“It does with the Longnecks.”
“That’ll destroy them, sooner or later. Fear is great, so long as it’s outsiders. Inside the club, we’re about respect, not fear. Otherwise things fall apart. That shit’s a fucking cancer.”
I considered his words. What he said was so different from what I’d experienced for myself, but I could see the truth in it, too. I’d been watching the Bastards for five years now, and he was right. Totally different from the Longnecks, at least so far as I could tell.
“Something to think about,” I murmured, feeling sleepy. A yawn hit me, but I managed to smother it.
“I could use a haircut,” Puck said casually.
“I thought we couldn’t be friends.”
“Sometimes I get pissed and say stupid things.”
I wish I could blame the beer for my answer, but that wouldn’t be fair. The blame for what happened next was squarely on me.
“Okay, then. I guess I could give you a haircut.”
SIX
PUCK
Of the many, many idiotic moves I’d made in my life, this was probably the worst.
I blamed my cock for the decision—I’d spent the night telling myself all the reasons I should ditch her ass, because life is too fucking short. Then I’d jerk off. Then I’d fantasize about killing Collins until I got horny again.
(Yeah, it doesn’t make sense to me, either.)
Now I stood in the center of Becca’s kitchen, studying the tiny apartment I’d last seen right after she moved in. Two years ago, I’d picked the lock and checked it out. Creepy? Probably, but I wanted to be sure she was somewhere safe and decent. The memory of her little girl’s bedroom down in California still haunted me, from the spilled booze on the floor to the sight of my colors hanging next to her school clothes . . .
So fucking wrong.
Not that I’d grown up anywhere decent. Couldn’t even remember my mom, but I’d trailed after Dad and his Silver Bastard brothers like a happy puppy. Hell, there’d always been a woman with open arms and a big heart to feed me. Hanging out in bars wasn’t a conventional childhood but Dad had loved me. No matter what else he fucked up, no matter where we landed, he always had enough extra time for me when I needed him. Things worked out fine so long as we stayed two steps ahead of the law.
I blinked, bringing myself back to reality. Becca’s place was nice—kind of small, with garage sale furniture and secondhand everything. Obviously she’d made all these pillows and throws and shit. Curtains. Hell, I didn’t know how to describe it but it worked. My place felt like somewhere you crashed for the night. Her place felt like a home.
In the corner of the front room was the curved little turret area with her weird, old-fashioned sewing machine. I’d heard all about her sewing from Darcy. Becca was good. Like, really good. Good enough that Darcy hired her to make new “window treatments” (whatever the hell those were) for her business last year, which was really saying something. You could buy those fuckers at Walmart for almost nothing.
Of course, Darcy had a whole explanation about why Becca’s curtains were better than Walmart’s, which I couldn’t follow but totally believed. The shop looked fantastic. Like a magazine.
Becca’s apartment was just about perfect now that she’d had a chance to fix it up. Of course, I’d be happier if the downstairs door locked, but even I had to admit that probably wasn’t a big deal. Nobody in Callup locked their doors, not unless they had things to hide.
My own place had three locks.
“How much do you want taken off?” Becca asked, bustling around and gathering her scissors and shit. What the hell had I been thinking? My hair grew until it got annoying and then I cut it off. It wasn’t annoying right now so it didn’t need a cut. Simple.
But watching her fuss over Blake earlier nearly killed me—Christ, but she needs to start shutting her fucking shades—and I wanted her to touch me like that. To give me what she’d given him. The rational part of my brain knew there probably wasn’t anything between them. That hardly mattered, though, because every time I saw them together I wanted to beat him to a fucking pulp.
My cock got hard just thinking about it. Right. Nothing fucked up about that. Time to dial back the homicidal urges a bit . . .
“Okay, come over here so I can wash your hair.”
I reached for my shirt, pulling it up and over my head. Becca’s mouth twisted like she’d been eating lemons.
“What?”
“Why did you take off your shirt?”
“Blake wasn’t wearing his.”
“He didn’t want to get it wet.”
“You really want to talk about getting things wet?”
She flushed and my cock throbbed. Now there was a dark path if ever one existed . . . I held my shirt in front of my pants. Camouflage. If Becca had any fucking clue how horny I was, she’d kick me out on my ass. I could control myself, though, if it meant getting close to her.
Pussy. I practically heard Painter’s voice mocking me in my head. Right, like he should talk.
“Okay, lean over the sink,” she said quietly. Following her direction, I leaned. She unhooked the faucet, revealing a surprisingly modern hose connection. “Earl put this in for me. Regina has one just like it that I like to use on her hair, up at their place. He installed it for a Christmas present last year after I started school.”
I ignored her words as warm water sluiced over me, because I could give two shits about Earl. She leaned in, smelling all clean and fresh, with a hint of orange. Not perfume or anything like that. Must just be the soap she used. Her tits brushed my side as she turned off the water and reached for the shampoo.