Hard Time (Hard as Nails #1) (11 page)

I scoff and then laugh. “You mean you don’t already know? I thought you knew everything about me.”

“I’m guessing when you found out you were pregnant, you did what you had to do to protect your kid even though you hadn’t had the strength to do it to protect yourself. Why is that, Katie?”

I stare at him before standing. “Is this where we talk about my low self-esteem and how some part of me must have felt I deserved to be beaten by my boyfriend? Because if that’s the case…”

He puts a gentle hand on my arm. “Sorry. I guess deep talks aren’t what we’re about. Please don’t go.”

I sigh and sit down again. He looks hurt that I won’t talk to him, and I’m amazed, but he seems to truly care about me beyond just the physical attraction. “Look, it’s not complicated. He was nice to me in the beginning. That changed. He was always sorry. He’d tell me he’d never touch me in anger again. I wanted to believe him. Or maybe I was just too tired to do anything about it until I had a reason that really mattered. I don’t know why I stayed with him as long as I did. I just…did.”

He nods, but remains silent, almost as if he’s afraid if he says anything else, he’ll drive me away. But now that he’s brought up Brett and I’ve talked to him about my past, I resent his silence. If I take a risk, so should he. That’s how it has to be with us.

“What about you? I don’t know anything about you.”

“You know the most important thing.” He smirks and brushes his fingers against his lips. “You know I was in prison. You saw it with your own eyes.”

“There’s so much more to you than the time you spent in prison. So come on, tell me something about who you are.”

Chapter Thirteen

Street

“What do you mean?” I’m taken off guard by her question, because I’m not used to people—especially beautiful girls like Katie—asking me
real
questions, so I’m trying to buy myself some time. Even though I’d prodded her for information, I’m more comfortable, and safer, in shallow waters when it comes to talking about me.

She runs her fingers through her long brown hair and shakes her head. “Just tell me anything. Surprise me.”

“I’m an orphan,” I say, and immediately feel betrayed by my own lips.

“Really?”

I take notice of the way her face contorts under the streetlights. She’s like a shadow against the dwindling night, but there’s a look of calculation on her face, like she’s trying to figure me out.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something.”

Her palm grazes across my thigh through my jeans, and I flinch away at her touch for the very first time. Because I know what it means—she’s going to keep digging.

“Tell me more.”

I don’t know what the fuck has come over me, but I feel like I have to answer, have to continue letting her in by taking her through a tour of my haunted past. It’s not easy, but it almost feels like the right thing to do.

“I was in foster care for a long time. In and out of homes.” I let out a soft sigh and shake my head while remembering the few foster parents who’d tried to do good by me before I fucked it up with my wild ways and bad attitude. The foster home where I’d met Trevor? Our foster parents had been assholes. Abusers. And until we’d gotten big enough to fight back, we’d taken their shit. Many times, Trevor had taken their shit for me, which is why I felt I owed him so much.

We ran away from that foster home together, and even when we were living on the streets, Trevor tried to protect me. Eventually, we were picked up by social services, and that’s how we’d ended up in Thornbridge Orphanage along with a bunch of other boys who the system had given up on. Some of them had been the future members of Nailed MC.

I clear my throat. “Eventually I ended up in an orphanage,” I tell her, images of the hulking building, where the kids all lived dormitory style, flashing through my head.

“I didn’t realize we still have actual orphanages in the States.”

“They’re needed for when foster care doesn’t work out.”

Her hand tightens on my thigh. “Was it—was it horrible?” she asks, dread in her voice.

I can’t bring myself to look at her when I’m bearing my soul. Just one look into her eyes could be enough to shatter me, and I’ll have no choice but to revert back into a monster if for no other reason than to protect myself.

The truth is, Thornbridge Orphanage hadn’t been half bad. We’d actually been treated pretty well. Given food, clothes, even some luxuries. Of course, all that had been dependent on doing what we were told—and what we’d been told to do had been illegal most of the time. Turned out the orphanage had been a shell for a criminal entrepreneur who used teen boys with nothing left to lose to do his dirty work. We’d been under his thumb for years, but in a fucked up way, it had all worked, with the man who ran the orphanage becoming not just benefactor but father figure.

Yeah, I’d actually lived a modern-day version of Oliver Twist.

"It wasn’t so bad. I made friends there,” I say.

“Friends you keep in touch with now?”

I shake my head.

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Tell me.”

I struggle with how much to tell her, knowing that as soon as I clam up, she’ll be heading home. I don’t want that, so… “Let’s just say when we were at the orphanage, we had a lot in common. We were all street thugs. Punks. When we got out, we had dreams. Aspirations. We were high on freedom and all the possibilities. A group of us ended up opening a garage.”

“A garage?”

I grin, remembering those days when hope and excitement had reigned supreme. We’d thought we were such bad asses. “Yeah. We called it Nailed.”

She cocks a brow. “As in, fixing tires that are punctured with nails?”

“As in, we’re hot shit and gonna be rolling in money and getting nailed every night.”

She snorts. “Of course. Go on.”

I shrug. “We started the garage. We made our Brotherhood official, formed a motorcycle club called Nailed MC. Focused on running our business, and during our free time, riding the open highway.”

“I’ve never ridden a motorcycle,” she says quietly, and I can see by the light in her eyes she’s imagining the freedom and the wind in her hair.

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.”

“Do you still ride?”

My jaw tightens. “I left my bike with my friends when I got locked up.”

“So why haven’t you gotten it?”

