Page 32 of The Biker and the Professor
When the back of my teal sectional sofa comes into view, I spy his bare feet hanging over the edge. As I round the sofa, a gasp flees me when I see his sleeping face. He has a busted lip and a nasty shiner. What the hell?
The lower my eyes drift, to his neck, bare shoulders, and torso, the more bruises I see.
Unloading everything from my hands to the coffee table, I fall to my knees in front of him and begin kissing each of his bruises. I can’t describe the feeling I’m having right now, to see him like this.
Is he in pain? Is he sad? How can I make it better?
“Babe,” I hear him say as I’m pressing my lips to a purple-blue bruise on his ribs.
I glance up and find his eyes open and on me. “Who did this to you?”
His bruised chest inflates and deflates with a sigh. “Cops.”
“What?” Disbelieving, I shake my head. “Why?”
“‘Cause they can. As far as they’re concerned, we’re all gun-slinging, drug-smuggling criminals.” He reaches up and rubs his eyes. “They beat the shit out of you then lie and say you were resisting arrest.”
My heart hurts for him. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
“Used to it.” He scoots over to make space for me then beckons me with two fingers. “C’mere.”
I climb up to the sliver of space next to him and prop my head up in my palm instead of on his chest or shoulder, afraid I’ll hurt him further.
A slight, amused glint in his eyes, he says, “Heard you bossed me up this morning.”
Huh? “Bossed you up?”
“Yeah.” He pokes my nose. “My ‘stupid, stubborn ass’ is here, isn’t it?”
Sheepish, I avert my eyes. “I was angry, that’s all.”
“Because I didn’t call you?”
“That, and because you don’t tell meanything.” I blow out a frustrated sigh. “Why don’t you ever tell me aboutyou?”
He chomps down on his lip, contemplative, seemingly torn. “Maybe ‘cause I like you too much.”
“You don’t talk to me because you ‘like me too much’? What kind of nonsense is that?”
He shakes his head and rubs his eyes again. “Just think, the more you know about me, the less attracted you’ll be.”
I scoff. “Yeah, that’ll never happen. Like, ever.”
“Swear it?”
“I swear it,” I assure him.
“You’re my baby, Toni.” He reaches up and brushes his thumb across my lower lip. “Sorry I didn’t call, and…thank you.”
And I believe him. Because this is the first time he’s ever called meToni.
I part my lips and taste his thumb, before asking, “Are you hungry? I picked up Thai.”
“Like a horse,” he replies, wincing as he sits up. “The food in that place is for pigs, and all you’ve got in this house is Cherry Garcia and wine.”
That gets a laugh from me. “Yeah, I don’t do a lot of cooking—I thought you’d catch on by now. I live on takeout and baked treats from Cookie.”
Straightening from the sofa, I pick up the food bags and carry them to the dining table. As Nero winces his way over, I act normal and get plates, forks, and wine from the kitchen.
