Roxie

Lily greeted me with, "You're here again," when I arrived on Friday afternoon, and she didn't sound happy about it. She also asked, if I've come to spy on them, and I didn't know how to explain to her that I'm not here in a professional capacity. Cross didn't explain it either, just told her to behave, so she spent the whole afternoon avoiding us. She did have dinner with us in the private dining room, still suspicious of me and what I was doing there.

The same man—Fuse—served dinner, and he didn't look as complacent about the task as he did last time. Especially since Lily kept complaining about the poor quality of the food.

Cross eventually had enough, told her she could go if she didn't like it, to which she huffed a, "Gladly", and left.

I made a few attempts to tell him she's going through a tough time, but he got defensive to the point where I was afraid he'd tell me I can leave as well.

Something had him on edge, probably the work he said he had to do over the weekend, though I haven't seen him do any of that all day. But he didn't bring that gruff surliness to the bedroom, and he woke me this morning with soft kisses and caresses, which eventually led to the most serene and lasting orgasm I've ever had. I still feel its soft, lingering warmth filling my blood like glitter, even though it's the middle of the afternoon on Saturday. He hasn't asked me to leave yet, and I'm not gonna until he does.

We've just been strolling through the gardens for the past hour or so, Lily walking a few paces behind us, pretending to be very interested in the flowers and bushes, even though I can tell she's listening intently to what we're talking about.

"I can cook dinner tonight," I say, loud enough for her to hear as well.

"You're gonna cook for thirty-odd guys?" Cross asks, giving me a wry, amused look. "I think we should just let Fuse do it again. He needs to learn his lesson, and he definitely needs all the practice he can get."

"I disagree," Lily chimes in, addressing us directly for the first time since she joined us on the walk. "His cooking is atrocious and I doubt any amount of practice will help."

"Atrocious? That's a big word, Lily," Cross teases her. "Where'd you learn that? School? I told you it was useful."

"Actually, I read it online last night," she says, giving him that same half-mocking, half-wry and always piercing look that he's giving her.

They're so much alike, and apart from her reddish tan they also resemble each other a little. I can totally understand why he keeps saying he gets her, because I'm fairly certain he does actually know how she thinks. As for me, Cross is still largely a mystery, and I can hardly predict his reactions. At times he's caring, protective, and attentive to my every whim, to the point where I'm certain he can read my mind. But then, in the blink of an eye, it seems, he can also become a stone cold alpha, who knows nothing but his own "right", and I can never quite tell when either is coming. But I love them both.

"Cooking for thirty is no big deal," I say. "I make a mean chili con carne. And you can help me, Lily, if you want."

"I don't cook," she says defiantly, and from the corner of my eye I can see Cross' face change, the amused expression in his eyes turning to stone.

"I didn’t want to cook when I was your age, either," I say to prevent him from berating her for her tone. "But later, when I tried it, I realized it was actually a lot of fun."

"Not for me," she says, continuing the staring war she's been engaged in this whole time with her father.

I'm holding onto his forearm, and I give it a squeeze, nudging him with my elbow for good measure. Of course, she's acting out. Me being here, hanging on her father's arm, is weird for her, especially since neither of us explained to her what it means, and he should cut her some slack. But I don't see me saying that to him in front of her going over well.

"You can cook, if you want," Cross says to me looking away first from their staring war and fixing his intense, piercing gaze on me. "It'll only be for ten or less, since it's Saturday night and most of the guys like to go out."

"As long as you've got the ingredients, I can make it happen," I say, grinning at him, since I'm actually very excited at the prospect of dinner with the other members.

But I also can't wait for after dinner, when that smoldering, gripping gaze of his can lead to something a lot more explosive.

* * *

Their fridge is half the size of my kitchen at home, and stocked better than most small convenience stores. After our walk, Cross showed me the kitchen and left me here on my own. He only came in once to inform me that most of the guys will be staying for dinner, and that I better make enough for twenty or even a little more, just in case. I think only the inner circle of his MC lives in the mansion. The rest must live somewhere else, maybe another clubhouse in town, since I doubt he only has thirty guys under his command.

