Page 2 of Resilience

Before she handed him the pink plastic mirror, she leaned down and kissed him. “You look so good, Sammy. So hot.”

She gave him the mirror.

What Sam saw reflected was not himself. It was some slick dude who went to a ‘salon’ twice a month and probably got a manicure with his fancy haircut and his artful three-day stubble.

Lark had also asked him more than once to let her give him a manicure; she didn’t like how rough his hands were. He’d worked on his family’s farm since he was like six years old until a year or so ago, and still helped out when he could. He had a laborer’s hands.

He drew the line at manicures, but he did use the lotion she’d given him. His hands were still too rough for her liking.

“What do you think?” she asked when he’d been quietly staring at the stranger in the mirror for a while.

In her tone, he heard she was ready to have hurt feelings, so he smiled and looked up to catch her eyes. “You did a great job, babe. It looks really good.” And that was true; if he’d wanted to look like a GQ asshole, he’d be happy with her work.

“Yes, but do you like it?” Lark asked, her eyes narrowing.

It was just hair. He could lie and make her feel good, and not give up too much. “I do. It looks awesome.”

“Yeah?” There was such relief, such hope, in her tone now, Sam felt like a total asscrack for not actually liking the result. More than his feelings were involved here. She was in school for this; she wanted to be a stylist—not just for hair, but makeup and clothes, too, eventually. His reaction could ding her self-confidence about what she wanted to do with her life.

He set the mirror on the floor and pulled her onto his lap. “I love it, babe. Thank you.”

All her sweetness and light, everything he really did like about her, sparkled in her bright blue eyes and pretty pink smile as she slipped her arms around his neck. “Thank you for trusting me,” she murmured; then she licked her pretty pink smile.

Sam slipped his hand up to her head. He closed his fist in her blonde tresses until the strands pulled lightly and she moaned. He drew her close and kissed her.

He really did like her.

The kiss came to a boil quickly, and Sam grabbed her legs and shifted her on his lap until she was straddling him. They ground together, feeling each other up through their clothes, feasting on each other’s mouth, until Sam thought he’d lose his shit if he didn’t get inside her soon.

“How long are we alone?” he gasped, grinding the words against her lips. He’d carry her to her bed if there was a chance a kitchen fuck would have an audience. Public sex wasn’t his deal. Not even in the clubhouse.

“Long enough,” Lark answered, raking her long, manicured nails down his bare chest until she reached the buttons of his jeans.

Just then, his burner went off. He’d set it and his personal on the counter at the beginning of this makeshift salon appointment.

They both went still as the mood between them turned instantly to ice. With Lark, as with all women he’d ever tried to be with, his phones and what they represented were the inflection point of their troubles.

His family. His best friend. And now the club. All higher priorities for him than any woman he’d ever dated. He was defective. Or he was an asshole. Or both.

“Please don’t answer it,” Lark whispered, sincere pleading threaded through each word.

“It’s the burner. You know I have to.”

He was a prospect with the Brazen Bulls. It didn’t matter that his father had been a Bull for something like thirty years, it didn’t matter that his entire family was the club; he was only a prospect, and that meant he had no choice but to drop everything and run when the club called.

He’d been a prospect for almost a year now. That was another anniversary coming up in a few weeks. He had hopes that he’d get his patch at or around his one-year mark, when he was eligible; he damn sure wasn’t going to do anything to fuck up that chance.

Grabbing Lark by the hips, he started to lift her off his lap—but she jumped off him instead and lunged at the counter, grabbing the ringing phone.

And then she fucking answered it.

“You’ve reached the phone of Sam Spellman—”

“Give that to me!” Sam yelled, trying to grab his phone from her, but she spun off and ran from the room, still talking through her squeals and gasps. Sam chased after her.

“I’m sorry, but he’s not available to take your call—”

She was headed for her room, he thought. “Lark, fuck! Stop!”

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