Page 23 of Deadly North
Over the next few days, I do my best to adjust to my new living situation on the MC compound while taking time off from parking and working. Financially, it’s not the best decision, but I’m too rattled by losing almost everything I own to have a steady head and hand right now.
Living in the middle of an outlaw motorcycle club as a woman is a pretty surreal experience. Thankfully I’m used to a lot of these guys. Plus, they know better than to mess with me since I’m Fury’s little sister. I spend a lot of time downloading ebooks and reading in bed with Tedward. Out in the main part of the clubhouse, I hang out and shoot the shit with Little Big Mama, the club’s main bartender. She is the only woman that lives in the clubhouse full-time. I’ve always liked her, with her crazy mess of reddish-blond curls and take-no-shit attitude. She keeps the men in line, and keeps the club bunnies from copping an attitude. She’s a welcome antidote to the overflowing testosterone that pervades the atmosphere here.
I see both more and less of Mack. Less, because now that I’m living here, he doesn’t have to be my constant bodyguard. But more, because when I do see him, he’s not “on duty” and therefore less of an uptight ass. Around his club brothers on his own turf, he’s more relaxed and easy-going, in a way I haven’t really seen him be since we were kids. It’s more attractive than I want to admit. I find myself seeking him out with my eyes whenever we’re in the same room. I’m constantly aware of his presence, almost like he’s emitting an electrical current on a frequency that my body is specially tuned to. It makes me feel like the silly, childish girl I used to be, back when I had a secret, mortifying crush on my older brother’s best friend. I hate feeling this way, and do everything in my power to hide it from him and everybody else.
My landlord, Mr. Ruiz, gets in touch and tells me the fire department still hasn’t determined the cause of the fire. He tells me they’ve cleared the house as structurally safe to go into to get any possessions I can salvage. Mack takes me in his truck to go through my stuff, which is a blessing because Ruiz is pretty agitated when I get there. He doesn’t say it, but it definitely feels like he blames me for the fire. He even tries to bring up me footing the bill for the repairs. But one look at the huge, tattooed biker standing next to me, and he never mentions it again.
Inside the house, I try to ignore the water and fire damage to my furniture. I got most of it from garage sales and dumpster dives, anyway. Instead, I focus on getting enough clothes and other stuff to live at the MC clubhouse for the foreseeable future. The fire didn’t have time to reach the tiny back room I use as a home office, so my laptop and the file cabinet I use for important papers is undamaged. I scoop up some folders and miscellaneous papers with personal info that I don’t want lying around while strangers are here. Dumping them in a paper ream box on top of Ted’s food and water dishes and his cat food, I bring the whole thing out into the living room where Mack is.
“Here,” I say, handing him the box. “You can take this out to the truck. I’m going to go grab some toiletries and stuff. I’ll be out in about five more minutes.”
“Take your time, G. I got nowhere else I need to be.”
In the end, Mack hauls two more suitcases of my clothes and toiletries out to the back seat of his cab. He doesn’t utter a word of complaint, but I still have to push down the urge to keep apologizing to him for the inconvenience. When I’ve locked the house back up and we’re back in the front seat of his truck, he turns to me and says, “Now that that’s done, you wanna go grab some lunch somewhere?”
I pull out my phone and check the time. It’s after one. And now that Mack mentions it, I’m actually kind of starving. “Yeah, that would be great.”
“What are you in the mood for?”
“Burger’d be nice.”
“Burger and a beer?”
“Day drinking? Count me in. Maybe a Jucy Lucy, or… Oh!” I do a little jump-skip of excitement. “A Paul Molitor burger from Shamrock’s! Or is it too far to go all the way over to Saint Paul just for a burger?”
Mack smirks. “Shamrock’s is only about fifteen minutes away from here. Besides, a good burger is worth drivin’ for. Let’s do it.”
Soon, we’re sitting across from each other at Shamrock’s Pub across the river in Saint Paul’s West Seventh neighborhood. In front of me is a pint of Guinness and a Paul Molitor burger, a perfectly-cooked patty with melted pepper jack cheese on the inside, named after the baseball Hall of Famer who played for the Minnesota Twins. I start on my fries first, to give the molten cheese a chance to cool down before eating it. Once you make the rookie mistake of biting into a Jucy Lucy-style burger before the cheese has cooled, you never do it again.
Across from me, Mack nurses his own pint of beer. “So,” he says, leaning back in the booth. “I didn’t know your first name was Brigitte.”
“What?” I say, startled. “How did you findthatout?”
“Sorry, I saw it on some of the paperwork on the top of the pile in that box you had me bring out. How is it I’ve known you as long as I have and never knew your real first name?”
I stuff a fry in my mouth, to give myself a little time to compose my answer. “Apparently, my mom was obsessed with Brigitte Bardot growing up. She named me after her.”
“The French chick? The actress?”
I nod. “My dad said Mom told him once that she chose the name she’d give her daughter when she was ten years old. There was never any question of what I’d be called. Dad said she was absolutely insistent about it as soon as they found out they were having a girl.” As always when I talk about my mom, who I never got to meet, a familiar slice of grief cuts through my heart. If I hadn’t been born, she’d still be here. Maybe she and my dad would have still been happy, with Connor as their only child. Maybe Dad wouldn’t have turned to alcohol to numb the pain. He’d still be here, too.
Without even knowing it, my arrival in our family ended up destroying it.
“That’s sweet,” Mack murmurs. “That she was already thinking about having you when she was a little girl.” His voice is gentle. Too gentle. I’m still not used to Mack being anything other than King Asshole. He knows the whole story of my mom dying in childbirth, of course. He had a front row seat to Con’s and my whole childhood. But I’ve never talked to him about it before.
“Joke’s on her, I guess,” I say, doing the sarcasm thing I always do when conversation gets too serious. “I came out looking nothing like my namesake. She couldn’t have picked anyone I look less like.” That’s an understatement. Bardot was blond, buxom, and was considered one of the most beautiful women in the world. Me, on the other hand, I’m short, curvy in all the wrong places, and have unruly red hair that probably makes me look more like a garden gnome than a model. “I remember growing up, thinking that I got a name I could never even hope to measure up to.” Maybe that’s why my dad started calling me Gigi. That, and because the name Brigitte was a constant reminder of the woman who named me.
Mack frowns. “What do you mean, you couldn’t measure up? I’m pretty damn sure your mom didn’t expect you to grow up to be a French movie star.”
“Sure, but I mean…” I cast about for the right words. “Brigitte is the name of a glamorous, show-stopping sex kitten. Someone that turns everyone’s heads the second she walks into the room. Someone who is never awkward, or insecure. Who commands every room she’s in.” I look down at myself. “Not some awkward weirdo reject with tattoos.”
Mack has gone weirdly still. “You know you’re fucking gorgeous, Gigi. Right?”
I have no way of answering that that won’t make me sound like the insecure freak I am. So I don’t say anything at all.
Mack stares at me. “Seriously? You don’t know that?” He shakes his head incredulously. “You know what, though, I agree with you about one thing. Gigi fits you perfectly. Even better than Brigitte. You’re spunky and fiery and hot as shit. You’re sexy in this badass way. Like, any guy who would stand a chance with you would have to be able to give as good as he got.”
“Okay, you’re starting to freak me out,” I say, attempting a joke. “Who are you, and what have you done with Mack Maxwell?” I try to ignore the tinge of vulnerability in my tone, and hope Mack can’t hear it, too. “You have literally never given me a compliment before, dude. What’s up with nice, non-asshole Mack al of a sudden? Why are you saying this? Did Connor give you money to be nice to me or something?”