Page 130 of Beat of Love
Fuck.
“You don’t understand,” he ground out. “None of you understand.” He scraped his chair back, needing to get away.
Away from the disappointment and dismay and fucking judgment.
Well done, Trick. You’ve done it again.
38
Scarred but strong
The whine of a struggling engine shattered the hush of the cold March night, and Brandy-Lyn’s heart thudded faster. The ancient Yamaha skidded to a stop in a spray of gravel as she looked up from the security feeds on the iPad.
Don’t judge. She’d been scrolling through every feed she could tap into, hoping for a glimpse of him. And a few minutes earlier, she’d greedily watched him with Elsa and Rosie and hoped that by taking the route past her place, he’d meant to stop.
Anticipation prickled at her senses.
Raff swung one leg over the seat and planted his boots on the ground. He kicked the stand down with a practiced snap, and the bike tilted onto it with a tired creak, leaning just enough to mirror the way he stood — slightly off-center, like he carried weight the rest of the world couldn’t see.
“Waiting for me, Red?”
The deep timbre of his voice — how it dropped just so when he growled her nickname — set her belly aflutter. She drank in the picture he made at the bottom of the steps. Tall, lean, and far, far too sexy. Sapphire eyes glittered beneath the porch light, pools of dark, conflicted emotion framed by thick lashes and emphasized by the black beanie pulled low over his brow.
Setting the iPad down, she patted the cushion beside her.
With long strides, Rafferty mounted the veranda and closed the distance. He sank onto the bench and slouched back with a mighty exhale. She hugged her legs to her chest, holding herselfback from reaching for him. Resting her cheek against her knees, she watched him in silence. Deep lines furrowed his forehead, and his lips were compressed into a firm, unsmiling line.
It was the face of a very troubled man.
She waited till the swing stilled before asking, “Feel better after your ride?”
“Not really.”
“You should wear a helmet.” His recklessness worried her. Was it incidental — a by-product of his dangerous past? Or intentional? If she were a betting woman, her money would be on the latter. The knowledge saddened her.
He shot her a sideways glance, lips quirking. “Yes, Mom.”
The nonchalant attitude irritated her. “I mean it, Raff. I’d hate to attend your funeral.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, stark against the line of his extended neck. “Maybe … maybe that would be for the best?”
Her stomach flip-flopped. And not in a good way. “Don’t speak like that,” she rasped, gripping his upper arm.
“I’m just so fucking tired of disappointing people, Red,” he muttered, closing his eyes as if the weight of them was too much to carry.
She squeezed his arm. “Then don’t.” His biceps tensed beneath her grip. “You’ve had a shock, Raff. Sleep on it before doing something you’ll regret later.” Moving her hand down, she placed it over his white-knuckled fist.
Unbeknownst to him, his parents had already made the decision: the boy was coming here. Branna had put her foot down. “Blood or not, there’s a boy who’s just lost his mom. He’s alone and needs us, Jonathan.”
Brandy’s voice softened. “Your family will help you.”
He gave her another side-glance. “You don’t understand.”
“That’s what you said earlier. Tell me why.”
He mumbled something she couldn’t make out.
Her patience snapped. “Don’t act like a freaking teenager, Rafferty Lawson. Speak up.”
