Page 60 of Red My Lips

“Are you going to eat some too? That whole plate isn’t just for me.” I accept a bite of the loaded macaroni and cheese. Goddamn, is every dish at this function ridiculously good?

“I’ll eat in a minute,” he says, brushing it off. “I’m busy feeding the Menace. I can’t make any sudden moves.”

I laugh at that, making him grin. “You’re funny.”

“You’re a lot nicer to me when you’ve been fed,” he comments. I can’t argue with that. Nothing brings out the Menace in me like low blood sugar and an empty stomach.

“You’ve cracked the code.” I steal a piece of grilled shrimp off the plate and bring it up to his mouth to eat. He lets me feed it to him, pulling the meat out of the shell So I can discard the tail.

“I’m learning every day,” he murmurs. “You’re my favorite subject, and I plan to be an expert.”

“You already know me better than almost anyone.” Other than Lana, he probably knows me better than I even know myself at this point. The thought is haunting in its comfort.

“I know, baby.” He opens his mouth for another shrimp.

“Why do you insist on calling me that?” I ask, irritation seeping in with my curiosity. The term has always rubbed me the wrong way—like I’m someone who needs to be taken care of. I can stand on my own two feet, I can fend for myself. I definitely don’t need to rely on a man to take care of me.

Gage reads me like a book, one of his hands running through my hair in a way that soothes the animosity raging inside me. “Because if anyone is going to be spoiling you, protecting you, and babying you—it’s going to be me. And I’ll take any chance I get.”

His answer has a fire sparking inside me that’s foreign and terrifying—because I like it, more than I can admit to myself. Warmth floods through me, bashing against the walls I’ve built securely around my heart until they fracture.

“When you say things like that, a big part of me desperately wants to believe you.” My tone has softened against the uncertainty I feel.

His adoring gaze doesn’t falter against mine, and his steadiness rocks me. The men in my life haven’t been immovable—just flaky and unreliable. I’ve never had an anchor to make me feel secure during the storms of life. I’ve always ridden them out on my own.

“I don’t mind that you don’t trust me yet. You will.” He leans down to kiss me with lips spiced with cajun seasoning. “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere. Ever.” We sit there for a moment in our connection, reveling in it.

“I’m thirsty,” I murmur softly. An amused smile tugs at his lips at the subject change, his intent eyes smoldering as his hand brushes through my hair.

“Let’s get you a drink.” He helps me sit up before he stands and offers me a hand to help me off the ground. Walking hand in hand, we stroll back towards the party.

“You don’t have a patch,” I observe, a question evident in my tone. Gage’s leather jacket is clear of the MC patch on all of the other cuts at this party.

“No, I don’t,” Gage confirms, glancing down at me.

“Why aren’t you a member of the Chained Saints like the rest of your family?”

“I was in and out of foster care growing up. That’s where I met Anders and Messer—we were in the same group home. After I aged out, I didn’t stick around here to join the Saints. Instead, I moved to New York for a tattoo apprenticeship. That’s where I started my business and built my client list.”

“You were in the system?” That’s surprising to me since Gage has both parents in his life, and they seem pretty close. He can sense my confusion.

“Dwayne and Connie Lawless liked to live up to our last name,” he explains. “You’ve met them, they’re not exactly subtle.” I can’t help but laugh at that. His parents are a lot of things, but no one can call them discreet.

“They got caught?” I guess.

“A lot. Shoplifting, arson, grand larceny—you name it. Their sentences kept getting longer and longer with each strike until they both did eight years for stealing an ATM off a street corner when I was fourteen.”

“They stole an entire ATM? Why?” I ask with a surprised laugh. Gage nods with a shrug.

“To see if they could.”

“Where was your brother during all of this?”

“We were split up. Rio is five years younger than me, so we were put in different homes. We had very different goals growing up—he wanted to be guaranteed a place to belong by becoming a Saint, build on our family legacy. I found my family in Messer and Anders, and we were determined to make names for ourselves.”

“So you and your brother weren’t close?” I guess.

“Nah, we barely knew each other. We finally reconnected a few years ago when I moved my business back to Chicago.” We’ve reached the doors leading into the clubhouse, but it looks like everyone is headed inside.

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