Chance, fucking hell, the man is beautiful. He’s not ripped, nor is he jacked. He carries a layer of fat over his muscle, but only a blind person could look at him and not see that as the thin layer of padding it is. His hair is loose, his beard thicker than yesterday. He’s sipping coffee, looking sleepy and slow-moving, like a bear emerging from hibernation.
One of the women sits on one side of the man with the mohawk. She’s leaning against his side, head on his shoulder, sleepily peering into a mug of coffee, and they’re having a quietly murmured conversation—she lifts her head, sips, puts it back on his shoulder. He peers down at her, an affectionate smile touching the corners of his mouth. She’s blond, stunningly beautiful, wearing a purple tank top, and since she’s on the other side of the table I can’t see her bottom half.
The other woman is Indian, again remarkably beautiful with fine, regal features, her hair neatly braided back, wearing a plain white V-neck T-shirt. She’s sitting close to the huge blond man with the thick beard, also sipping coffee, also having a quiet conversation with him.
The scene is familial. They’re all comfortable with each other, at ease in silence as they wake up.
Chance, straddling the bench so he’s in profile, one elbow leaning on the table, twists to look at me. “Mornin’, Annika.” He indicates people as he points at them. “Anjalee and her man Kane. The blond lady is Myka, and that’s her man Rev. The man with the fancy mustache is Lash. Me, you know already. At the other table we have the Brothers Antisocial.” He laughs. “Really, they’re just not morning people. Or afternoon people, or night people.” Another snickering laugh. “The one with the scar is Saxon, the other blond is Solomon, and the one that looks like a young but cranky Robert Redford is Silas. Everyone, this is Annika Scott.”
“Another stray we’re adopting?” This is from the scarred blond, Saxon. “When do I get a hot chick to rescue?”
“Ignore him,” Chance says. “We’ve had a weird few weeks.”
I stare. “Is there a bathroom I can use?”
“My room is unlocked. Down the hall, first door on the right.”
My knee is always stiff and achy when I first wake up, so I’m less mobile in the mornings—limping, shuffling, leaning heavily on my cane. I feel the eyes on me, the attention, the curiosity, the questions. They keep them to themselves though, and I make my way to Chance’s room.
It’s small, nothing more than a bedroom with an en suite bathroom. Just a large bed, a six-drawer bureau, and a bathroom. Pale gray-blue walls, the same gray epoxy flooring with blue flecks as in the common area. The bureau has a few personal belongings on the top: of primary interest is a framed photograph of a group of soldiers in camouflage gear, carrying big fuck-off guns and wearing bucket hats; some of the men are smiling, others are serious, one has his gun held against his shoulder, showing the camera his middle finger with his free hand; I spot Chance in the photograph—it’s easy since he’s by far the largest man in the group, although in the photograph he’s quite a bit leaner and clean-shaven, with short hair under his bucket hat. Rev, the mohawk man from the common room, is beside him, leaning an elbow on Chance’s shoulder with casual, affectionate familiarity, one foot propped on its toe across his other shin. They’re in Afghanistan, if I had to guess based on the spiked, serrated ridges in the background.
The only other thing in the room other than the bureau are bookshelves, floor to ceiling, stacked with books two deep and two high—dog-eared and battered paperbacks mostly, with a few hardcovers and trade paperbacks here and there. Two of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are across from the bed, with a smaller one in the corner beside the bureau; two nightstands on either side of the bed are also two-shelf bookshelves doubling as nightstands, each overstuffed with books stacked two deep and more stuffed in on their sides. Clearly, the man likes books—unexpected, which is, perhaps, an unfair assumption based solely on the fact that he’s huge and brawny and powerful and sexy as hell.
My attention goes back to the photograph, but I feel like I’m prying, looking at it, so I go into the bathroom and do my business.
Back out in the common room, Chance gestures at the kitchen. “Help yourself, mama.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap. “I’m no one’s mother, least of all yours.”
“Just a word. Don’t mean nothin’ by it.” He sips his coffee, and then lifts the mug in my direction. “Coffee?”
“Please Jesus,” I say, heading for the industrial coffeemaker and pouring myself a mug—there’s a whole coffee station on one wall: a rack fixed to the wall with white diner-style mugs hanging on hooks, a small glass-fronted mini-fridge beneath it with cartons of half-and-half and gallons of regular milk as well as creamers in a variety of flavors, as well as a black plastic three-section container with packets of sugar, Sugar in the Raw, and Splenda. I fix my coffee with enough hazelnut creamer to turn it nearly white and take a seat on the bench near Chance… “near” being relative, as I’ve put at least two feet between us. I hook my cane on the edge of the table and take a sip.
Chance leans over and peers into my mug. “Little bit of coffee with your creamer, huh?”
I glare at him. “Sorry, does my coffee preference not meet your approval?”
He backs away, snickering. “Just teasing, woman. Shit.”
I gesture at Rev with my mug. “Tease him. Bet he likes it.”
Rev just stares at me, his gaze dark, expression blank. “No.”
I blink and turn away. “Okay then. I take that back. Don’t tease him.”
Chance laughs. “I’ve known him since I was ten. I know better.”
“Chance is a pathological teaser,” Rev says. “He nearly got busted down a rank for teasing our X-O. The big dumb fuck just can’t help himself.”
“I did not almost get busted down a rank, you tool.” Chance sips, shrugging, his mug hiding a grin. “I just got KP for, like, a fuckin’ month.”
I watch them bicker, and drink my coffee, and wait for the questions to start. Eventually, it becomes clear none are forthcoming, which leaves me off-balance.
“Well,” Myka says, getting up to rinse her mug out. “My landlord found someone to take over my lease, so I’m gonna go start packing my clothing.”
“Would you care for some assistance?” Anjalee asks. “I am not doing anything else today.”
Myka’s smile is friendly and welcoming. “Sure. Mom always says many hands make light work.”
Rev slugs back his coffee. “I’ll find us a storage place for your furniture.”
The three brothers all rise from their table, set their mugs in the sink, and wander into the gym, together as one, without a word of communication—Metallica starts up, loudly, and within minutes I hear the distinctive clink of weights being moved.
Lash sets his mug in the sink, and then pauses beside me. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Annika Scott.”
“You too, Lash.”
He vanishes into one of the rooms, closes the door. Leaving me alone with Chance.
He gets up, refills his mug. Sits closer to me than he was before he got up, close enough his knee nudges my thigh. “So, Annika Scott.”