Train's Clash (The Last Riders Book 9) (19 page)

He forgot about the pain when he slid the warm spiced peaches with ice cream into his mouth.

“This is delicious,” Train complimented.

“I can the peaches myself. Next time you come over, I’ll make you a cobbler.”

Train tucked his feet behind Killyama’s, having no problem being a coward where food was concerned. He even scavenged hers for her last bite.

“Why haven’t we had this before?” Jonas plaintively asked, staring down at his empty plate.

“Usually, Killyama hides the spiced peaches when I get finished canning them. She set out a couple of jars to use today.”

Train slid his hand under the table to squeeze her thigh when she would have slid out from the table. “It was delicious. Thank you for sharing them. I can understand why you hid them. Some things are just too good to be shared.”

“Jonas, go get the air fresher out from under the kitchen sink. The smell of bullshit is making me want to lose my lunch,” Hammer quipped.

Peyton, who had stood to gather the dessert plates, crashed a plate down on the side of Hammer’s skull. Hammer shrank back from the fury that had Peyton shooting sparks.

Train gaped, too scared at the sudden attack from the delicate woman to laugh at Hammer’s discomfort.

When Killyama would have taken his plate, Train stopped her. “I take it back.”

“What?” Her eyes twinkled in merriment. Killyama had enjoyed Hammer getting struck upside his head.

“You and your mom could be twins.”

“You think so?” Killyama cocked an eyebrow at him as her mother cleaned the shards of glass off Hammer’s shoulders.

“Hell yes.” He helped her carry the dessert dishes, enjoying Peyton scolding Hammer for his bad manners. “I have to admit; I didn’t see it coming, and neither did he.”

After doing the dishes, Peyton cleaned the table as the group sat down in the small living room. When she was done, she sat down on the recliner, while Hammer and Jonas sprawled out on the couch. There wasn’t a place for Train and Killyama to sit, so he started to bring in the chair that Peyton had been sitting on at the table when Killyama solved the problem.

“Scoot over, Jonas. Let Train sit down.”

Train would have rather have gotten the chair, but he sat down on the couch when Jonas made room for him.

Killyama sat down on the floor, settling against her mother’s legs. He was struck by the closeness of the two as Peyton rocked the recliner and Killyama laid her head on her mother’s thigh.

Conversation flowed around the room much easier than he had expected. Train listened without taking part as Hammer talked about repairing the underpinning of Peyton’s trailer.

“Let me know the next time you go out for a few hours. I’ll have to jack the trailer up to get underneath it. I want to lay some more support beams. I’m afraid the floor in the kitchen is going to give if it isn’t fixed soon.”

“A piece was ordered last week. I was going to get started on it tomorrow, if that’s convenient for you?”

“That works for me.”

Peyton, seeing Train’s curious look, explained, “I sell my pieces at a shop in town. Sometimes customers come in and commission me to make something for them.”

“You’re an artist?”

“Yes.”

“Do you paint or—”

“I do a little bit of everything. I paint, but my favorite is sculpting.”

“I would love to see some of your work. Do you have any pieces here?”

Peyton’s cheeks turned pink. “No. There isn’t much room to store them here. The neighbor I was telling you about who gave me her recipe passed away three years ago. She had no family, so she left her trailer to me. I’ve been using it as a studio. I make a mess when I’m working, and it gives me a place to store the finished items until I’m ready to sell. Killyama, hand me my album, and I’ll show him—”

“Mama, Train wouldn’t be interested—”

“I would really like to see your pictures.” He couldn’t understand why Killyama didn’t want him to see her mother’s work. Maybe she was embarrassed Peyton’s work wasn’t any good. Jamestown wasn’t exactly New York, where exclusive shops exhibited artists’ pieces.

Killyama rose to her knees to open a drawer in the side table, pulling out a thick photo album. Instead of immediately giving it to him, she opened the book toward the back before leaning forward to give it to him.

