Free Charity For Nothing: The Virtues Book III by A.J. Downey

shivered, feeling like a child well and truly admonished.
    “Where’s your Jeep?”
    “In the driveway.”
    “Fuck, give me your keys,” he ordered and held out his hand, waving his long fingers towards him twice. I dropped them in his palm. “Come this way,” he ordered and set off past the living room, hanging a left just before his kitchen and opening the first door in the hall on the left. He went down a couple of steps.
    “When I say ‘go’ press that button,” he demanded, pointing to the garage door button next to my head. I nodded and tried not to think about him being shirtless now that my butthurt from being yelled at was wearing off.
    “Go,” he ordered and I hit the switch. I wondered vaguely what he’d been waiting for, as the door trundled up and the rain and wind swept in. I bit my lower lip as some things blew off a shelf and out the door. I think I heard Nothing curse as he ran out into the storm and got into my Jeep, pulling it into the garage.
    “Shut it!” he yelled and I hit the button, the garage door trundling down, settling into place just as the next big gust knocked into it with a shuddering bang. He got out of my Jeep, shirtless, wet, and dripping; bare feet slapping the smooth concrete of the garage floor. He shook some of his midnight dark hair out of his eyes and burned me with a look.
    “I can’t fucking believe you, I can’t fucking believe the guys let you leave like that,” he grated.
    “Don’t be mad at them, they don’t know I did.”
    “You fucking serious!?”
    I swallowed hard, “I’m sorry,” I repeated and hated the feeling that came with the apology. I had apparently fucked up big time, but I hadn’t seen the harm, I mean the storm was just getting started, right?
    He pushed past me and I closed my eyes, he was really angry, and I guess it was more serious out there than I’d thought. I followed him to the kitchen and stopped, in the middle of his kitchen floor his bike leaned over scattered newspapers. Oil spots dotted the newsprint and the engine was in various stages of pieces under the harsh overhead fluorescent light.
    “You work on your motorcycle in your kitchen?” I asked.
    “More comfortable than in the garage and it’s not like Corrine is here to bitch at me,” he said irritably, scooping up his phone off the kitchen counter.
    “Corrine… is that your late wife?” I asked.
    He turned his head to look at me over his shoulder and glared at me. I bit my lips together and hung back in the doorway as he swiped his thumb across the screen in whatever obscure pattern to unlock his phone. I couldn’t see who he was calling, but truthfully, I was distracted by a bead of moisture rolling down his spine.
    “Yeah, Cutter. Yeah, I know, she’s here. She fuckin’ drove here, in a hurricane,” he paused, “She’s safe. No, it’s way too bad out there. No, it’s cool man; I got it. Want to talk to her? Doubt it. Yeah. Sure, thing. See you when it’s over.” He hung up and let the phone clatter onto the Formica countertop.
    I set down my bag and automatically went to him, hugging him around the waist, resting my head against his back as we both dripped rainwater onto his kitchen floor.
    “Please, don’t be mad at me,” I breathed. He put his hand over mine and stood stalk still for a really long time, struggling with some invisible force and I simply stood there, tense. I didn’t want him to be mad at me. I just really  didn’t want him to be all alone, either. I think he’d had enough of being alone.
    He let out a pent up breath slowly, and as he did, grew less ridged beneath my touch, but only by a little. He turned in the circle of my arms and looked down at me. His hands found my hips and he turned me gently, hauling me up so I sat on the empty counter.
    “What were you thinking?” he asked, gray eyes tumultuous.
    “I didn’t think, I guess,” I gripped the edge of the counter to either side of my hips and trembled as much from