I yank on my jeans and carry the tray into the house as she waits at the door. “Mama wants to make carrot juice. Do you like it?”
“I’ve never tried it.”
“Will you?” she asks, running her fingers along my right forearm.
“Sure. What’s it going to hurt?”
Pixie smiles brightly as if I’ve passed a test she set. I’m glad to impress her and also that her tests are so easy. To prove I’m worthy, I’ll drink or eat whatever she wants.
We sit on the couch, eating leftover ribs and potatoes I ordered before leaving for the clubhouse. Pixie takes maybe six bites before feeling full. I have the urge to bully her into eating a few more. She needs to put some meat on her bones. When I met her months ago, Pixie was thin yet healthy. Now she seems one missed meal from keeling over.
Before I can push her to eat more, Pixie changes positions on the couch and flashes her pussy at me. I forget about the food issue and focus on how good she felt wrapped around my cock.
“Tell me about a movie,” Pixie says, leaning back on the couch and seeming tired.
“We could watch one.”
She shakes her head and exhales softly. Based on her expression, I wouldn’t be surprised if she falls asleep right here. When I glance at my phone, I’m surprised to find it’s after one in the morning. I hadn’t realized how much time passed.
I finish my meal while explaining the plot of the next Indiana Jones movie. She listens without saying a word. Her face barely reacts to anything, but I know she’s listening. Whenever I stop talking, her toes poke my leg as if to say, “more.”
Relenting to her fatigue, I put my empty container in the kitchen. Then I show her on my phone how I can lock all the doors and set the alarm.
“No one will be able to sneak up on us,” I explain while wondering if she worries about the Volkshalberd coming here.
I turn off the lights with the phone, which gets an impressed smile from her. Then we head to my room. Scratch that. This is our room now. Pixie’s my honey, and I’m keeping her.
Hell, we might even have a kid. I can do shit like that, right? Not when I was one of the Killing Joes. Fuck, I occasionally have nightmares of a whore from back in the day, showing up and saying her kid is mine. That chick won’t be like Lana. She’ll be looking for money and maybe to rob me. My dreams about kids always turn into fucking nightmares.
But Pixie isn’t one of those trashy, sad bitches back in Cleveland. None of those women liked me. I didn’t like them, either. Fucking was something we did to pass the time. No more meaningful than getting high or taking a shit. Those girls let me fuck them because, well, probably because their daddies fucked them or some uncle, maybe. Most were runaways that ended up in Lonnie’s stable. He didn’t treat them well. Neither did I.
The man I was back then would have destroyed Pixie. No doubt, she’d fucking hate that version of me, too. If he stopped by the side of the road and started trying to hit on her, Pixie would offer no smiles or words of praise.
Instead, she’d nail the old me in the balls and run for safety. Pixie acted clueless that day, but she moved fast with the Village fucker. My girl isn’t a peace-loving pacifist. She’s a tough bitch with a hippie’s heart.
Once we’re in bed, Pixie crashes almost immediately. I consider taking a shower since we were in the hot tub, but she looks too wiped out. As soon as her head hits the pillow, she closes her eyes and sleeps.
I take her reaction as a compliment. Pixie feels safe. Last night, I got her drunk so she could relax. Tonight, she knows her family is cuddled together downstairs, stomachs full, in a house with no rips in the roof or zealots waiting to storm inside.
Pixie’s own hunger is sated. Getting well-fucked probably helps relax her, too. She looks so small in my big T-shirt. Should I cover her with a blanket? I keep thinking she’s a child in need of protection. Yet, when we were fucking, I was the one hiding in my head while she forced me out.
I doze off to the feel of her hand in mine. Hours later, well past sunrise, I wake to the sound of Future crying. Next to me, Pixie’s spot is empty. I check my phone to find it’s almost nine.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I take a piss and notice my T-shirt on the counter. I wonder what Pixie is wearing now. The clothes Topanga brought look all wrong on my flower child.
Future still hollers when I exit the bedroom. Then I hear Conor’s voice, which somehow puts me more on edge than the kid’s bawling.
“You need to push the dials in and then turn,” he calmly explains to Pixie and Fairuza as they stand in front of the stove.
Dove paces around the living room with her red-faced brother. I study them and wonder if this is how family life will be. I can’t remember much chaos in my house growing up. I was usually locked in my room or even a closet depending on how much I annoyed my grandmother that day.
Sticking Future somewhere until he shuts up isn’t an option. I catch Pixie’s gaze, and she looks agitated. Conor is unflappable as always. Of course, his mom is a wild woman on a good day and batshit crazy on a bad one. Handling Pixie and Fairuza must be a walk in the park for him.
“What’s the problem?” I ask Conor while the three chicks eyeball me.
“They wanted to cook but couldn’t figure out the stove.”
“Why are you