I'm cooking two huge pots of chili now, and I haven't actually been alone the whole time. I'm pretty sure most of the guys I'm making dinner for already came in to check on my progress, though I think their real goal was to check me out. Not in a sexual kind of way, though some of them couldn't help themselves. More in an, "Who is this woman Prez brought home now", kind of way.

Rook stayed the longest, had me explain the whole recipe to him. Even after our conversation, he still reminds me of my brother Ice a lot, but I can see the differences now too, and the reminder is not as painful because of it.

Once I finally served dinner, they literally fell on it, finished their plates in minutes, hardly uttering a sentence apiece, unless it was some kind of compliment of the food.

"Is that really all there is?" Fuse asks, tipping one of the pots just to make sure it really is empty.

"I'd have made more, if I knew you were this hungry," I reply.

"Fuse's cooking is barely edible, and we've been forced to eat only that for the whole week," Scar says. It's impossible to not remember his name, since there's a jagged, wide scar running from the outside of his left eye down his cheek to his jaw.

Fuse punches him in the arm. "You ate all I cooked, so quit your whining."

"I told you this chili'd be a hit," Rook says, grinning at me. He did tell me so more than once, when he tasted it in the kitchen, while I was still cooking it.

"You did," I say. "And you were right."

"I think you should cook for us more often," one of the younger ones says, but fixes his eyes on his empty plate the second Cross' piercing look falls on him.

I wrap my fingers around Cross' forearm and squeeze reassuringly, letting him know he doesn't need to keep them in line in front of me. I can handle all their jibes and poorly veiled innuendo. I can do better than handle it. I haven't felt this comfortable, this relaxed, this at home in any other place I've lived in during the past six years. If Lily had joined us, it'd be even better, but she chose to eat dinner in her room, and I told Cross not to force her to come down.

"I'd like to cook for you more often." I look only at Cross as I say it, and none of the others.

That shuts them all up for a second, though maybe it's not so much what I said, but more the look Cross and me are sharing right now. The fires of desire and passion are shooting from his, so hot and huge, I'm surprised I'm not melting from the heat. Though I kinda am, just not in a physical sense.

"But I'm not big on doing the dishes," I add and it works to break the sudden tension, as more than a few chuckle or laugh outright.

"No worries, we got prospects for that," Rook says. "Though if I'm not mistaken, the dishes are still part of Fuse's punishment this week."

"Yeah, mine, and the rest of the guys who fucked up right alongside me," he says and stands up, picking up the empty pot. "But I hope Prez’ll give me another chance to prove myself soon."

"You'll all get the chance to prove yourselves soon," Cross assures them grimly, and the sudden wave of seriousness that passes over the room doesn't escape me.

It makes ice cold fear rise in the pit of my stomach that even the warmth of belonging, the heat of my desire for Cross, can't fight. This is about the work he said he had to do this weekend, and judging by their reaction, it's something serious and dangerous. Something that can make all this pop like a soap bubble. Only with more blood and pain spraying around.

But I force that out of my head, because I want to be here, I want to stay here, and thinking those thoughts will just make me pack up, and run if I let them get too far. The guys are already laughing, and nipping at each other with clever putdowns, none of which are meant to be taken seriously.

I lean back in my chair, let their conversation wash over me, enjoying this sense of rightness I haven't felt in ages, let the joy wash away my fear.

"Alright, it's time to get some rest," Cross says after awhile, standing and offering me his hand.

I take it, let him lead me from the room to a chorus of differently worded jibes about how rest isn't what Cross actually meant. We all know it's true, so neither Cross nor myself bother to say anything back.

* * *

Cross wraps his arms around me as soon as we're in his bedroom, gazing so deep into my eyes that whatever was left of me melts completely.

"You handled the guys well," he says. "I thought it'd be more awkward for you, being surrounded by that much testosterone."

