ONE MONTH LATER
“Swear to Christ, I’m going to end up too fat to get on my bike at this rate,” Daz said around a mouthful of cinnamon brown sugar sticky buns.
He’d already capitalized on the fact that I’d made sticky buns of all things when they were still in the oven.
“You want sticky buns, all you have to do is ask, sugar.”
Sometimes, he was such a pig, I wondered why I kept ending up in this position.
For that morning, the position was being at his place, which he’d informed me was also Disciple owned, not his own house. Doc did live there, though that was apparently a recent development. It was also shared by the club president, Stone—who I’d yet to see there, though we’d met a handful of times—and Kate and Owen.
At Daz’s request, I’d come over after my shift the night before, a Friday, which meant I’d actually danced. In the last month, I’d learned while slicking myself up before a shift annoyed the hell out of me, Daz seemed to enjoy it. He didn’t enjoy it as much as he wanted to since he’d pointed out on multiple occasions the fun we could have if we added a bottle of lube to the equation, and I’d shut him down every time.
I wasn’t necessarily fully opposed to anal play—in concept, at least—but he was going to have to try harder than cracking a joke about oil to get me to go there.
Footsteps in the hall preceded Doc’s call of, “Tell me that fucking angel is here again making breakfast.”
“Hey, Doc,” I replied.
He came around the corner, took a look at the pan on the stove, then focused on me. “Offer stands, you want someone to make an honest woman out of you, I’ll get you a ring today.”
This was Doc’s third marriage proposal. The first was over the phone after Daz brought home half a mixed berry pie from a meeting with me and Roy. The second was the first time I’d used the meager baking supplies here to whip up cinnamon streusel muffins. That one had even come with the included clause that I didn’t even have to sleep with him. I could just bake and he’d take care of everything else.
This was the first mention of a ring, though.
“Hmmm.” I made a show of considering my naked ring finger.
“Hey, back the fuck off, old man," Daz groused.
Doc winked as he passed me, his back to Daz, and grabbed one of the buns from the seat pan. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him it might have been plate and fork territory, but I’d done that with Daz and there he was eating one with his hands.
Over the last couple weeks, Doc seemed to have taken up meddling. Any time I was around was an opportunity to needle Daz about our relationship. It was little things. Throwing his arm around me, making his proposals, loud, obvious statements about not letting good women get away. It was funny to watch, but I really should have put a stop to it. It wasn’t like I was waiting around for Daz to announce his undying love to me so I could share avowals of my own. We were casual.
If you could call the fact that I wasn’t certain when the last time I’d gone a whole day without a phone call, at a minimum, casual.
There was also, admittedly, the fact that our heart to heart about loss in the toddler area of Chuck E. Cheese was not the last such conversation.
However, I wasn’t convinced either of us were altogether capable of anything beyond casual, so I was sticking firm to that definition of our relationship.
“Laying claim, Razzle Dazzle?”
I snorted. “Razzle Dazzle?”
“What’d you thing Daz was short for?” Doc shot back.
“Honestly, I hadn’t really thought about it.”
Doc dropped into a chair at the table and kicked up his feet on the seat of another.
“You want to tell the tale?” he asked Daz.
Daz didn’t respond, just glared at him.
Doc waved his hand holding the sticky bun with flourish. “Our story begins—”
“Jesus. I went down on a chick who had a bedazzled pussy. She failed to fucking mention the shit came off and stuck to my face before I went out into the clubhouse lounge,” Daz cut him off.
For a second, I had nothing. I just stood right where I was, staring at him. At some level, I was waiting for him to throw in the, “Gotcha!” That couldn’t really be it.
Except it was. It so was, and that was all over his face.
The laughter exploded out of me, and I stumbled back into the counter. It was all I could do not to fall and crack my head open on the tile. I tried holding onto the edge behind me, but my legs gave out, so I sunk down onto the floor, tears escaping.
“So fuckin’ funny,” Daz muttered.
Daz.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to call him that again.
I didn’t know how long I was just sitting on the kitchen floor laughing, but he clearly got tired of it.
“Seriously?”
