Playboy (Royal Bastards MC: Sacramento, CA) Page 3

  That was the damn truth. Most of the time, my job was pretty mindless and easy, but when delayed shipments happened, they were a wrench in a normally well-oiled machine. “I think I’m just gonna head home.”

  It had been almost a week since I had last heard from Billie Jean, and it was weighing heavily on me that something horrible had happened to her.

  Playboy had taken my number after we shook hands and then sent me on my way. He promised he would call me if he found out anything, but so far, nothing from him. I had been a dumbass and not taken his number so I was basically sitting around waiting for any news from him. I could always go to the clubhouse and try to find him again, but I wasn’t going to. At least, not yet.

  “Come one, Raelyn,” Leona whined. “We’re two sexy women who need to get out and have a drink.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I laughed. “I’m far from sexy, and all I want to do is go home, slip my shoes off, and eat half a frozen pizza.” Hell, who was I kidding? I was totally going to eat the whole damn thing. “Raincheck on the drink.” I was also going to worry myself sick waiting to hear from Playboy.

  “Fine,” Leona grumbled. “But I’m holding you to that raincheck, though.”

  I grabbed my purse and stood. I hitched it over my shoulder and grabbed my keys off the desk. “Next Monday. You and me.”

  Hopefully by then, Billie Jean would be back home, and everything would go back to normal.

  Two minutes later, I was in my car and headed home. I stopped by the local pizza place for a large pie after I decided to splurge and get a fresh pizza instead of frozen.

  My mind was on Billie Jean when I turned onto my street, and I almost crapped myself when my driveway came into view and Playboy was sitting on his bike in front of my house. My heart leapt, and I couldn’t decide if it was a good sign or not. Maybe he had found Billie Jean and he had brought her home. Maybe he had found Billie Jean but she was dead.

  I shook my head. No, I can’t think like that. I pulled into my driveway and kept my eye on my rearview mirror.

  Playboy sat on his bike, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, and his eyes were on my car.

  Smoking was gross, and I hated the smell of it.

  Except when Playboy did it. Granted, I still hated the smell of it, but there was something mesmerizing about it when it was that man. I watched him while he finished the cigarette and then he tossed it on the ground. He threw his leg over the bike and stood. He started up the driveway, and I finally got into motion.

  I grabbed my purse from the passenger side seat and pushed open my door.

  Playboy was walking up my driveway, and my heart felt like it was about to beat out of my chest. He could be approaching to give me horrible news about Billie Jean, but I couldn’t help but feel excited to see him again.

  I slipped out of the car and turned toward him. “Uh, hey there,” I called. I hitched my purse over my shoulder and tried not to cringe after my lame hello.

  “Darlin’,” he rumbled.

  I still wasn’t a fan of being called darlin’, even though it sounded so smooth rolling off his tongue. “I, uh, didn’t know you were coming by.”

  Obviously. I really needed to just keep my mouth shut and let Playboy take the lead. He was the one who had shown up at my house, so he could be the one to do the talking. I had been ready to veg out in front of the TV and eat a whole pizza.

  Playboy stopped in front of me, and his eyes traveled over my body. “Thought I would come by. Talk.”

  I nodded dumbly. Talk about my sister being dead in a ditch or talk about the fact he had found her? “We can do that.” I nodded to the backseat. “I grabbed a pizza on the way home. You like pizza?”

  Ugh. I asked Playboy if he liked pizza as if he was a three-year-old. Kill. Me. Now.

  A smirk spread across his lips. “I’m a single guy who doesn’t cook. Yeah, I like pizza.” He looked in the back seat. “And I especially like Dough’s Pizza.”

  He would have to be dead to not like Dough’s. It was the best pizza within two hundred miles.

  He opened the backdoor of the car and grabbed the box of pizza. “Breadsticks?” he asked as he held up the white bag that had a huge grease spot on it.

