rang it once and waited.
Fifteen seconds went by, and I rang it twice more.
Ten seconds—and then the porch light switched on, and my chest filled with anxious anticipation.
When he opened the door, he was in nothing but a pair of checkered boxer briefs. He squinted at me through one eye, obviously having been roused from slumber—the light shining above us irritating his vision.
I wasn’t sure if I should apologize for waking him, if I owed him a different apology, or?—
I didn’t get a chance to make up my mind before he stepped outside, bent in order secure his arm just below my ass, then lifted me off my feet and against his bare, tatted chest. Without a word, he carried me inside, closed and locked the door behind us, then headed straight for the couch. He stretched out across it, settling me on top of him before he muttered, “Fuck you in the mornin’.”
And just like that, I felt completely at ease.
I smiled into the darkness, made myself comfortable, and drifted to sleep within minutes.
Boots and all.
I fellinto aslumber so deep, I didn’t notice when Twister got up or feel it when he took off my boots. As I peeled my eyes open, I heard movement in the kitchen. It took me a moment, but I recognized the sound of a round whisk being shaken about in a bottle.
He was making a protein shake.
Pushing myself upright, I drew in a lungful of air and glanced over the back of the couch into the kitchen. He spotted me right away, and I got to watch as a slow, lazy smile spread across his lips.
“Mornin’.
“Hi,” I muttered groggily.
My bladder beckoned and—sure I could use another moment to crawl my way fully into consciousness—I said nothing morebefore I got up and headed to the bathroom. It was there where I was reminded I’d gone to bed with my makeup on. Again. I really needed to stop doing that. After I washed my hands, I splashed a little water on my face in an attempt to clean myself up a little. I also rinsed out my mouth and then patted myself dry.
Considering my reflection, I had to admit, I’d had better days—but he’d seen worse.
I raked my fingers through my hair then finally took my leave of the bathroom.
Twister was still in the kitchen upon my approach, sucking down the last of his shake. Now adequately awake, I took in a few more of his details. He appeared to have showered already. His hair was damp, and he was dressed in a black Johnny Cash graphic tee. The garment was well worn, and he’d chopped off the sleeves, making it more muscle shirt than tee. Not that I had any complaints. The way he wore it allowed him to showcase most of his tattoos unobscured. The jeans he wore were faded black, and he hooked a chain through a belt loop at his hip, clipped to the wallet tucked in his back pocket.
It was the sight of his boots which most alerted me to his readied state, causing me to wonder aloud, “What time is it?”
“A little after ten.”
“Oh. Okay, I…”
I lost my words as an object in my periphery triggered my brain to recognize something was different. The moment I looked away from Twister, I saw it. My mouth fell open as I gaped at the most beautiful coffee maker I’d ever seen sitting right there on the counter.
I made my way toward it, glancing up at Twister as I walked by him.
I wasn’t the least bit surprised to find an amused glint in those brown eyes.
Ignoring the not-so-little arrogant shit, I approached my present. It was a pour over coffee machine as sleek as it was elegant. I knew by looking at it he’d spent no less than five hundred dollars on the thing. Next to it, he’d left the simple instructions on how to brew a cup. There were also the appropriate size filters, two different kinds of ground beans, and a pretty, custom, stoneware mug.
I was joking when I sent that text a couple days ago, and he never responded.
At least, I thought he hadn’t—until now.