“Ra-ra-razzle dazzle,” I choked out, setting myself off further.
I was still chuckling, but had enough wherewithal to watch as Daz ran a hand through his scruffy hair. He was in nothing but a pair of pajama pants—something he’d had to find in the depths of his room. It seemed he hadn’t been overly cautious about walking around in various states of undress when it was just other brothers living here. One of the Disciples’ women and her daughter had lived here at one point though, so he did own things he could slip on to cover himself.
“You’re lucky your laugh is fucking cute and you make delicious shit all the time,” he said it like a warning, but his eyes were dancing. He might not have loved the origin of the name, but he had enough of a sense of humor to take it. He even came over to help me up once I was all chuckled out.
“Right, now that I’ve been fed and provided that public service, I’ve got places to be,” Doc announced. “You bringin’ her next weekend?”
Daz jerked his chin up in what seemed to be an affirmative, to which Doc nodded and took off.
Seriously, these guys were not great with goodbyes. I realized they were bikers, but it was weird when people just walked away or hung up.
“What’s next weekend?” I asked when he was gone.
“Party at the clubhouse,” Daz explained.
“For?”
He looked at me like it was an outlandish idea for there to be a reason for a party.
“It's summer. We can be outside, fire up the smoker, no better reason than that.”
Well, that seemed fair.
“What about work?”
He shrugged, turning to the sink to wash the brown sugar mess from his hands. “We take you off the schedule.”
“Not sure my boss will like me bailing on work to party,” I teased.
He shot me a look over his shoulder I didn’t understand. “Figure we ought to start thinking about taking you off the stage entirely. You’ve got enough shit to handle without having to budget time in for that.”
Wow. It was happening. This was what I’d been working toward.
Yet, I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want it. I just wasn’t really sure I did have enough work to justify it. Most nights, when the shop was actually open, I was just around on the off chance something happened. It was just as easy to do that while working a few songs.
“We’ll have to figure out who else could do a headlining spot on weekends. Maybe need to see about hiring on another dancer, but it could work,” Daz went on, already planning this out.
“I…”
He was facing me then, rubbing his hands on a dishcloth before dropping it in a heap that wouldn’t allow it to dry on the counter. “Unless you want to keep dancing. Your call. Just an idea.”
It was cavalier, yet felt disingenuous. There was a tension to his frame, a definition to his jaw that was more prominent than usual.
Did he want me off the stage?
“I'd be happy to stop dancing,” I told him honestly.
He nodded. “Then we’ll make that happen.”
Simple as that.
Still, I feared I was moving up because I was sleeping with the boss, not because of my hard work—something I’d always sworn I would never do.
Well, shit.
I’d just finished a full shift, and one that had tested my limits at that. Every time I turned around, someone needed something from me. Meanwhile, I still had to get on stage a few times, which gave them time to come up with more shit to need from me. After the night I’d had, I was considering myself crazy for having the thought earlier that morning that there wasn’t enough for me to do. There was plenty.
When I pulled up to my house, Daz was waiting by the front door.
This wasn’t a very common occurrence for the nights we were together. His sister-in-law, Kate, was still—understandably—not doing well. From my understanding, she rarely left the house, despite the fact that Daz never used the SUV unless he had Owen with him. She also had recently taken an alarming turn to forgetting things. These “things” included showering or eating if she wasn’t reminded. None of this touched her son. Owen was cared for like all was right with the world, and this was mostly by Kate. Daz helped out, but he was firm on the fact that this was far from him doing the majority of the work.
It was just herself Kate wasn’t seeing to.
“Thought I’d started to break through with her,” Daz had told me one evening while I was making Roy’s wife’s birthday cake. “But she’s right back to the ghost she was before I brought them to Hoffman.”
I wanted to offer some sage advice, but I had nothing. I knew what she was feeling. I’d wanted to check out when I lost Gran. But I understood better how Daz felt, because it hadn’t been an option. I’d never let myself fall completely to pieces, so I had no clue how he was meant to help her put them all back together.
By him texting saying he was going to meet me at my place, I’d thought that meant Kate was having a good night. By the tension lining his features as my headlights shone over him, that was not the case.