Train straightened on the couch, staring at the beautiful picture of a bridge. Unlike most pictures that focused on the idyllic beauty of a summer day, the sky in Peyton’s painting was grey and gloomy. The bridge was old, and part of it was broken. The water below seemed to toss with dark undercurrents. It was striking and thought provoking that the bridge had stood the passage of time, still standing, though withered with age.

He turned to see picture after picture, each brought to life by Peyton’s brush. Train turned one page, taking in the intricate beauty of a sculpture of a mother and child. The woman’s face was lined with age and worry as she kneeled at the child’s feet. The little girl was wearing a dress that was too big for her, slipping off her shoulders. She was crying while the mother wiped her tears away. Train had never been affected by art in his life, but the statue touched a part of him that he had never known existed.

“Have you sold this one yet?” Train asked gruffly.

“Which one?” Peyton looked as he lifted the book to show her. “I’m sorry. That one isn’t for sale. That is in my private collection.”

“If you ever think of selling, I would love to buy it,” he said sincerely, staring down at the talent that showed an almost tangible bond between the mother and child.

Train flipped another page, his heart stopping. It was another statue, except this one was in bronze. It had the same features of the little girl from the previous page, but this one was an older girl. Her features were partially obscured by windblown hair curling tumultuously around her. Behind her stood a man with his hand on her shoulder. The man’s features were hidden, his head turned to the side, showing only a profile that was also obscured by the girl’s hair that had blown upward, seeming to strike him in the face. It was as beautiful as the other one, maybe even more so. The pain in the girl’s face struck a chord in him, which the artist had intended.

“Is this one for sale?” Even as he started to lift the album, Peyton was already shaking her head. “You’re very gifted. If you take commission, I would be willing to have both of those pieces redone.”

“I don’t do duplicates. Even if I tried, I don’t think they would come out the same,” she said apologetically. “When I finish the current painting I’ve already sold, I have another piece I’m looking forward to starting. When I finish that, I’ll give you first choice before I sell it.”

“I would appreciate it. Your talent is remarkable.”

“Thank you. I started a class when Killyama went to kindergarten. Since then, I’ve been fortunate to make a living off what I had only expected to be a hobby.”

“I can see why. It’s a shame that collectors haven’t seen your work. I wish I knew someone …”

Peyton shook her head. “I’m happy just piddling around in my studio, making the pieces I want at my own speed.”

Train flipped through the rest of the pages, deciding to go to the beginning of the portfolio where he saw snapshots of Killyama.

She tried to take it away from him.

“Uh-uh. Let me look.” He snatched it out of her reach.

“Dude, if I wanted you to see them, I would have shown you.”

“Behave, Killyama,” Peyton reproved her daughter.

Train intently stared down at the pictures of Killyama from birth through her high school years.

“I see why you don’t want to sell your sculptures; you used Killyama as your model.”

Peyton nodded, leaning back to avoid Killyama’s glare. “I hid them at first. She hated having her pictures taken. She was always running away from the camera, and she hated sitting still long enough for me to sculpt her. I hate to have to tell you this, Train, but my daughter can be a little difficult.”

He didn’t lift his eyes from the pictures. “I’d have to agree.” Train lifted the album higher when Killyama tried to snatch it away again. “You played the flute?” Train turned his head to the side to see her mortified reaction.

“Keep laughing, and I’ll shove it up your—”

“Killyama …” Peyton tapped her daughter’s hand where it lay on her thigh as Killyama braced herself to try to take the book away from him. “Train’s our guest, and I raised you to be a lady … Or, I tried to.”

Killyama’s ass obediently hit the floor, but she scooted farther away from her mother’s reprimanding hand.

“I don’t know why you get so embarrassed about those pictures. She was a very good flute player. When she was in sixth grade, her middle school band was asked to play for the president’s inauguration. It made the local papers in Jamestown, and one of the news stations in Lexington even covered it. Everyone in town was so proud of them. I was, too. Let me see if I can find the tape of when I recorded it.”

