Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I watch Jada's car pull away, the tension in my shoulders not easing. Melissa's reaction bothers me more than it should. I tell myself it doesn't matter what she thinks, but the image of her turning away sticks in my mind like a splinter.
Beast slaps my shoulder, cutting through my spiral. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I nod, heading toward the clubhouse entrance. “Just Garret shit.”
He follows, keeping pace. “Kid needs normal shit sometimes, brother.”
“Not you too.” I shoot him a glare.
He raises his hands in surrender. “Just saying.”
Inside, the clubhouse buzzes with activity. Brothers playing pool, prospects cleaning, old-timers telling the same war stories they've been recycling for decades. Even when they hang their patch, we made sure they know they’ve always got a home here.
I scan the room for Melissa, finding her at the bar with a fresh drink in hand.
She doesn't look up when I approach, though her body tenses, sensing me. She knows my presence without seeing me, a fact that should mean nothing but somehow means everything.
“He's mine by everything but blood.” Why the fuck did those words just fall right out of my mouth.
Her eyes flick to mine, surprise briefly replacing the practiced indifference. “I didn't ask.”
I glare. “You didn't have to.”
She takes a deliberate sip of her drink. “Why would I care?”
“You tell me.”
Her fingers tighten around her glass. “I don't.”
“Bullshit.” I move closer, invading her space. “You practically ran when you saw me with Jada.”
“You're delusional.” She shifts away. “I needed a drink.”
“Sure.” I signal Old Fella for a whiskey. “The kid's sperm donor is Checker, Australian brother from our Charter in the Gold Coast. Fucker left Jada when she got pregnant. I stepped in.”
She stares at me for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?”
It's a good fucking question, one I don't have an answer for. Why do I care what she thinks? Why does it matter if she believes Garret is mine?
“Because,” I say finally, accepting my whiskey, “I don't like assumptions.”
“Fine. Noted. Can I go back to ignoring you now?”
I lean in, my lips brushing her ear. “You can try. But we both know you're as shit at ignoring me as I am at staying away from you.”
She shivers, a tiny, involuntary reaction that sends satisfaction coursing through me. Her hate-filled glare only makes it sweeter.
“Fuck you, Hella.”
I grin, backing away. “You already did, sweetheart. And from what I remember, you loved every second.”
Her middle finger is the only response I need. I turn and walk away, letting her simmer in her anger and whatever else she's feeling. Because underneath that anger is something else, something that mirrors what's churning inside me.
Something neither of us is ready to name.
Thirteen
Melissa
Alcohol sterilizes open wounds, searing away infection when poured directly onto damaged flesh. It does the same from the inside when you drink it. Burns out the poison, at least temporarily. Yet despite the whiskey scorching my throat, I'm not nearly drunk enough. Need more sterilization.
My phone vibrates against my thigh. I slide off the barstool and head outside, away from rowdy bikers and pounding rock music. The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I unlock the screen.
I can't stop replaying the scene between Hella and Jada. Their familiarity, their easy connection over a child. Not that I've earned any right to an opinion. Hella and I hate each other. That's the beginning and end of it. If a man has a kid, it doesn't matter to me. I've slept with fathers before, two children maximum, different mothers preferable because I never wanted someone who can commit. Christ, now I sound like a hooker with a checklist.
It was a shock. I've only witnessed one version of Hella. Arrogant, cruel, intense. Seeing him through Jada's eyes doesn't fit. And it's not my business anyway.
“Hello?” I press the phone to my ear, finger blocking the opposite one.
“Melissa?”
My stomach drops. “Millie?” I drift toward the Pohutukawa tree standing near the edge of the parking lot. “Everything okay?” Silence stretches between us. “Millie?”
She clears her throat. “Yes, sorry. I'm good. How are you?”
Five years. It’s been five years.
“I'm fine.” I sink onto the grass beside a tree stump. “You okay?”
“I, I, I shouldn't have called. I'm sorry, Melissa. I'm sorry for everything.”
The line goes dead. I stare at my screen. Phoebe and me captured in a drunken selfie at a Twisted Transistor concert, front row at Madison Square Garden, watching her man perform.
“The fuck was that about?” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.
“Unexpected phone call?”
I look up to find Nyx approaching, hands stuffed in his pockets. My shoulders drop their tension. It's not Hella. Not that I expected him to seek me out. My first night here is ending astronomically epic.
Nyx clears his throat.
“Sorry, what?” I shove my phone into my jeans.
He laughs, settling beside me, knees drawn up. “I said, unexpected phone call?”