“Because getting the bike…it wouldn’t be the same. I don’t belong in that world anymore. I don’t belong with
them
. We were all determined to stay straight. To make it big. And well, you can see how well that worked out for me.”

“So you don’t feel you’re good enough to be friends with them? Because you made some mistakes? If they’re your friends, they’ll understand. They’ll stand by you—”

“They want to stand by me,” I say more harshly than I intended. “I don’t want them to. I’m a different person than I was. Or maybe I’m the person I was always meant to be, without the foolish hope to be something more. I no longer dream about what life can offer. I’m just surviving. I’m keeping clean to stay out of jail. That’s all I can focus on right now.”

“That’s tragic, but beautiful,” she says softly. “And I think it’s complete bullshit.”

I flinch back, and almost lose my ability to speak.

Almost.

I’m immediately on the defensive. Pissed that she pulled so much out of me and won’t let it go.

I think Katie can see the change in me because she lifts her hand as if to caress my face.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I snap and launch to my feet.

She’s visibly taken aback, her eyes shifting in confusion within a pale, haunted face.

“You don’t know me,” I yell.

“I know,” she says softly.

“You don’t get to say it’s bullshit when you don’t know me. Hell, you haven’t even asked what I did to land in prison,” I accuse her with a shrug of my shoulders, like I’m flexing for a fight. “Why?”

She saw me in prison for months, so I should be secure in knowing that she doesn’t care about my past, but I can’t trust her like that, not when she doesn’t know the whole story. It scares me to believe she could be here for me one day, and gone the next. If I’m nothing more than a fantasy to her, she’ll wake up and realize that I’m no good for her, and then what? If I’m only going to lose her, then maybe I shouldn’t be fighting for her in the first place.

“I know what you did. Gossip flies in prison. I know you committed burglary.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know what I
did
.”

“I don’t need—”

“You’re asking me all these questions about my past, telling me I should contact my friends, that I shouldn’t hide away like I’m some monster, but maybe I’m exactly that.”

“You’re not a monster. I might not know everything about you, but I know that.”

“Then ask me what I did during that burglary. Ask me what happened when the owner of the house came in and pulled a gun.”

“We don’t need to talk about this now.”

“Why? Because you’re trying to pretend that part of me doesn’t exist? The part that didn’t want to get caught? The part that considered what I could do to prevent being caught?”

“You need to calm down,” she says softly and reaches her hand out for mine.

I flinch away at first, but she doesn’t relent, pulling me back to the bench to sit beside her. I’m too embarrassed to look her in the eyes, so I settle on the view of the shop across the street.

“I don’t know all that happened, and when you’re ready, really ready, you’ll tell me, Street, but even with what you’ve told me, I believe in your goodness. I believe in
you
.”

And she does. I don’t know how it’s possible, but looking into her eyes, I see she’s telling the truth.

It slays me. And calms me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, completely embarrassed by my outburst, but what’s fucking new? “Sometimes, I…”

“We all lose it sometimes.”

God, is she for real? She’d had a boyfriend that hit her yet she hadn’t shown any fear when I’d lost it. Is it possible she understands me better than I understand myself? She’s different. I’ve known that from the beginning, but now I’m really starting to feel it in my bones.

“I’ve done things,” I say, almost as quiet as a whisper. “I have a dangerous, volatile past.”

“I know.” She reaffirms her grip on my leg. It’s strong, but soothing. “But I’m getting to know who you
are
, not who you were.”

“Is there a difference?”

“You tell me. And if you don’t know the answer, maybe we can find out together.”

* * *

We’re back in the parking lot of my apartment complex, parked beside the same rusted Dumpster as before. She’s leaning across the gearshift with her lips planted against mine. Her kisses are softer, and not as energized as the other night, and I know it’s because she’s tired.

She has a long day ahead of her tomorrow. She’s taking Friday off, and it’ll be my first time at the store alone. I feel proud that she and George trust me enough with that responsibility, but I also feel kind of twitchy about it, like I’m somehow going to fuck up, but I don’t tell her that. She’s got enough on her plate—an exam in the morning, a date in the evening, and then with any luck, she’ll be up all night under the weight of my body.

Her palm slides down from my cheek and lands against my chest at the top button of my shirt. She groans into my mouth with ragged breaths as she pops the first button.

I grab her wrist and pull away from her kiss. “What are you doing?”

“I… Uh,” she stutters. “I don’t know.”

“We can’t do this.”

She pulls back and straightens herself in the driver’s seat, her expression confused.

“I want to,” I say and wet my lips. “I just can’t.”

She looks at me with the sexiest pair of
fuck me
eyes I’ve ever seen in my life, and my cock twitches in my jeans, but I’m trying my damnedest to practice self-control. I want nothing more than to recline my seat and have her ride me until I come inside of her, but all the best things in life are worth waiting for. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.

“I need to get home and study anyway,” she says with a forced smile.

I take hold of her hand. “I want every piece of you, but not here in this car. I want to do it right. The next time I fuck you, it’s going to be in a bed where I can take my time, not here in your car, and not in my shitty apartment. It’s going to be someplace nice.”

Her short, light laugh is sexy as hell. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what, Princess?”

“Spend money on me.”

I shift in my seat so she can look straight into my eyes. I look straight into hers. I’m getting better with this whole
honesty
thing with each passing minute. “It’s not spending money on you. It’s spending money on me, because you’re my fantasy, and while I’d cut off my right arm to fuck you—”