“I threw it away.” Killyama scooted even farther away from her mother until she was sitting next to Jonas’s legs.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because the tape broke.”

“But—”

“I would have liked to see it. It’s a shame you don’t have it anymore. I would have loved to hear you blow your flute.” Train’s amusement set a match to Killyama’s temper.

“Wait here, fuckwad. I have it in my old bedroom. I still remember how to play the funeral march.”

“You’re killing me!” Peyton yelled. “One more vulgar word out of that mouth of yours, and I’m going to wash it out with soap.”

“So that’s why you nicknamed her Killyama …” Train had managed to stop Killyama from taking the book from him; however, Hammer, seeing how furious she was becoming, took it and gave it to her.

“Killyama was such a sweet baby. She was so precious when she was little. Then she grew up.”

“Mom!”

“What? Why are you getting so upset? I didn’t tell him …” Peyton broke off when Killyama got off the floor.

Train caught her hand as she tried to pass him. “Where are you going?”

“To get the soap.”

“
Y
ou sure
I can’t give you a ride home?”

Killyama wrapped her arm around the post on her mother’s porch, trying to keep herself rooted to the spot. She was tempted to go with him, despite her promise to Sex Piston not to fuck him.

“Mama likes it when I spend the night with her. She’ll be upset if I don’t stay.”

“We could go for a drive, and I could bring you back?”

She shook her head at his suggestion. “We both know I won’t come back until morning.”

Hammer and Jonas had just reluctantly left, leaving them alone. She should have gone back inside before they had left, but she wanted to spend a little time alone with him, thinking she could control the situation with her mother on the other side of the trailer’s thin, metal walls. She told herself she would be able to keep her panties on in the short time she would walk him to his truck. Staring into his eyes, though, she was beginning to doubt her decision.

He took her free hand, tugging her down the steps. Then he lifted her into his arms when she reached the last step.

“This isn’t a good idea.”

“Why?” His sultry expression as he stared down at her was one he would give any bitch in his clubhouse. It wasn’t going to be easy not to at least take a dip in what he was offering.

Train was a sexy man, and he knew it. He knew he was attractive to the opposite sex. Hell, to half the male population, too.

All she wanted from him was to make her feel as if they were on a level playing field. She wasn’t going to stop until he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

“Because I’m not going to fuck you.” Her staunch declaration didn’t faze him.

Her panties might be getting damp, but Train hadn’t worked up to category five blue balls yet. Damn, he might have been at a D1, which was a little twitch, but she was going for level five blow-your-fucking-balls-off-to-get-relief. Maybe spending the day with her mother wasn’t the best idea for the level of devastation she was hoping to accomplish.

Train put his foot on the running board of the truck, sticking one of his hands in his back pocket that sent a metal chain swinging to the top of his thigh.

She lifted her eyes from the dancing silver chain to his, seeing the sensual curl of his lips.

“I …” Killyama lost her train of thought as she imagined sucking that bottom lip into her mouth. “You said you like spending time with me. Your wish came true today. You spent the whole day with me. The night wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I see. What about we hang out at your club—dancing, drinking a few beers—and then we spend the night together?”

“How about we do the half part and leave the rest of the night up to we’ll see?”

Train buried his face in the fold of her bandana. She was about to push him away, but he forestalled her by gently placing a kiss on her chin then her lips before pulling away. She had to step back as he swung the truck door open.

“I’ll see you tomorrow when I get off work. I’ll try to be good until you get there.”

Killyama curved her fingers over the window seal as he rolled it down. “Then don’t get into more trouble than I can handle when I get there.”

He started his truck after giving her another parting kiss.

She watched as Train backed out of the yard, then watched as the red taillights jumped as Train hit a rut in the road.

Killyama laughed softly to herself as she turned back to her mother’s trailer, coming to a stop when she saw her mother sitting on the top of the porch, staring at her.

She nonchalantly walked toward the bottom of the steps. “I didn’t mean to take so long. You ready for bed? Or do you want to draw for a while?” Her mother had asked her to pose for the piece that had been commissioned.

