Page 53 of Pieces of Heaven

Hobo blinks a few times as if he hadn’t even considered that option. I feel him sizing up his choices. Though I may not understand this man, I definitely sense him talking himself out of having me follow him.

As we stand outside, I fully believe Hobo feels something for me. I’m just as certain that he wishes he didn’t.A wild man like him doesn’t want to be tamed.

“I’ll come pick you up at the shop at noon,” Hobo announces, taking a large step back until he’s out of reach. “Bring whatever stuff you’ll need to be comfortable at the cove.”

Rather than ask what “stuff” he means, I leave the porch and walk to him. “You can’t leave without kissing me. It’s just not how things are done.”

“I don’t follow anyone’s rules.”

“Neither do I. Kissing goodbye is the rebellious choice,” I tell him and tug at his shirt.

Hobo once again refuses to obey my unsubtle hint. He makes me wait a moment before he finally covers my lips with his. I soak in the heat from his affection. His tongue sweeps across my teeth, marking me so no other man’s kiss will ever satisfy.

Soon, I watch him disappear into the darkness. My heart hurts for how he’s alone out there. Of course, maybe without me to distract him, he’ll enjoy a meal and find more comfort than sitting in the grass.

Entering the house, I hate to take a shower and wash away the scent of that impossibly rugged man. Yet, I’m overheated from the hot weather and my lust.

The shower’s water lures me into finding pleasure for the pulsing hunger between my legs. Hobo’s kisses ravish me in a way no man could do even with a hard fuck. I’m left lovestruck and horny as hell.

Sex has never been fun. That’s why when I imagined marriage, I pictured the Christmas cards and kids. The intimacy part felt like the annoying price I’d pay to get the good stuff.

Not with Hobo. Thanks to that man, I’m a ball of overstimulated nerves begging to be plucked by his calloused hands.

Once dressed in a nightgown, I see myself in the mirror, finding fewer flaws than usual. This woman before me interests the most incredible man. I can’t be all bad. I don’t feel too old or plain. I can’t hate my freckles or overly straight hair. I don’t feel shame about my small breasts or wider than necessary hips.

“You made that wild man’s dick hard tonight,” I tell the woman grinning back at me. “He brought you flowers and kissed you until you couldn’t breathe. That’s not a dream in your head. That was real, and you get to kiss him again tomorrow.”

Dancing around the tiny house, I put my flowers in a makeshift vase. On my phone, I see a message from my sister. Normally, I’d call immediately, aching to be acknowledged by someone always cooler, stronger, and more successful than me.

Tonight, I just toss the phone aside and turn on Tracy Chapman. Closing my eyes, I replay my time with Hobo. Those memories are better than any TV show or movie.

I think about spending time at Turtle Cove and the Pigsty party. With Hobo unable to be himself around this house, I need to feel him in his own space.

This rental is pretty and compact like the apartment over my parents’ garage. The tiny house is also generic and stale like most of my life. I wear the kinds of clothes my parents wore. I eat what they were fond of eating. I’ve always embraced a well-worn life. That’s why I couldn’t travel alone or open my own restaurant. I’ve spent thirty-seven years refusing to live recklessly because no one I knew would do so.

Hobo isn’t afraid of tempting trouble. His heart is wild, and I want to be the same way.

I open my eyes and look around, seeing the pretty cottage in the same way he does—as a cage.

I can’t picture Turtle Cove or the motorcycle club’s home base. I assume the latter is gross and scary, but I’m still game about visiting. The Steel Berserkers Motorcycle Club has been kind to me with members dropping by daily to buy food they probably don’t even want. All because their friend asked them to do a favor. That makes them heroes in my mind.

The next morning, I wake up smiling over how I’ll see Hobo soon. I fully believe he’ll show today. No more guessing games. He’s making a claim on my time.

After checking on Rose the Cat, I walk to my SUV. Velma sits on her front porch, nearly flying off it as I pass her.

“What’s wrong with you?” Velma demands as her long white hair drapes her face.

I take in the sight of the angry woman, realizing she’s still wound up from yesterday. I doubt she slept more than a few hours all night.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I lie as my fingers caress my shirt stashed in my purse.

Hobo’s scent—an intensely masculine and earthy mix of pine, thyme, and pepper—remains on the fabric. I’ve sniffed the damn thing about twenty times since I woke up. Whenever my old thinking threatens to take hold, I remind myself of the man I can enjoy if I stop dreaming and start living.

Right now, I can’t see past my thoughts of him long enough to really focus on Velma’s anger.

“You said you would live here for a year. Now, I hear you plan to leave the Valley.”

Forcing myself to answer her, I explain, “If my business fails, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stay.”

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