  “Can’t have pizza without breadsticks,” I mumbled. That was a hard rule I lived by. If you were going to splurge and have pizza, you might as well as go all the way and get the breadsticks, too. I closed my door and headed toward the house. “Follow me,” I called.

  I didn’t look over my shoulder, but I could feel Playboy following me closely.

  “Nice place.”

  I pulled my keys out of my purse and stuck the key into the lock. “Uh, thanks. I like it.”

  More like I loved it. I had worked my ass off for a year to save enough for a down payment. It was my first house, and I planned on living here for a damn long time. It was big enough to grow into, but not so big that I got lost with it just being myself right now.

  Five years ago, I had driven past a for sale sign and instantly fell in love with this house. A ranch with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a huge backyard. It was an older house from the eighties, but it had been remodeled right before I had moved in. The previous owner had shown me photos before the remodel, and it was mind blowing realizing it was the same house I lived in now. Gone were the wood paneling, dated appliances, and long shag carpet covering the whole house. I wouldn’t even go into the ugly wallpaper that had been hung in the bedrooms and bathrooms.

  I opened the front door and stepped into the entryway. I dropped my purse on the small bench by the door and held the door open for Playboy.

  “Damn, darlin’. You’re living the good life.”

  “Hardly,” I muttered. I basically had money for bills and an occasional pizza. That was it. “The kitchen is just through that way.” I nodded to the back of the house. “I’m just gonna go change quickly.”

  Playboy looked me over. “There something wrong with what you have on?”

  There wasn’t; it was just that they were my work clothes. Blue jeans and a white polo with the Holmes and Gains logo over my heart. “Just want to put something more comfortable on.”

  Lord, I sounded like one of those girls from the cheesy nineties movies who coyly said they wanted to change into something comfortable when they really meant they wanted to go get all dolled up and sexy. Not what I wanted to do. Should it be, though?

  Playboy chuckled and shook his head. “Whatever you want, darlin’.”

  He headed toward the kitchen, and I ducked down the hallway to my bedroom.

  I wasn’t changing into something sexy to seduce Playboy. Partly because I didn’t have anything that could possibly seduce Playboy. Work polos, t-shirts, jeans, and leggings were the extent of my wardrobe. Even my underwear and bras were boring.

  I grabbed the first pair of black leggings in my drawer and pulled on a black Def Leppard sweatshirt. We were totally going for comfy and not impressing Playboy. For all I knew, he was going to eat half of my pizza, tell me he hadn’t found anything about Billie Jean, and then leave.

  Five minutes later, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dragged a brush through my hair, and tossed it into a messy knot on the top of my head.

  “Simplicity at its best,” I mumbled.

  I wandered barefoot back down the hallway and into the kitchen.

  Playboy leaned against the kitchen sink, a piece of pizza in one hand, and his phone in the other. He looked down with his thumb on the screen, scrolling.

  That was a sight I never thought I would find.

  Playboy in my house looked like a real life fantasy. I had seen this porno before.

  The hot guy casually in the kitchen, minding his own business when the blonde bombshell walks in and blows his socks off. And his dick.

  My cheeks heated, and I knew my B.O.B. was going to be getting a workout tonight after Playboy left. I filed away the thought of blowing Playboy in my kitchen for later.

  “Pizza okay?�
� I called.

  Playboy’s head snapped up. “That was quick.”

  “Just needed to change.” How long did he think it took to change clothes? Maybe he had thought I was trying to sex myself up for him?

  His gaze quickly moved up and down my body. He seemed to do that a lot to me. Was he mentally hoping I looked better or did he like what he saw? He was so hard to read.

  “Want a beer?” I asked. I pulled open the fridge and grabbed a bottle of wine. “I also have wine and water.”

  “Beer is good, pretty girl.”

  I blinked rapidly at the new endearment. I had been “darlin’” since I met him. Now, I was pretty girl. Not that I really cared about my looks, but it was nice for a guy like Playboy to call me pretty. Though it could be another endearment he used with other women. It sounded different from “darlin’” though. It didn’t sound like something he said without even thinking about it.

