Page 4 of Single Mom's Mountain Men
The rest of him is ungodly handsome too. He has perfectly shaped though perhaps slightly cruel lips, and a jawline that looks like it could crack steel. He towers over me by at least a foot.
His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.
A heady, sexual desire like I've never felt before rushes through me, and it's so strong I think my legs might give away for the second time.
CHAPTER 2
Charlie
Itap my fingers on the wheel of my 1987, silver and blue, twin carb, Ford F350 truck as smooth jazz plays on the radio. I’m not really a jazz kinda guy, but today it seems to fit the atmosphere. Despite the unignorable heat, we’re having a pretty breezy summer day, and I enjoy the scenery that combined with the music seems to blow away my problems like dandelions on a stem.
Driving always does this to me; gets me into a mind space where all my worries seem much more manageable. Not that I have too many worries. I've got a roof over my head, a job I enjoy with people I can put up with, regular, nutritious meals, and no one has tried to shoot at me or blow my head off since I left the military.
I should be grateful for all those things, and I am.
It’s just this accompanying sense of dissatisfaction that I can neither shake nor pinpoint that's starting to bug me.
I spot the gas station in the distance and automatically, my eyes flicker to my tank. The dial hovers on the first line of the letter E, and I grunt in annoyance.
Thanks a lot, Wes. Would it kill you to put a little gas back in the tank after using my truck?
Then again, my little brother has never been the considerate type and doesn’t understand the concept of leaving things as he finds them. He never returns any of my shirts in the same condition they were in when he took them. He borrows my tools and either doesn’t return them or returns them with parts broken or missing. Whenever he uses the Xbox, I always have to tinker with it again before it works right.
And though I regularly fill up my tank as a habit, when he borrows my truck, he always seems to manage to bring it back on its last damn leg.
This is becoming more than a regular occurrence because Wes currently doesn't own a truck or a car of his own since he wrote off his old Pontiac Firebird a few months ago. He’d managed to have a particularly spectacular crash when he misread a hairpin bend on the way home from Cockrey’s bar late one night. Instead, he has a two-wheeled deathtrap which he rides around town, terrorizing all the townspeople.
Now, I don't discriminate against bikes. I have a bike too, but I’m a lot more careful with it and at the very least, it’s not black with skulls painted all over it. My bike is a little more practical. It’s an Indian Roadmaster with a more than sufficient 1,811cc Thunder Stroke 111 air-cooled engine, a large and very sensible front fairing and windscreen to deflect wind and rain, plus a comfortable, fairly upright seating position that makes riding the thing a joy rather than a pain in the ass.
My little brother, on the other hand, imagines himself as a member of a biker gang, and he acts the part too. His heavily customized Harley Davidson Sportster Forty-Eight is his pride and joy, and the damned thing must be worth a small fortune with all the components he has lovingly purchased forit via mail order and added to it over the years. With all the chrome parts gleaming in the sunshine, not to mention the custom skull paint job of course, you practically need sunglasses to look at it properly. Though slightly smaller in engine size, needless to say it is considerably louder and more menacing sounding than either my own bike or my other brother’s bike. When Wes arrives somewhere he likes to make sure everyone knows about it.
I sigh as I pull into the gas station. I need to let it go at this point. Truth is there's no benefit to my annoyance if I'm just going to whine about it, because I know I'm probably going to lend it to him again if he needs it. I'd much rather he wears out my gas than that he ends up dead on the side of the hill after attempting to ride his bike home from town late at night.
As his older brother, I guess that's just my damn cross to bear.
Besides, it's not like I'm in too much of a hurry to get gas. The grocery store in Gasten closes early at five pm, but I've still got about an hour till then.
I park the truck right behind a beat-down Ford Taurus sedan of indiscriminate age and color, with a tire that seems like it’s not quite as buoyant as it should be. In addition to the tire, the exhaust box is loose and dangling downwards at a jaunty angle – probably rusted off its securing brackets and just held in place by luck and perhaps one last, half-rusted bolt. It could probably last for a few more miles, but at some stage the whole back of the exhaust will probably give up and either fall off completely or be left trailing sparks as it dangles beneath the car. Neither option will be very drivable, so whoever owns it needs to get to a mechanic pronto.
As I walk in, I’m preoccupied with my phone, trying to pull up my mobile gas card. I hear the tinkle of the bell whenI open the door but barely catch the “Excuse me” before my body brushes fairly hard against someone else.
And then I look down, only to be instantly transfixed by the prettiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
She blinks at me, as I take her in, blonde curls tied into a messy bun at her nape with a few escaped tendrils flying over. A face that looks to have a healthy tan underneath a temporary pallor. Wideset, sparkling eyes that aren’t dulled by the heavy eyebags underneath.
And God, she has freckles. The most adorable dotting of freckles scattered over her nose.
Oh Lord, you know what freckles do to me.
Time seems to slow to a pause as we stare at each other, but my body’s response is rapid and overwhelming. Blood pumps from my head straight to my dick.
“Sorry,” she says, in a breathless voice that drives my hormones even wilder. “My bad.”
When she speaks I also see that she has a tiny gap tooth, an adorable one that makes me want to lick it with my tongue. I want to taste those lips too, especially the plump lower one before I suck it into my mouth.
And then kiss down the line of her neck…
“Mommy.”
