Slate (Breaking the Declan Brothers #2) (15 page)

“So, what are you going to call her?”

Rayna’s eyes flash to mine and a stunning smile graces her entire beautiful face. “Lady?”

I laugh, knowing she loves the movie
Lady and the Tramp
, and walk over to them. “Lady, yeah. She looks like a Lady.” I pat the dog’s head but, just like me, she only has eyes for my big-hearted girlfriend.

I rap my knuckles against the wood. After driving Rayna home from the bar last night, I know what I want, and this is going to be the last time that I knock on this fucking door. “Gathie!” Getting impatient, I knock again. “Gath, it’s Slate. Let me in.”

The door swings open. “Oh, thank God!” Gathie grabs me by the arm and pulls me inside. “I’m glad you’re here!” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand a couple of times.

“Just dropping off that cash I owe ya.” I reach into the pocket of my jeans; I’m ready to get this over with, so I never have to look at her scrawny ass again.

“Shit.” She sniffles. “Forgot about that.” She blinks a couple of times. “Yeah, yeah.” She vigilantly watches as I pull the money out. “Forgot about it,” she says, snatching the cash from my hands. She counts the bills. “Yeah, I needed this.” She shoves it down her shirt into her bra and looks up at me. Her eyes bloodshot and pupils dilated.

She’s tweaking, all coked up. I shake my head. “I gotta go.” I turn to leave.

“No!” She catches the sleeve of my hoodie. “Need ya to stay.”

“Can’t.” I yank my arm away. Wouldn’t have come, but I don’t like owing people, especially her kind of people.

“Please, Slate. I gotta meet Ricky at Millie’s Diner for a pickup. I’m supposed to be there in ten minutes. My sister can’t make it. She’s at work and can’t leave. Diggs, he’ll kicked my ass if I miss the pickup.”

“So, go.” I throw out my hand. “What the fuck do you need me for?” Dammit. I forgot Saturday is pickup days for Digs. At least the shit ain’t already here. Don’t need the temptation.

“The kid, I can’t leave the fucking kid, child protection’s been up my ass.”

“Well, I ain’t goin’ to meet Ricky. That guy’s shady. I’m surprised Diggs even buys from him.”

“No. I gotta go. He won’t give the shit to you.”

“Then what do you... oh-ho no!” I shake my head, fully aware of what she’s getting at here. “Hell. No! I ain’t babysitting; that shit is not happening, Gathie.”

“All you gotta do is sit on the couch, that’s it. If she starts to cry, let her go until I get back.”

“Fuck that.” I walk toward the door and make it out to the hall when I hear a lock clicking behind me. I stop, turn, and grab Gathie as she tries to fly by me. “Where the fuck are you going?”

“Slate,” she winces from the tight grip I got on her arm, “come on, you know I gotta get that shit. Ricky ain’t gonna wait long.”

I almost can’t believe it. The fucking junkie is going to leave her kid here, alone! “Motherfucker!” I let go of her, wanting to knock her teeth in. Instead, I thrust out my hand. “Give me the fucking keys.”

“Thanks.” She drops them in my hand. “I’ll be right back, promise,” she calls over her shoulder as she runs off down the hall.

I let myself back into the apartment, toss the keys on the coffee table, and look around. The place is a shithole, but I usually pay it no mind. Normally, all I care about is getting the drugs. But fuck, I always see things more clearly whenever I’m clean for a few days or more. I try to grasp onto that clarity, but in the end, the drugs always seem to win. Not this time. I’m going to fight like hell to beat this addiction. The fighting has been helping, a way for me to exert all the built-up aggression. And, sure, I crave the reward that I’m used to after a good scrap, but I push through it. I’ve been through this before. I know the gig.

I don’t know what I’m going to do tonight, though. Jax cut me off last night and told me to take a couple of days to recoup. The old me would’ve fought Jax on the matter, but he’s right. It’s taking a toll on my body. If I slowly wanted to kill myself, I could just start using again.

Not wanting to sit on the sofa and get too comfortable, I stand in the room. I wait. Five minutes tick by, and that’s when the kid starts crying. “Fuck!” I listen as it escalates to an ear-piercing level. “Dammit!” I walk over to the door where the sound is coming from and place my hand on the knob. It stops, and my shoulders drop with relief. Then, it begins again. Damn clarity, I push the door open. The light from the living room shines in illuminating two large, watery blue eyes. Instantly, the crying stops as the toddler looks up at me as if I’m some kind of savior. I step into the room, assaulted by the nauseating smell of urine. I walk over and the kid’s eyes get bigger. I stop in front of the crib. Her head tilts back, and two little arms thrust out to me. “Really?” I lean down closer. “You sure about this?” Her tiny hands start to open and close. “Ooookay.”

I reach down, gently lift her, and set her on my hip. She looks up at me with an adorable toothless smile. “You are cute.” I smile back at her. Shit, I pull her away and glance at the wet spot on my shirt. Holding her from me, I grin. “Even if you’re getting my clothes all wet.” I set her back on my hip. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.” I search the room for some clean, or at least dry, clothes and some diapers while she pats me on the face, giggling.

I lay her on the floor and sit down. I take everything off, and surprisingly, Gathie has baby wipes, so I wash the kid off best as I can, figure out the diaper thing, and dress her. “There.” I tap her on the nose, and she grabs my finger with her small hands. I bend over and coo, “Oh, you have no idea what I’m going to do to your mother for treating you like this.” And she laughs back at me. “Yeah, I’m going take real good care of her for you, sweetie.”