  I grabbed a beer from the bottom shelf and tried to not think about analyzing him calling me “pretty girl.” He grabbed the beer from me and twisted off the top. I turned to the counter and set down the bottle of wine. I had no idea what to say to him. I grabbed a wine glass and thought maybe a little liquid courage would help me to start talking more.

  “You got plans tonight?” he asked.

  I filled my glass to the brim and glanced over my shoulder at him. “Uh, pizza, wine, and TV. Those were my plans for the night.” I twisted the cap back on the wine and turned to lean on the counter. Cheap wine in hand and a view full of Playboy. “Why?”

  What exactly did he think my plans were for the night? I didn’t think I gave off the vibe of being a party girl or anything. This was me during the week.

  It was also me on the weekends.

  Boring and predictable.

  Playboy shrugged. “Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t barging in on you when you had other plans.”

  I shook my head. “This is exactly what I planned on doing.”

  Playboy took a bite of his pizza. He took a long pull off his beer and set it on the counter next to the pizza. “I haven’t found anything about Billie Jean yet. I talked to the guys around the clubhouse but none of them saw or heard anything.”

  My hopes sank, and I sighed. “That sucks.”

  “Plan on going to the club tomorrow to see if anyone knows where Billie Jean is.”

  “I already talked to them,” I reminded him. He needed to find Billie Jean, not do the same things I had already tried.

  “They might remember something more when I talk to them.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Really?”

  “Got a way with people, pretty girl.” He pointed to the patch on his chest. “This right here tends to make people spill their guts with little persuasion.”

  Well, he might have a point there. A couple of the girls from the club I had talked to before, but most of them had looked at me like I was an outsider they didn’t have a spare second for. “We could go tonight to talk to them,” I suggested.

  We didn’t need to wait ‘til tomorrow. Each day that went by with no word from Billie Jean, my hope of finding her faded a little bit more.

  Playboy shoved the last bite of pizza into his mouth and shook his head. “Monday night. Half the girls aren’t even working. Tomorrow, most of them will be back.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. “Oh, well. I guess you’re right.”

  Playboy chuckled and grabbed his beer and the box of pizza. “Lead the way to the TV, pretty girl. I don’t want to get in the way of your plans tonight.”

  “Uh, you’re staying?” I really thought he would eat, tell me what he needed, and then leave. It was a surprise that he wanted to stay and watch TV.

  “For a little bit, if you don’t mind. Jinx was watching some trash TV when I left.”

  I grabbed the bag of breadsticks and snagged a couple of napkins with my pinky. “Uh, do I want to know what trash TV is?” I laughed. I led the way to the living room and set the breadsticks down on the coffee table.

  “Some reality show. He’s fucking obsessed with it. Something Shore. Horrible fucking accents and people acting like idiots.” He set down the pizza and flopped onto the couch. He flipped the lid back on the box and grabbed another slice.

  I grabbed a slice and sat down next to him. “Uh, do you mean Jersey Shore?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Playboy grumbled.

  I didn’t know if I had seen Jinx, but it was hard to believe any of the guys from the Royal Bastards would watch Jersey Shore. “Well, I don’t watch Jersey Shore, but I don’t know if you’ll like what I watch any better.”

  Playboy glanced at me. “Anything is better than that shit.”

  I took a bite of my pizza and grabbed the remote. “Well, I’m in the middle of watching Stranger Things.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  I sat back, shocked. “How have you not heard of Stranger Things? It’s one of the most popular shows on Netflix.”

  “That an app or something like that?”

  I blinked twice and tried to wrap my head around Playboy not knowing what Stranger Things was and calling Netflix an app or something. “Do you live under a rock?”

  Playboy chuckled and shook his head. “No, pretty girl. I don’t live with my head in my phone or my eyes glued to the TV.”

  I wasn’t one to be glued to my phone, but if I was home, the TV was always on. Even if it was for background noise. “So what do you do?”