“If you’re not too tired, I’d like to draw for a while.”

“Doesn’t take any energy to sit,” she drawled, starting up the first step, but her mother didn’t move to go inside.

“You like him, don’t you?”

Killyama looked away from her mother’s knowing eyes. “Yes.”

“Be careful, Rae.”

“I will.”

“Are we still moving to Knoxville?”

“Not yet. Maybe in a few months.”

“Good. I’m not anxious to move.”

“I know you aren’t.”

Killyama saw the relief in her eyes. The sorrow she carried around her like a shroud was still there. What was missing was the conflict that had been brewing since she had asked her mother to move. She hadn’t given her acquiesce, but Killyama had known her answer was going to be no.

“Mama, even if we don’t move to Knoxville, we need to find you a place closer to town. I don’t feel safe with you out here by yourself.” Her shoulders sagged with worry for her mother. “I’m constantly worried. If I can’t get back into town when I’m working, then I definitely won’t be able to reach you in time if anything goes wrong.”

“Nothing will go wrong.”

“No one knows when something bad is going to happen. You’re miles away from the fire department or an ambulance. Your trailer has been broken into twice while you were at your studio, because everyone in town believes you’re out here in the boonies to grow pot or make meth. This trailer is falling apart. Please, at least let me buy you a better trailer, or have a house built here on your property.”

Her mother smoothed her slacks down over her thighs. “I love this trailer.”

“What you loved was my father who bought it for you, and he’s gone. He’s not coming back, Mama.”

“I know he’s dead, Rae.” Tears slipped from the corner of her eyes.

“I don’t think you do. I think you still imagine him sitting in that recliner. That’s why you never let anyone else sit there. That’s why, when Mrs. Ford left her trailer to you, and you could have moved there and used this place as a studio, you didn’t. Even that place is bigger and in much better shape.”

“I needed more room for my workspace. It would have been wasted if I had moved in there.”

“I could move back in with you—”

“We both know that won’t work. I like being alone when I’m working, and you have your own life without worrying about me.”

“If you want me happy, then at least let Jonas set up some alarms. You’re a sitting duck out here by yourself.”

“Will you quit asking me to move if I do?”

Killyama sighed. She had learned a long time ago to pick her battles with her mother. “Yes.”

“Fine. I’ll call him in the morning.” She stood up, patting her hair down. She never could stand having a hair out of place. She always wore makeup as though she were expecting company, and always had enough food in the house that she could put a meal on the table in thirty minutes.

As far back as she could remember, her mama made up her face in the bedroom mirror every morning as Killyama sat on her bed, watching her. She would fix her hair the way her father had told her he liked it. She had done it all for him, never knowing what day or time he would show.

On the days he hadn’t shown, her mother would hide her disappointment until night came, and then she would make yet another excuse for why he hadn’t come to visit them. The days he had shown, the house had been filled with joy and laughter as they tried to make him happy so he wouldn’t leave again. And when he did, that he would want to come back.

Her father had played her mama like a fucking yo-yo, and as she had grown, he had played her, too; making promises he had no intentions of keeping; making them dance to his tune by being the perfect daughter, the smartest student, accomplished at anything that would help her fit into his life away from them. She had repeatedly told herself that, if she made him proud, then, even if he didn’t want to live in Jamestown, her and her mother would be able to move to where he had lived when he was away from them.

In hindsight, she had been doomed for disappointment. Her father had wanted to play and have a good time when he had been there. Then, like a child at a playground, when he was finished playing, he had wanted to go home, leaving the toys he had been playing with behind, laying in the dirt.

It was how Train would treat her if she wasn’t careful.

“Come on.” Killyama held her hand out to her mother. “It’s getting late.” She lifted her mother to her feet, opening the screen door to let her enter first. “So, what did you think of Train?”

“He’s very handsome. Is he always that polite?”

“Usually. I have never really seen him lose his temper.”