When I was out of my car and approaching him, I noticed the vase of flowers on the step. Guessing they weren’t from Daz, since he wasn’t holding them and I had no clue how he’d transport them on his bike, this would make them the third delivery.
I’d tried denial, but it was past that point. This was a statement.
“Yeah, those were there when I got here,” he said, noting where my attention was. There was a bite to his words. Were those vibes of being pissed about the flowers?
I picked them up, not sure what to say about it. Did I tell him I had my suspicions about where they were coming from, about what all those mystery calls to the shop were about? Or did I leave him out of it since we weren’t really together? I didn’t think complicated exes were part of the fuck-buddy territory.
Besides, it would be a pain, but I could handle Aaron. I had before.
Of course, he was back, which hadn’t been part of the plan.
Unlocking the door and letting us both in, I went right to the kitchen counter to unload the vase. When I turned back, Daz was glaring at it.
“Not liking some asshole sending you flowers. Thought we agreed to just each other?”
If it had just been the hint of jealousy, I would have let it go, but the accusation in his tone fired me up.
“You think I’m fucking around on you?”
His hand swung out to point toward the flowers and he didn't say a damn thing.
“They’re flowers! They aren’t a naked man in bed with me,” I snapped. “Did it even occur to you that maybe I got them for myself?”
He didn’t back down at that suggestion at all. “Did you?”
“No,” I admitted, and he seemed to only get more pissed that I’d brought up that totally inconsequential point.
“So, some asshole is sending you flowers, what the fuck am I supposed to think?”
He could not be believed. “Maybe think about the fact that we’ve been carrying on like this for a solid month, and we might not be all hearts and flowers, but I feel like I’ve at least earned a little fucking trust.”
“Took just as much trust on my end to do away with the condoms as it did you,” he pointed out. “Never trusted a woman I was with that much.”
Was he serious? Did he think I was going to try to get myself knocked up by him? Or was he implying that I was the one in whatever the fuck we were doing here that was more likely to have some STD to pass along?
I couldn’t deal. Throwing my bag down, I kicked off my shoes, then stomped down the hall. I tried counting to ten, but only made it to two before I heard Daz’s steps pounding after mine, cutting off my attempt to calm down. I made it to the bathroom, hit the light, and was securing my hair in a messy bun when he appeared in the doorway and caged me in, his arms up and hands curled around the doorframe.
“Move,” I demanded.
“Who are the flowers from?”
Looking him right in the eye, I deadpanned, “The other guy I’m fucking. I thought we established that.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Avery,” he warned, but I didn’t care to heed it. “Who are they from?”
Instead of responding, I just stared back at his face, watching the frustration bleed into fury. The hardness took away all of the mischievous light that was Daz. It was like someone else entirely was standing in front of me.
Then, he reared back and slammed his hand against the doorframe. I jumped.
“Who are they from?” he demanded.
“I don’t know!” I shot back. It wasn’t a lie. I couldn’t know for sure, even if I had a pretty strong suspicion. “I think it might be an ex. But the ones before didn’t have a card.”
Daz was moving before I finished explaining, and then I was flush against the wall with his body holding me there.
“Daz,” I breathed out, but his mouth descended before I could say anything else.
His kiss was rough, like a punishment for making him feel that way. It lasted until my lungs began to burn, then he ripped his head away.
“We both know this shit isn’t just sex. Hasn’t been for a while. I don’t do this shit. I never fuckin’ have. Got no clue where it’ll go, but I think it's best we admit this is about more than not fuckin’ other people so we don’t have to deal with condoms.”
He was right. I didn’t do this either. Not anymore. It was too messy, too dramatic. But we were already mired in messy and dramatic either way.
So, I nodded.
“We’ll figure it out as we go,” he stated.
I could live with that.
“Okay,” I agreed.
“Okay.”
Then, without further analyzing or discussing, he picked me up, his hands under my ass, and took me to the bedroom to commence the part of “this” we knew how to handle. The part we already understood.
It was also different, because admitting that step in the midst of our first fight allowed us to try something new: make-up sex.
Totally worth fighting for.