Reprise (14 page)

His face was hard to read. She couldn’t be sure of her welcome, but he didn’t have to tell her about the gathering, either. “Um, sure.”

“Yeah?” His smile was slow and holy hell, there went her legs again. Just her knees anyway.

“Sure. Do I need to bring anything?”

“The way these ladies work, no. Just yourself.”

Hell no, she wasn’t showing up empty-handed when all these women had gone to efforts to feed a huge group. That wasn’t how women worked. “I’ll go by the bakery I work at. See what’s left.”

-oOo-

She was able to snag the last black forest cake and a dozen large, bakery-fresh donuts with various toppings. After some debate she added two apple pies to the mix. There were a lot of people involved, and no lack of large, grizzled men to feed.

And really, was there such a thing as too much dessert?

Her damn ankle was still throbbing and felt heated, but she was able to put a little bit of weight on it as long as she placed it carefully. With wistful longing she recalled the pair of Sketchers up in her closet but decided the yellow and orange running shoes would likely ruin the look. She was a woman, she could tough it out.

But these shoes were
so
coming off once she was inside the Gray’s home.

As she pulled the truck along the curb next to the Gray’s neighbor’s place she double-checked herself in the mirror. Hair had held so far. Small victories.

The stretch of sidewalk directly in front of the Gray’s was lined with sleek, black and chrome motorbikes. The SUV from the cemetery was parked across the street, and Harlon’s truck was in the drive. Good, she wasn’t showing up awkwardly early.

One bag held the boxed donuts and pies. The cake was in a box all its own which she balanced with both hands, the bag slung over her arm. She used the patio stone walkway to get to the front door. These heels weren’t trying grass again anytime soon.

As she was moving the cake to free up a hand to knock someone started pushing the screen open, and she had a moment. Just a little one. But Harlon Gray was now standing there in just jeans and boots, everything else bare.

So very bare. Right out there, on display.

Jesus. The width of his chest, still plenty ripped and wide. His chest hair had turned a dark steel color, trailing down his stomach. And his arms. They were huge, one of them holding the screen door wide.

“Mal?”

She blinked and shook her head, trying to reestablish her casual cool. “Where are your clothes?” It wasn’t a
good
attempt but she’d tried.

He looked down at himself, then back up at her with a rueful smile. “Construction work.”

“Construction?”

“We’re fixing the fence to help the place sell. Come on in.”

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” she muttered, following him into the house.

“Needed in Cali the day after tomorrow, so we’ll likely be leaving in the morning. The money will help keep Mom in the care home so I don’t want to put it off.”

That, she knew, was a monologue for Harlon Gray. “No, I get it.” Her eyes were on his back and the large, black tattoo that took up most of that impressive real estate. A circle marked with Red Rebels and Markham, a fist at the center. The fist had bits of red worked into the design, adding depth.

She’d never known anyone in a biker club. She knew they were around but any she’d seen kept to themselves. There was even a small club in Cleary, but their hangout was outside town limits and she rarely saw more than two of them at a time.

For Harlon, she supposed that life made sense. He liked being on the road, moving around. Expecting him to stick close and be a family had been silly. He would have eventually left her, she’d always suspected that. But the way he
did
end up leaving her was pretty damn brutal.

In the kitchen he turned to take the cake box, then frowned at the bag on her arm. “Jesus, how much did you bring?”

She smiled. “There are a lot of large men in this group. And if it doesn’t get eaten today, it eventually will be. It’s dessert.”

The door that led out to the back deck opened, a blonde she recognized from the memorial stepping inside, followed by the little girl in the bright pink party dress. “Uncle Tiny!” she called out, clear as a bell and with surprising sass for someone so young.

“Yes, Libby?” he spoke formally but as he set the cake on the cupboard he was grinning broadly. With a groan he crouched down to be eye-level with the little girl.

“There are carrots in the garden.”

“Yes, I know little one.”

“May I please pick some carrots?” It was recited as though she had been told she had to ask before doing things. She seemed singularly unimpressed by that, as well.

“Of course. Vegetables are good for you.”

“Say thank you,” the blonde woman reminded her daughter.

“Thank you, Uncle Tiny.” Chubby arms were wrapped around Tiny’s neck, then she backed off and hit the screen door at high speed. Luckily it hadn’t latched completely.

“Libby! We’re not digging in the dirt in that dress!” And mom was off behind the little sweetheart, leaving Tiny chuckling.

Throughout all this she’d tried to just watch without interfering, or even having a reaction. But of course, that’s not what happened. Her loss was suddenly fresh and new, even with twenty years healing that wound over.

He would have been a great father. Maybe not a great husband, but a father, definitely. Impossible not to imagine it watching him interact with that little girl.

“Hey, you okay?”

Mallory blinked rapidly, setting the bag of goodies on the counter next to the cake. Jesus, she really shouldn’t be here.

“Mal?”

Gently, his hands on her hips turned her to face him. He pushed some hair behind her ear and her knees were ready to give up on her again. “Sorry,” she whispered.

His lips went in a straight line, like they did when he was angry, but his brow also furrowed in concern. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

She nodded. “If I’d just waken up sooner—”

“Don’t. Don’t do that. We know what the doctors said, there was nothing that could have prevented that.”

There it was. Twenty years late, but an absolution of sorts. She’d needed that back when the hurt happened, though. That would have made all the difference in the world.

“I know,” she whispered, wiping at her eyes.

One warm hand moved to thumb a tear from her cheek, his palm pressing to the side of her neck. “Mallory,” he murmured, eyes flicking to catch hers.  That was it, nothing but her name, but she held her breath anyway.

