Page 8 of Brew
I try hard not to roll my eyes. Normally, I wouldn’t dare, but I can get away with quite a bit around here, not that I want to test Brew’s patience.
“Well, since you asked; I had a wonderful weekend, thank you. Me and Olive went to see a movie, then we caught up with Amber?—”
“Didn’t ask, team meeting in ten.” He leaves without another word.
The deep intake of breath doesn’t soothe me, oh no. It only irritates me more.
Two minutes, and my annoyance has piqued. Would it really kill him to act like a normal human being for once? I guess I already know the answer to that.
CHAPTER
THREE
Brew
Peonies. Is that what it is? Her scent permeates my nostrils in the sweetest of ways.
And why the fuck did she cut her hair?
I sit in the meeting room twitching, just like every Monday when it’s been two days since I saw her last.
I could’ve asked about her weekend, but she already told me anyway.
Mondays are always the same, and I’ve grown to like them. The best part is waiting for Erica to arrive with her Tupperware container of homemade baked goods. Her sourdough is out of this world, I’ve never tasted bread like it. You could say Erica is the mother hen of our workplace. She’s sunny. Always smiling. No matter what could be going on in her own life, she wears this mask. I know it because it’s a mask that I also wear well. In her case, she makes sure everyone is okay before worrying about herself. That’s how Erica is. I should know — I’ve studied her enough. It may sound creepy, but when I was on protection duty not so long ago and I had to watch her and Olive, the kid that never shuts up, my eyes were wide open. One thing is certain;Erica would do anything for her daughter. She got herself roped up in some bad ass shit that the club had to help with. Mafia shit. This woman may be ex Mormon or whatever the hell church she escaped from, but she certainly is no pushover.
The thing that gets me with Erica is she’s never in a bad mood. Like, ever.
Like clockwork, she arrives last with a large, square purple Tupperware container and sets it in the middle of the table.
“What do we have there?” Sawyer grins. Stupid bastard always flirts with her, but I’ve told him in no uncertain terms to back off. For one, there’s a policy in place about staff fraternization — one I made up after I caught him flirting — and the fact that he can fuck off. I saw her first. Yes, I am that childish and petty, but Erica is a different breed of woman. She’s not like anybody else. Sawyer isn’t about to go ruining her for all other men, the man himself was trafficked as a teenager, and ever since then he’s been… different. If anything, he shies away from women and one-night stands, but when it comes to Erica, he’s like a bee to honey.
I can’t blame the dude, she is pretty fucking fantastic.
She’s wearing a blouse tucked into a skirt that sits just above her knees. Her hair, now shorter, is the color of chestnuts when they’re ready to be eaten. She wears minimal makeup because she’s naturally pretty, and those green eyes? Like nothing I’ve ever witnessed. They write poems about eyes like that; the ones that sparkle for no apparent reason. That’s what amazes me about her. She’s had so much shit thrown at her; escaped a cult where the men involved — one being her now ex-husband — were jailed and running some fucking weird ass operation, dodged around being kidnapped by the mafia when she couldn’t pay back money, reluctantly agreed to come back with the MC when we tracked her down, and she never crumbled. This woman deserves a medal.
“Oatmeal cookies; they’re tasty but also good for you. No added sugar, organic flour, and lots of fiber.”
Sawyer jiggles his eyebrows. “You’ve taken all the fun out of it.”
She gives him a dead-panned look. “If I hadn’t told you about the no added sugar and fiber, you’d be none the wiser. I have other methods to sweeten those cookies.”
He grins wider. “I bet you do.”
Is it just me, or does she blush? Sawyer reaches for the open container, and I kick his chair from under the table. He immediately turns to look at me, giving me an expectant look. Even this asshole, as much as I like him, doesn’t mess with me.
“Ladies first, asswipe.”
Erica’s smile aimed at me shouldn’t make my heart jump, but it practically leaps out of my chest. Why am I such a sucker for her attention? Even though I barely acknowledge her existence. It’s a coping mechanism — something we probably have in common without realizing, but I’m not about to broadcast that.
“Sorry.” He looks back at Erica, whose eyes are still on me. “Where are my manners?”
She waves him off. “It’s fine, go for it. I like to make sure my boys are fed and ready for the day ahead, there’s plenty to go around. I know how hungry you all get.”
My boys.
I don’t know why that irks me.
“Your boys are fuckin’ assholes most of the time,” I mutter.