“That’s good. That quality is important to have if you’re thinking of marrying a man.”

“Train and I won’t be getting married. We might be doing the midnight limbo—”

“Let’s keep it PG rated. We’re close, but I really don’t want to hear any details about your sex life.” Her mother laid a blanket on the floor, positioning Killyama’s legs and arms the way she wanted them.

“But that’s the best part. You have to miss that …” Killyama tried to find a way to phrase it delicately so it wouldn’t get her smacked upside the head with her mother’s drawing pad.

“No, I don’t,” Peyton said firmly before changing the subject back to Train. “How long have you known him?”

Her mother curled up in her father’s recliner as she drew. Killyama was used to her mother not talking as she worked, giving herself free reign to talk about Train now that she had decided to introduce him to her.

By almost one a.m., she couldn’t sit still any longer. She stretched when they finished for the night.

“Mama?”

Her mother looked up from placing the pencils she was working with neatly back into their case. “Yes?”

“Will you draw me a picture of Train?”

“You’ve never asked me to draw a picture before.”

“I thought, if we work out, I could give it to him.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Her mother arched a curved brow.

“Then I’ll make a dartboard out of it.”

* * *

K
illyama could easily see
out to the parking lot from where she sat. If she got any freaking closer, her nose would be pressed to the tinted window. The parking lot in front of the Destructors’ was filled with motorcycles, except for the one she was waiting for.

She propped her legs up on the chair in front of her, using them to silently warn the men not to join her. Then her eyes dropped to her cell phone that was staring blankly up at her. Train had texted her two hours, saying he would be there by now. Thankfully, Sex Piston wasn’t there to witness her being stood up.

“Come dance with me. You’re wasting time waiting for a man who’s not going to show.”

Killyama didn’t take her eyes off the window, telling Bear, “It’s mine to waste.”

“I don’t get it. What does he have that you can’t get right here?”

“Rhythm. You suck at dancing.”

She heard his boots walking away.

Dropping her legs to the floor, she started to scoot out from the table when she saw Train turning into the parking lot. He held the heavy bike steady as he found a spot at the end of a row.

She turned her chair so she was facing the bar and pool table. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Train coming in through the door, scanning the crowd for her. Spotting her, he made his way directly to her table, despite several of the men yelling out greetings to him.

“I’m sorry. Viper—”

“Dude, I’m not married to you; I don’t need to hear your excuse.”

Train’s mouth closed with a snap.

Standing, she walked to the edge of the dance floor. “You coming?” It wasn’t one of her favorite songs, but she began dancing to the loud music.

Train took his jacket off, setting it down on a chair before coming to stand next to her. “You never act the way I expect you to.”

“How am I supposed to act?”

“I don’t know. Cuss at me, dance with someone else … I even thought you might have gone home.”

“That’s a lot of deep thoughts for a man. Why didn’t you just call and find out; save yourself the suspense?”

“I didn’t want you to tell me to fuck off, or to not bother coming.”

Killyama slipped one thigh between his. “You thought I’d be a bitch to you?”

“Yeah.”

“If you show, you show. It’s no big deal. I was hanging out, anyway. I save my bitching skills for stuff that’s important.”

“I don’t know if I should be relieved or pissed off.” Train brought his hands to her hips, pulling her closer until her pussy was riding his thigh as they danced.

“Take your pick. Just keep moving. What you’re doing feels good.”

“Next time, I’ll call.”

“Maybe I’ll answer.” She pressed her breasts against his chest as she slipped her arms around his waist, tucking her hands into his back pockets so she could guide his hips where she wanted them.

She wanted to drag him to one of the spare bedrooms and fuck him until he begged for mercy. Instead, she continued to dance, trying to appear as if his closeness wasn’t getting to her.

“You smell good tonight.” She wanted to take back the compliment as soon as it slipped out of her mouth.

Train grinned down at her. Bastard knew he was punching her ticket.

“It’s just soap and water. I don’t have to worry about the brothers borrowing the expensive shower gels most of them use.”