She swallowed, her throat feeling hot and swollen. Never, even if she lived to be a hundred and ten years old, would she forget the absolute terror of walking into her daughter’s bedroom and finding her not breathing, already cold and losing color. Harlon had been on the road, she was on her own to deal with that. Her stomach rolled, regret churning its way through her even as he said exactly the same things everyone else had told her hundreds of times over.

Still, his eyes held hers, his hand sliding further around the back of her neck. It moved her closer, and she fought the urge to sway towards him. He had his own gravity, and she was always attracted to being closer. Like thirty years hadn’t gone by at all.

She licked her lips, nervous. His eyes caught it and his head began to lower towards her, and that’s when she
did
lean in, her chest making contact with his skin. As his eyes slid closed she breathed deep; he smelled the same. Same soap, same sweat.

“Fuck, it’s hot as fucking balls out there!”

She swung away quickly, turning back to the counter and starting to open the bags to arrange her offering to the meal.

“Shit. Sorry, guys.”

“Knuckles, give us a minute, would ‘ya?”

“No, it’s fine,” she said quickly, sounding a bit manic. When she turned Tiny hadn’t moved, he was still large and in her space. Just around his arm she could see Knuckles frozen in the door, his face blank as he looked from her to Tiny’s back. “I...I need fresh air.”

“Mal—”

“Please,” she whispered, looking up at him and blinking rapidly.

He stepped out of the way and let her hobble towards the door. Knuckles grabbed her elbow. “Shit, what happened to your leg?”

“Twisted my ankle. It’s fine, I just need to sit.”

Outside there was music, a radio blaring out classic rock from the open garage door. When she realized what was going on she had to stop and appreciate the scene.

On the grass the women were lounging in Adirondack chairs. The blonde woman and her gorgeous daughter were plucking carrots from the garden, the concern for the dress gone. It was already dirty, as were the little white tights underneath.

And the men were definitely occupied.

Knuckles joined one of his bearded brethren at a section of fence with half the boards already ripped off. He was with the redheaded woman, Mal realized, and because of that she forced herself not to stare. Like Tiny, he’d shed his shirt and was working in just jeans. His back bore the same ink Tiny had, and some trippy design worked its way from his pectoral muscle partially up the side of his neck. On the other side of his chest was a name, and she assumed it was his wife’s. His hair was long, left to hang to his shoulders. Shit, he really reminded her of a younger Harlon. Knuckles handed the man a beer and they both took a long pull, set the bottles down, then set to tearing off the boards.

With their hands.

Sure it was a rickety thing,
nailed
together years ago...but damn, that was a sight.

Following behind them two other men were replacing the boards with new pressure-treated ones. The father of the cute little girl had hold of a drill and was pressing a screw into place, also bare to the waist, his back and arms bunching under a layer of sweat.

Good lordy.

And the man standing next to a table saw shoved a pencil behind his ear as he handed over the next board, his impressive arms and chest showing the effort. That was the one with the pregnant woman, she recognized him from before as he grinned at the man he was working with.

Another one with impressive musculature, younger than the others, came through the garage door with another drill, holding it out like a weapon. Again, no shirt, and this one had even more ink, his hair piled up at the back of his head. “Where the fuck’s my helper?” he shouted.

She cleared her throat and looked around, realizing that behind the Gray’s house a few women were standing on the high deck off the back of the house, no qualms about blatantly staring.

She really couldn’t blame them.

“Right here, asshole.” Tiny rumbled behind her.

“We’re falling behind. They’re five boards ahead of us.”

“Are we competing?” Tiny asked, moving around her and down the steps to the grass. She kind of followed, stopping in place once she was on turf.

“We’re always competing,” the man said with absolute sincerity.

“Loser has to let the other team barbecue,” the large bear of a man at the table saw clued her in to what the hell they were talking about.

“And Jayce can’t grill for shit.”

“Fuck you,” the one with the daughter shot back.

“Jayce!” A female voice rang through from the garden. “Little ears, remember?”

“Shit,” he muttered quietly, then louder: “Sorry, honey.”

“Daddy said a bad word.”

The men in the yard made a poor show of holding in their laughter. Well, all except for Knuckles. “That’s right, Libby. Daddy says a lot of bad words. Isn’t that terrible?”

“Very terrible,” she agreed, grinning up at him. Mal’s heart melted.
Again.

“You should kick him in the shin every time he does that.”

“Okay.”

“No, Libby. We don’t kick or hit people.” Trinny got hold of her daughter before she could actually hurt anyone. Then she spun and smacked Knuckles’ arm hard enough that the slap rang out. “Cut it out, Knuckles.”

He was laughing, and she was a little bit too, as she pulled her daughter back towards the house. “Come on honey, let’s clean up these carrots.”

“Kick me in the shin?” the one called Jayce said, making everyone cut up. Mal decided that it was time she introduced herself to the women, since she’d been standing there gawking at their men for five minutes now.

“Hi,” she said as the three in the circle of chairs looked up at her. “I’m Mallory.”

The redhead stood, the baby draped on her chest fast asleep. “I’m Gertie. This is my son, Davie.”

Mal smiled at the little peaceful face. Gertie stuck her hand out, so Mal shook it as she said, “He’s gorgeous.”

“Thanks.” Then Gertie turned to her assembly. “This is Rose, she’s Tank’s old lady.”

“Tank?”

“He’s the mountain of man working the table saw,” Rose filled in, fanning herself with folded paper. “Pardon me if I don’t get up.”