  Playboy threw his head back and laughed. “Ride my bike. Shit with the club. Ride my bike some more.”

  I tipped my head to the side. “And you never watch TV?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t say never, but I’m not addicted to any damn show. Only thing I’m addicted to is the wind at my back and my ass on my Harley.”

  “You were staring at your phone when I walked into the kitchen.”

  Playboy pulled out his phone. “I was trying to figure out how to open my fucking voicemail. I’ve got like fifty million voicemails, and I can’t figure out how to listen to them. Figured with you changing, I had some time to figure it out.”

  I grabbed Playboy’s phone and was shocked how old it was. “What is this?” I laughed. It was an old iPhone 5 that had a cracked screen. “You know you can upgrade this, right?”

  It’s not like I was a slave to technology, but I liked to keep my phone up to date with the latest model. Playboy was about seven years behind on upgrading his phone.

  “All I need is for the thing to call and text.”

  I hit the home button and swiped up. He didn’t even have a passcode to unlock it. “You have ninety-nine voicemails.”

  “That's it?” Playboy asked. “Thought it was a hell of a lot more than that.”

  “It can only hold that many. I’m sure people have tried to leave more messages, but your voicemail is full.” I clicked on the voicemail icon. “I’m assuming you don’t know what your password is.”

  He shook his head. “Negative.”

  “What’s the last four of your phone number?” I asked.

  “Uh, seven, four, two, one?” He didn’t sound too sure about that.

  I typed in the numbers and turned the phone to him. It had worked. “You really want to listen to all of these?”

  “You got it?” Playboy, astonished. “I’ve been trying to do that shit for years. The fucking little envelope picture drove me crazy.”

  I rolled my eyes. “The last four of your phone number is usually the password they give you and you’re supposed to change it.” Obviously that didn’t happen because Playboy couldn’t even get into his voicemail. “You want me to change it for you?”

  Playboy shook his head. “Nah. I think I can remember what it is now, and you can delete all of those messages.”

  “You’re sure?” I scrolled through the dates on the messages. The most recent one was from twenty fourteen. It was twenty twenty. Yeah, I was pretty sure whatever the message was didn’t matter anymore.

&n
bsp; “Delete ‘em all,” Playboy grunted. “Then turn the fucking voicemail shit off.”

  I rolled my eyes and did a mass delete of all of his messages. “It’s kind of surprising to find someone nowadays who isn’t into their phone.” I finished up deleting his messages and handed it back to him.

  Playboy tossed it on the coffee table. “I’d rather leave the fucking thing at the club, but I need it on me if Barracuda needs me. He and the guys at the club are basically the only ones who have my number.”

  That was why he hadn’t given me his number. He didn’t hand it out. I started the next episode of Stranger Things and settled into the couch. “Such a basic life,” I remarked.

  “My life is far from basic, pretty girl.” He kicked up his feet on the coffee table.

  There was the “pretty girl” again. “Do you know my name?”

  He turned his head to look at me. “That a serious question?”

  I shrugged. “Just wondering. You don’t really call me it.”

  “It’s Raelyn, pretty girl.”

  Even when he said my name, he still called me “pretty girl.” “You call all of the girls that?” The question was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  “Only the ones I like.”

  I gasped and snapped my mouth shut. Say what? He could still call all of the girls that because he liked all of the girls, but it also meant that he liked me. Right? Why did it feel like I was catapulted back to high school and I was trying to figure out if my crush liked me or not?

  Except Playboy wasn’t a crush.

  A man like Playboy wasn’t some crush. He was a whole hell of a lot bigger than that.

  “Now are you gonna shut up, relax, and watch whatever shit this is?”

  The opening credits rolled on the screen, and I nodded. Maybe keeping my mouth shut for an hour would be a good thing. I seemed to be doing a whole hell of a lot more talking than I usually did.

  I finished my slice of pizza and grabbed another.

  Playboy drained his beer and nodded to my glass that was still full. “Better catch up, pretty girl.” He walked back into the kitchen.