He might be saying I was being too friendly with the guys, or maybe he's genuinely surprised at how neatly I was able to fit into his world. I think it's more the latter, but I'm not sure. And it doesn't matter, because it's time I tell him exactly why I feel so at home in his world.

"Tonight wasn't the first time I've had dinner with members of an MC," I say, wording it kind of awkwardly, but I wanted to get it out before I changed my mind about telling him again.

"Believe it or not, I already guessed as much," he says wryly, but there's no grin on his face, not even a hint of one. He's completely serious, and he wants to hear my full story.

The sadness that makes it hard to breathe whenever I only think of what happened to my father and his MC is gripping my throat like an iron fist, but I'm determined to push past it. There’s a tightness around his eyes that tells me he thinks I probably dated an MC member, maybe several, but he actually couldn't be more wrong.

"My father was an MC President," I say, trying to keep the image of my father's greying beard-covered face from the forefront of my mind. I haven't seen him for six years, and I have no pictures, but I can still see his face clearly when I want to. I almost never want to. It's too painful. And I can see my brother's face just as clearly, and most of the guys’. And as hard as I'm trying not to see them, they're all right here with me now. Like they're watching over me, protecting me, giving me courage, as I prepare to tell Cross the sad story of their death. Thinking of it that way makes me feel better.

"Me and my older brother were practically raised by my father’s MC," I add, watching his tense look turn from confusion to disbelief.

"Why are you working as a guidance counselor then?" he asks. "And why didn't you tell me before?"

"I…it's…it's complicated," I manage to utter. The pain racking through me is so violent right now that his arms wrapped around me are the only thing still holding me upright. I grab them for good measure.

"They're all dead," I say, and I can't stop a sob once it's out of my mouth. He's the first person I've ever told this to. And apart from saying it to my reflection in the bathroom mirror a couple of times to help myself accept it, it's also the first time I've said it aloud. The words, the full meaning behind them, hurts, but somehow I'm sure he'll make it better, so it's not so bad.

"All of them? How did it happen?" he asks quickly. "Tell me more."

There's urgency in his voice, a real need to know, which is completely different from what I expected his reaction to be.

"My father's MC was called Satan’s Wolves. We lived near Chicago," I say. "He got into some sort of an argument with Hell's Spawn MC, and they attacked without warning one night. Killed my father and abducted me. They killed everyone else too."

I know this because once I got over my shock, I left the forest and went into town in search of an MC member to tell me what had happened. Only old Beard was still alive, but he was in the hospital and could barely speak. He did tell me the basics though and told me to get out of town as fast as I could.

Cross lets out a long sigh, which I can only interpret as relief.

"Your father was Wolfman?" he asks.

I nod.

"And his argument was with Lizard?"

I nod again, am just about to tell him Lizard might still be looking for me, when he says, “I heard about what happened to your father’s MC. How did you get away?"

"My brother Ice was out of town the night Lizard attacked, but he got back in time to save me from him. He died doing it," I say with another sob, this one accompanied with stinging tears. "I ran and I didn't stop running."

"And your mother, did they kill her too?" Cross asks.

"My mother died when I was two years old from a drug overdose," I say. "My dad never remarried, but they killed some of the other old ladies."

Tears are flowing freely down my cheeks now. I’m reliving all the fear I felt that night, and how it gave way to the numbing realization that my entire family was dead, and that I'm all alone, which came not long after. Right now, I’m feeling all of that grief and pain as strongly as I did back then.

"I'm sorry you had to live through that," Cross says, holding me very tightly.

And there's more to my story, but I can't speak anymore. I just want him to hold me now, until this burning, raging pain fades back to the dull ache that's always present deep in my chest. A part of me hoped Cross would be able to help with that too, but now, after having relived it all in my head, I'm not so sure anymore. Nothing will ever erase the grief. And maybe nothing should. My family deserves to be remembered.

He just holds me, as I sob into his shoulder, until nothing but dry heaves remain of my pain. Then he leads me to the bed, guides me down, so I can rest my head against his chest.

He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t need to. His presence is enough. But he's tense under me, his heartbeat fast, and his breathing is far from easy or relaxed.