Page 28 of 23 Hours

Still pinched between my fingertips, the stick slowly slides free as our eyes meet, and I have to force myself to back away before I do somethin’ stupid. My poor dick gives a cursory twitch, to see if it’s time to wake up.Sorry, bud, it’s not.Kit’s now suckin’ on one of my Dum Dums, the ones I’ve only shared with three women in my life—Bink, Beth, and now her. If that ain’t tellin’ on where my mind’s at, then I dunno what is. I’m a private man. I keep everything close to the collar. Until now… for whatever fucked-up reason.

Cheeks puckering, she twirls the Lolli without a care in the world. “What do ya wanna know?”

I stuff my sucker into the crook of my mouth to give me room to talk. “What’s his favorite food?”

“Cheesecake.”

Interesting.

“His favorite food is cheesecake?” I reiterate for some stupid reason. Like her and me with the movies, I can’t believe anyone would love cheesecake more than other food… like steak or shrimp, or some form of meat. What can I say? I’m a carnivore through and through.

“Yep. Sure is.”

Now that we’ve established his favorite, let’s hope he fancies somethin’ better than plain ole cheesecake. Vanilla’s boring, when there are a million other flavors to appreciate, in both food and other parts of life… if you catch my drift. “What kind does he favor?”

More twirling of the sucker. “All kinds. I bake him whatever flavor he wants for his birthday each year.”

See… She’s hot and a wonderful mom. Not that I ever doubted the latter.

“What’s your favorite food?” I ask, ’cause I wanna know. Does she like strawberries or blueberries better? Dark chocolate, milk, or white? How does she take her coffee in the morning? Does she even take coffee in the morning? Perhaps she likes tea. I like tea. It’s the best cure for hangovers and when you need help gettin’ some shut-eye.

Cheeks flushing watermelon pink, she shrugs off my question as her eyes leave mine to focus on a sleepy Chibs. “Oh. That doesn’t matter.”

Like hell it don’t.

“It does if I wanna know.”

She nods once as if accepting I give a damn, though I can tell she’s not used to men caring about her that way. Bet her ex didn’t appreciate the way her smile lights up the world, or how her cute toes curl when she’s uncomfortable, like now. “I…Um… Okay… I like deep-fried pickles with ranch dressing.” A blank statement with no inflection.

“Pickles and ranch.” Again, I repeat what she says like a goddamn moron.

“Yessss,” she draws, forcing an awkward smile. “Don’t make fun.”

“You mean…” Hating how closed off she’s acting, I pop the sucker from my mouth and point it at her playfully. “Like the way you teased me about reading romance.”

My sarcasm is met with a similar sugary ball directed at my face. “Fine. You win. Tease away.” She snickers, pleased with herself.

“Don’t worry. I will. Out of all the food you could choose, you pick fried pickles dipped in ranch.” I roll my eyes, grinnin’.

Wouldn’t be my first choice. but I appreciate she owns her likes and doesn’t pretend to enjoy whatever I do. You’d be surprised how many chicks are like that. You love motorcycles and now they do. You have an addiction to grilled cheese sandwiches, and suddenly they can’t get enough of ‘em. You and I both know, some of these bitches count calories in every bite.

Not backing down, Kit adds, “We were poor growing up. Every year, Dad would take us to the fair and let us buy one thing we wanted. My brother always picked the elephant ears. My sister, the funnel cakes. And—”

“You wanted fried pickles,” I fill in for her.

“Precisely.”

“Your family still around? Hey…” I start to apologize for bein’ too forward when it’s none of my damn business, but she moves on like I’m not a nosy bastard as Chibs begins to snore far too loudly for such a tiny creature.

“No. My parents are dead. My brother died in the military, ten, no, eleven years ago.” She taps her chin. “My sister, we never got along. After she graduated from high school, she left and never came back… You have a brother named Bonez. Is that all?”

This queasy, fluttery sensation settles low in my gut when she asks me about me like she gives a goddamn.

I chew on the inside of my cheek and motion to the clubhouse across the street. “My family’s here. But there’s no other blood relation ‘sides Adam and Bonez.”

“He doesn’t have any kids?”

“No. We’re both too fucked up to raise kids.” Ain’t that an understatement? We’d do far more harm than good. The demons we live with don’t just disappear. We’re both smart enough not to put that on our own blood, or a partner.

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