Scooping her up into my arms, I set her on my dry hip. She rests her head on my chest, and her tiny little fingers play with my shirt. I get a sick feeling deep in my gut, knowing that each time I came here, this precious, innocent, sweet child was crying, and I didn’t think twice about it. Holy fuck, what kind of monster am I?

“You’re really going to make me watch this?” Lurlene looks over at me from the corner of her eye.

“Yes. Everyone needs to watch
Grease
at least once in their lifetime.”

“Fine,” she stands, “but I’m getting a glass of wine first.” She marches off toward the kitchen.

“Get two! Better yet, bring the bottle out here.” I laugh, pause the DVD player, and set the remote on the coffee table when I hear a knock on the door.

I get off the couch, walk over, and open the door. Like a star in the night, a solid mass of muscles covered in a t-shirt and jeans stands against all the darkness. Palms pressed to the doorframe, his biceps bulge. “Slate?” My eyes meet his and from the toes up, I feel it. I feel his starving hunger.

“Ask me in,” he says in a low, dripping with desire tone.

“No.” I try to shake my head, not entirely sure that I get it done. I could have stopped mid-shake.

“Yes.” He leans forward, hands still resting on the doorframe. His t-shirt stretches against his chest muscles.

I shake my head, this time being sure to get it done.

His arms of steel and tatts lower as he takes a step forward, nodding his head.

“No. This is not happening!” I back step, knowing what he wants.

“Oh, yeah…” He steps inside. “This is most definitely happening,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him.

I hear Lurlene gasp and glance over. She’s holding two glasses, her full red lips forming a huge O. Yeah, Slate has that kind of effect on people. I should say, women. Although, I don’t think he gets it; he’s too concerned about his scars.

“Hey,” Slate says, pointing at her, “Lurlene, right?”

“Yes.” She blinks, still standing in the middle of the room with the filled wine glasses in her hands.

“I don’t think that we’ve formally met. I’m Slate, and I’m real sorry for barging in on you like this.” He scratches his head, the muscles in his arms moving gracefully with the action. “But I think Rayna forgot that she promised to help me with something. Of course, she can help me right here,” Slate turns to me, pointing at the couch, “or we could go to your room?” He smiles. “It’s entirely up to you.”

I sneer at him, mentally calling him every name in the book. The cocky grin on his face informs me that he hears my thoughts loud and clear, but he knows that I’m not going to make a scene in front of Lurlene. What’s going on between us is between us.

“Hey,” he bends down to my ear, “you started this, monkey.” He straightens, holding that damn smirk. And he couldn’t be more right. I did start this.

“Let’s go to my room,” I say between clenched teeth.

“Ah…” Lurlene clears her throat. “I think that I’ll get dressed and go pick up a movie or something.” She looks at me, waiting for approval. I roll my eyes with my apology, but nod my head. “It’s nice to have formally met you, Slate.”

He turns his head, offering Lurlene a generous smile. “Likewise.” He twists back to me as Lurlene walks away. “Now,” his bright eyes smolder, “show me to your room.”

I flip around and head up the stairs. With each step, my too-short shorts crawl further up my ass. Aware that Slate is following behind, and knowing that he’s getting a full view of the show, I smile.

We get to my room. I open the door, walk in, and flick on the light. Slate follows me in. Glancing around, he pushes the door closed. “Staying in your old room?”

“Yeah,” I say as he starts to walk around, touching my things. “After my parents’ divorce, they went their separate ways, as you probably know, but Megan kept the house. She lived here for a couple of years until she met her husband on one of those internet dating sites. They live in Idaho. She has three kids, two girls and a boy. I think they even have a dog now. But Megan always kept my old room for me here in case I wanted to come back for a visit.” I straighten the photo of Megan, Jamison, and me on my dresser. “I never did come back, though.”

“I know,” Slate says, standing with his back to me at the window.

I don’t know what to do. I know why he’s here, but I don’t know what happened to bring his fine cocky ass here. I hope he’s okay. I hope he didn’t have a relapse. If he did, I’m going to have to show him to the door. Damn, I wish that I could’ve gotten down at least one glass of wine before he showed up. It would’ve helped to calm my nerves.

And hot damn, why does he have to look so freaking fine in those perfect fitting jeans and that just as perfect snug t-shirt. I can make out the muscles on his back all the way up to his broad shoulders.

“Man-” He looks over one of those broad shoulders at me with a grin, pointing at the window. “How many times do you think I crawled through this thing?”

“At least twenty.” I smile, remembering each time. He did seem to always be there for me.

“Hey.” He faces me as his eyes stroll down my body, covered only by a tight cami and shorts. “Remember how you told me about that guy in Manhattan?”

Unsure why he’s bringing it up, my body tenses as he slowly makes his way over to me. “Yeah,” I say, the temperature in the room rising a degree or two.

“What about that day,” he says, now standing in front of me, drawing a line with his steady finger along my exposed belly, “when Timmy Baxter stiffed you,” his finger circles my belly button, “and went to the movies with Cathy Miller?”

“Slate,” I say as a warm gush of moisture releases from between my legs. I squeeze my trembling thighs together. “I’m, ah, not going to stroll down memory lane with you.”

He reaches for the hem of my skimpy cami. “Do you remember what I told you that day?” He begins to fold up my shirt, something he used to do when we were together. He’d take his time, meticulously undressing me. He said that I was like a present, a precious gift meant for only him, and he loved to slowly unwrap me. God! How I want to be unwrapped. “I told you that some boys will keep it,” he neatly folds my shirt over my chest, “some will break it,” he folds it again, exposing my swollen naked breasts, “and some won’t want it,” he slides his fingers beneath my cami and pushes it over my head, “you gotta be—”