Also made me sort of hungry.

That’s when I decided I needed little boxes to put all this stuff in, so I could just close the lids and pretend they didn’t exist. So far it was working pretty well. Box three held women’s underwear, bras, and a single silk stocking. Box four was “other”—small, strange chunks of metal, random tools, a Buck knife, and two ticket stubs from a Spokane Indians game.

Weird pangs of jealousy aside, I wanted Ruger’s house fresh, clean, and comfortable when he got home. It was the least I could do. I cleaned everywhere but his bedroom, although I did wade in just far enough to grab the worst of the laundry.

That night, Noah asked me when Uncle Ruger would be back. I had no idea what to tell him, and I wondered if living in his house could ever feel normal. Free rent was great, but Kimber was probably right. Ultimately, I needed my own place, where the couch cushions weren’t full of strange underwear and the silverware drawer was condom-free.

The thudding of feet overhead woke me up around three o’clock early Friday morning. Ruger was home, I noted drowsily, and it sounded like he was throwing a party. Fortunately, my kid and I could sleep through anything, so five minutes later I was out again.

The next day, Noah and I did our best to stay quiet as we got ready and used our own door to leave the house. When I got back from dropping him at school, I had a near-miss with the house alarm, punching in the code twice before I got it right. Ruger’s obsession with security was damned inconvenient at times …

I showered and straightened up our little apartment. By then it was almost ten and still no noise from upstairs. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing up? God knew, Ruger had a tendency to invade my dreams.

I slipped up the stairs softly, not wanting to wake him. I reached the top, turned toward the kitchen and swayed, completely shocked.

Apparently a hurricane had hit the house in the night.

Empty beer bottles covered every possible surface. The furniture had been shoved around, with one end of the love seat actually lifted up and resting on the back of the main couch. There were partially empty pizza boxes, spilled beer—and the most disturbing part of all?

A completely naked blonde chick sat at the breakfast bar, lighting a cigarette.

Seeing her hit me hard—I actually couldn’t breathe for a second, and I felt dizzy. I knew Ruger slept around. I’d found the evidence myself, but somehow this finally brought it all home for me.

She was gorgeous and utterly unselfconscious. Naturally, I wore an old tank top and cutoffs, hair in a messy bun, and no makeup. I wanted to kill her. Dead. Strangle her on the spot for being a damned whore and being prettier than me and fucking my man.

I gave myself a mental smack.

I had no claim on Ruger. None. This was his house and he could do whatever he wanted in it, including this whore.

I didn’t even want him, not really.

“So, you Ruger’s property?” she asked me, eyes hostile, red-tipped talons tapping the bar idly.

“Um, I don’t think I understand the question,” I replied, torn between staring at her perky, jiggly boobs and watching the trail of smoke rise from her cigarette toward the ceiling. Once that smoky smell gets into a house, you never get it back out.

Yet another reason to hate the bitch.

“Simple yes or no,” she said. “You belong to him? He patch you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, glancing around the living room, growing pissier by the second, despite the fact that it was none of my business. This was going to take hours to clean and it sure as hell wouldn’t be me doing it, I decided. Let the whore do it. Or Ruger himself—what a concept!

“That’s a no …” she said slowly. “So why the hell are you here? Did he call you this morning? Seriously, if he wanted a three-way, he should’ve talked to me earlier. No offense, but I can do better.”

She looked me up and down as she said this, judging every inch of my body.

“I think I should go back downstairs,” I said with careful control. I turned to leave, but Ruger’s voice stopped me.

“You still here?” he called. The blonde answered, voice all sweet like honey, eyes sparkling with possessive triumph.

“Sure thing, baby. You need me?”

Ruger strolled down the stairs and into the living room, wearing only a pair of unfastened jeans. I could tell this because they drooped low enough to leave very few secrets. Damn.

I knew Ruger was hot, but it seemed like I forgot just how hot whenever I didn’t see him for a while, because it still shocked me. I could spend a year trying to describe him, but you still wouldn’t fully appreciate his unique appeal until your panties spontaneously combusted the first time he smiled at you.

Or, in this case, when he walked through the living room wearing half-fastened jeans commando, eyes still sleepy.

My eyes caught on his chest, sliding down along the lines of his muscles. Oh, my … Perfect pecs, sculpted obliques and abs. They disappeared into the denim, which just barely rode his hips, ready to slip at any minute. I wanted to lick him all over.

Right after I killed him for fucking The Blonde Slut.

“Morning,” he said, looking from me to TBS. I raised my hand and gave a little finger wave, wondering if the knife in the laundry room was well-balanced for throwing.

“Welcome back, Ruger,” I said, trying not to sound like a jealous wife, because nothing crazy about that, right? “Have a nice trip? Noah missed you. I was just going downstairs. Have a great morning.”

TBS smirked, taking my attempted retreat as a victory for her. Or that’s what I imagined was behind her smirk. For all I knew, that could have been her thank-God-I’m-not-in-a-three-way-with-this-loser face.

Whatever it was, she could damned well shove it up her ass.

“No,” Ruger said, staring at me intently. His eyes flicked down my figure, and no matter how hot the chick in the kitchen was, I could tell he still wanted me. His eyes were dark and needy like they’d been the other night. And all those years ago, too …

Nope, not going there, I reminded my brain. This situation’s fucked up enough already.

“We need to talk. It’s important,” he told me. Then he glanced toward TBS. “We’re done, time to go. Don’t call.”

Wow. That was cold.

I liked it.

