The old truck moans and in a good way when I stop us in my designated spot in the car park by my flat. The old girl lurches to a complete stop, jerking my body forward. Normally, I sit for a moment to decompress from all the events of any given day, but tonight, I don’t give a flying fuck.

Grabbing my purchases, I head into the ground level flat I share with Jax. Certain lifts in our complex were equipped for wheelchairs, so. Jax had tried to convince me we could live on a higher level, but the ground felt better for me. There wouldn’t be a chance I would take a leap off the top if we were any higher.

Turning my key in the lock, I don’t hear the normal click that always follows. When the door swings open on its own accord, I step in the threshold and stop.

Wait a tit …

Soft melodies of some crap Megan likes to listen to drifts from somewhere in the flat. Grunting, I drop my head back to rest on my shoulders. Blinking up at the top part of the doorframe, I shake my head.

Fucking bonzer.

Just who I didn’t want to deal with tonight.

Tilting my head farther back, I’m not surprised when I spot Megan’s little lavender Faut—also known as the beer can—parked down in a guest spot.

You may be thinking; hold a tit, who is this Megan? Doesn’t he have enough interesting women in his life already?

Your answer would be no— no, I don’t, and at the same time, yes, I do. See, I don’t have the right woman in my life yet. I know she is out there. I’m sure there is a woman out there made to put up with my bullshit. Hell, look at my mum. That wonderful woman can put up with my dad with no problem.

It gives me hope because I am much worse than my old man.

But back to Megan.

Megan Welan was one of the first girls I met when I moved here. Thin, with barely a curve, a nice B-cup, her face was round with freckles on her upper cheeks, and deep strawberry blond hair. I thought she was a magnificent person and not a bad fuck either.

We had developed a fun friendship; one that entailed I could fuck her brains out with no strings attached whenever I felt the urge and didn’t want to work for pussy. Fuck buddies, friends with benefits, whatever the fuck you want to say about us—that’s how we have worked for the past few years.

Until recently …

So why am I griping about a sure thing waiting for me in my own home? Possibly cooking a nice dinner for me before offering her body to me?

Simple really.

It’s the same old song and dance that happens with relationships like this; one person gets clingy while the other still doesn’t give a fuck and lack what the other needs.

In the past year, dear sweet Meg started to develop stronger feelings for me and has been showering said feelings on me.

I don’t like it.

At all!

Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great person; kind, sweet, and a big heart, plus she has a tight pussy and can handle all of me.

Don’t look at my dick!

Don’t be a freak.

Yeah, I don’t look like much. I’m a grower, not a shower.

Anyway!

Give me a moment and you’ll see what I mean.

Pursing my lips, I trudge into the flat; the very one Jax is conveniently not in at the moment. I curse the man for giving Megan a key in the first place. She’s been pushing to move in with us or the two of us finding our own place for the past couple of months. I need to fuck her brains out, steal the key back, and then claim innocence when she asks what happened to it.

Or change the locks.

Tossing my keys and shades into the bowl next to the door, I make my way to the back of the flat where the kitchen is located. Humming along to one of her girly songs, Meg is bent over, pulling something from the oven when I enter.

My stomach roars with hunger. Have to give it to the woman, she knows how to cook. Her itty-bitty body feels strange and unnatural against my much larger one, so I don’t embrace her. Instead, my eyes pinch, and I wait for her to acknowledge my presence.

She turns, searching for open counter space to place the casserole or whatever the hell she made down. The only place to be found is right next to me where I also place the Maxim I just purchased. I don’t hide shit like that. Why should I? I don’t answer to her.

“You’re home.” Breathy and filled with apparent love for me, her hazel eyes shimmer up at me before they are gone as she turns and places the casserole dish on the stovetop.

“I am. Why are you here?” There is no need to act like I’m happy to see her. I’m not, and I don’t mask my lack of enthusiasm over her being here. I wanted to come home, heat something, shower, and beat off before I crashed for an early night.

“How was your day?”

Figures, she completely ignores my question.

The whole domestic thing with her feels completely wrong and absolutely forced. Popping my jaw and grunting at her, I decide to take my leave. Grabbing a beer and my magazine, I head to my bedroom.

“Dinner is ready, so don’t be long,” she sings.

Yes, she fucking sings after me. This is not the same woman I met years ago. That woman didn’t give a fuck about cooking for me or waiting at my home for me after work.

I only grunt again, loud enough for her to hear, and slam my bedroom door behind me. In two massive swallows, I have my beer almost gone. Kicking off my shoes, I line them up by my dresser and proceed to remove the rest of my work clothes, putting them in the wash and changing into basketball shorts, a tank, and my runners.

Walking back to my door, I stop and look at the magazine on my dresser. I was going to read it later, but the chance of that now happening is slim with Megan—50’s wife mode—here.

“Fuck it.” Grabbing it, I take it back to the kitchen with me. The table is set for two and looks lovely when I plop my body into one of the chairs and open the magazine.

Looks like Jax won’t be joining us.

Thumbing through the full spread they have on Paige Bartin, I become engrossed. I only got a moment with the woman, but in those brief seconds, interest and intrigue have bloomed within me.

I need to know more. I haven’t even had a taste yet, and I’m addicted.

“Ax, could you put the magazine away while we eat?” Her voice carries over the magazine, interrupting me and my musing over Paige’s killer body. Looking up, I find Meg twirling her hair, her tell that something needs to be discussed.

And when I say discussed, I mean, I shut up and listen to whatever she feels I need to do with my life.

Lately, it’s been …

Never mind, she’s going to tell you.

“I wish you would consider getting your tattoos removed.”

Yep, there it is.

“Why?” Looking back down at the magazine, I start to read the article about Paige’s racing career and the company she formed with her brother, Parker. All this is information I already know.

“You know why.” She sighs. “The opportunity to advance would be there if you would get rid of some of them, especially the ones on your forearms.” I hear the plea in her voice, but I won’t budge. I won’t get promoted no matter what I do. I fucked it up already … literally.

“No.” Taking my first bite of whatever she made, I continue to look at the magazine. I know she wouldn’t poison me. I may be a pain in the arse, but I’m not that bad.

“Axle, please?” Shoveling food into my mouth and looking at the article, I continue to ignore her. I’m surprised my control hasn’t snapped. I’m pretty good at reading articles before looking over the pictures, but this time it is hard. There are a lot of pictures of the sexy as fuck moto girl. She’s doing a stellar job of helping me not blow my top at Meg.

“I said no, Megan.” Taking another fork full, I try to eat as quickly as I can.

“Axle, what about our future? Why don’t you want to try?”

Hold the fucking phone!

My fork clatters to the still half-full plate of food. The article and the delectable images of Paige are forgotten as my eyes narrow into minuscule slits; something I learned from my dad. And with my hulking body, the look will make any person shit themselves.

“What?” The bark comes out before I can hold it back. Meg flinches and jumps back in her chair, causing it to skid away from the table.

“I was only thinking—”

“You didn’t mind them when we first met or the ones I’ve gotten since.” Cutting her off, I slowly stand from my place across the table from her. “They don’t make a difference at work.” My brows furrow, drawing together to the point I can see them in my line of view. “They are covered,” I grunt out. We’ve been reduced to just this because of the false hopes that around in her little head. “All this ink is who I am, Megan.”

My chair skids backward as I take my leave. I don’t bother with the plate or my magazine. The plate will be gone by the time I get back, and my magazine had better remain untouched.

“Where are you going?” Meg rushes after me, grasping my arm when I reach for my keys and shades to leave.

“Out.” Jerking my arm away, I slam the door behind me, ceasing the sounds of her frantic requests for me to stay and talk.