“You seriously want her over me?” TBS demanded, looking between us, face genuinely confused.

“Sophie’s my nephew’s mom,” Ruger said, voice going hard and flat. “One of her in dirty sweats is worth ten of you naked on your knees, so get the fuck out.”

Oh, that was sooo cold. Maybe I didn’t hate him quite so much, because he might be an asshole, but he was definitely being a bigger asshole to her than to me. Justice, for once.

“You’re kind of a dick,” TBS said, pouting.

“Ya think?” he asked, walking past us to open the fridge. Ruger pulled out a container of orange juice and chugged it without using a glass. He finished, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and slammed it down on the counter. Juice splashed, reminding me of the brand-new, giant-ass mess everywhere else.

A mess I wouldn’t be cleaning. Enough of this.

I needed to retreat back downstairs, away from this bitch and Ruger, the world’s biggest asshole. He ranked up there with the biggest pigs, too, based on what he’d accomplished in one night with his friends. I turned to the stairs but his hand caught my arm, tight and unyielding as a handcuff. He tugged me through the kitchen to the bar, pushing me into a seat.

“Stay,” he ordered me, his eyes hard. Then he looked over at Blondie. “Go.”

His tone didn’t leave room for discussion, and she jumped up, scowling. Ruger strode quickly across the living room and up the stairs. Blondie followed him, then ran back down fast, her clothes flying over the balcony from the loft.

Five minutes later she was gone with a massive slam of the front door and Ruger was back in the kitchen making me all nervous. I wasn’t quite sure what to say to him. I hated him for bringing her home. I was jealous of her, because she was hot and she’d felt his cock inside her last night, when all I’d gotten inside me was my vibrator. Hell, it wasn’t even working right—some sort of loose connection. Half the time it wouldn’t turn on and I didn’t have money to buy a new one. How pathetic was that?

Too broke to buy a damn vibrator.

Maybe I should stand outside the Adam & Eve store holding a sign reading “Single Mom, Anything Helps” and a cup for change.

Ruger narrowed his eyes at me. He still hadn’t buttoned his pants. Holy shit. I sincerely hoped I wasn’t drooling.

“So, tonight the girls from your club are coming over,” I told him, trying to find a safe place for my eyes. They skittered across the tribal tattoo on his pec and caught on his nipple ring. I flushed. Definitely not there. “I guess we’re planning some sort of party for tomorrow at your club’s armory? Do I want to know why your club has an armory?”

“It’s an actual National Guard Armory,” he said. “Club bought it when it got surplussed, years ago. It’s got everything from a big kitchen and bar to rooms upstairs for people who need somewhere to crash for the night.”

So. His clubhouse had beds. Why did this not surprise me?

I wanted to ask him why he hadn’t fucked TBS there instead of bringing her home to me and Noah, but I couldn’t think of a not-crazy way of doing it. Instead I decided to keep talking about my schedule.

“They had me line up a sleepover for Noah at my friend Kimber’s house for tomorrow night,” I said, eyes darting to his face. Not a flicker of recognition at her name. Good. “Anyway, they invited me and I promised you I’d give it a shot, so … I’ll see you at the party?”

He cocked his head and studied me, utterly impossible to read. Silence stretched between us. I struggled not to start babbling just to fill the void.

“Bigger party than they think,” he finally said, his voice low. It took me a minute to remember what we’d been talking about. Oh, yeah. Party planning. Armory. “Whole bunch of guys from all over coming in tonight and tomorrow. Not sure I want you there.”

He shook his head slowly, tongue flicking out to slide along his lower lip, catching on the ring. I wanted to flick it with my tongue, too. Then I caught a glimpse of something else … Shit. His tongue was pierced. There was a hard, round ball right in the middle.

That hadn’t been there four years ago. I would’ve remembered.

What would it feel like in my mouth … or lower? I’d never kissed a guy with a pierced tongue, let alone had one go down on me. I started tingling between my legs, which was not what I needed in that moment. Assholes this big shouldn’t be so hot.

Hairy ears, I thought. Pretend he has hairy ears.

“You’re a very frustrating person, Ruger,” I said, torn between bitching at him for being such a giant whore and jumping over the counter, ripping off his pants, and riding his cock. Not the best way to handle the situation.

I knew this.

Really.

“You say I shouldn’t judge the club,” I added, trying to focus. “You say you want me to get to know everyone, and that Noah’s life would be better if he had the club behind him. If that’s true, why can’t I go to one of their parties?”

“Because this one’s gonna get pretty fuckin’ wild. Not really a starter party,” he said, unfolding his arms to brace them on the counter on either side of his body. I saw his biceps rippling under his full-sleeve tattoos. He had more ink across his shoulders, some kind of rounded slash things in addition to the pattern on his chest. There was another tat curling around his stomach from his hip. A panther disappearing down into his pants on one side.

Lucky cat.

I really, really wanted to see the rest of it.

“You said some shit the other night that we gotta deal with. Um, Sophie? I have a face, you know,” he added, and my eyes jerked up from his stomach. I felt myself flush and he stayed silent, watching me with hooded eyes. He raised a hand and rubbed the back of his neck, biceps and triceps flexing nicely, then scratched at his stomach. The muscles between my legs took note, pulsing their approval.

“What do we have to deal with?” I asked, feeling my cheeks flush again.

“No friends with benefits for you,” he told me without a trace of humor. “No fucking around, no kissing, or even fluttering your goddamned eyelashes at any guy in the club. That’s the only way you’ll be at the party. Or any club event.”