Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
My fingers brush over the scab. “Healing.”
“You need to claim that girl or let her go.”
“W-what?” I stammer like nun caught masturbating.
“You heard me.” Her pink lips thin. “I’ve seen it so many times with club girls, but Kitty isn’t like them—don’t make her one. I can’t stand watching that girl’s heart break as she waits for you to claim her.”
Without another word, she disappears into the crowd, taking my castrated balls with her.
A blanket of remorse settles over me. I’d never see Kitty as a club slut or treat her like one on purpose.
As if sensing my misery, she looks over, straining her mouth not to smile. I’m going to make her a ghost of a woman—pining after me, wasting her best years. And I’ll give in, take her to my bed, fill her heart with false hope.
“You having a good time? It’s been a tense couple days,” Pres says, coming up beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. I’d been so focused on Kitty, I didn’t even notice him in the room.
He slurps back a pull of his beer and grins over the rim of the bottle before wiping his mouth and running a hand through his beard. He goes through phases of growing a beard then hating how irritating it gets and shaving the whole thing off. I’d say he’s about a week away before from his chin being as smooth as a baby’s ass.
“I need some sleep.” I shrug. Lies.
Barking a laugh, he says, “Sleep when you’re dead, son.”
Intrigued eyes shift in our direction, Pres garnering attention and respect from new and old brothers alike.
We’ve always had a good relationship. With Callan being my best friend, I spent more years in their home than my own growing up. He’s more than a president to me. My old man was a waste of oxygen, split on my mom when she refused to be his punching bag over two decades ago.
Pres clears his throat, and I listen intently when he speaks. “We’ve faced a lot of shit over the years and always overcame it. This business with the Carnell kid is no different.” Slapping my shoulder, he sweeps the room with his gaze. “Get some pussy and forget about this shit for a few hours.”
On instinct, my eyes cut to Kitty, and my heart pounds against my ribcage.
“She’s spirited like her mother,” he says, following my line of sight. He rarely spoke of Kitty and Callan’s mother, like saying her name in the club tainted her.
“I don’t want this life for her.” My stomach shifts, swilling the whiskey around. “The life we lead is unpredictable, chaotic, dangerous. If this week has taught us anything, it’s that.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I try not to show how affected I am by what he’s saying, but the whisky weakens the walls I erect when it comes to Kitty, and I’m pretty sure I’m frowning.
“Because I’m not blind. I see how she looks at you and vice versa.”
Fucking hell.
Does Callan see it too?
“But she’s not for you.” And there it is. My chest aches, the invisible blade twisting. He flexes his jaw, watching her. “She deserves stability—a man she knows is going to come home to her every night. Give her a family, holidays, the whole white picket fence bullshit.”
That’s not her. And it’s fucking hypocritical of him. Even if it’s true. She does deserve all of that, and I can’t give her any of it.
It’s one thing knowing you’re not good enough. Having it confirmed makes me sick to the marrow of my bones.
“Come on. It’s time to deal with Claire.”
What the fuck does that mean? Is he going to make me put her in the ground after all? I thought he would keep her sweet and in his bed.
We weave through the crowd, stopping so brothers can shake their president’s hand, shooting the shit until we finally make it into the hallway leading to his room, passing Callan’s. I haven’t seen him tonight.
“Do you think she’s a risk?” I ask.
“I think she has ideals of earning an ol’ lady title that she won’t ever get from me. Might turn her bitter. She’s drawn to power, and that can be dangerous.”
Fuck.
Darkness, where the shadows hide and survive on the blood, violence, and death of a biker’s life, has always been where I’ve felt most comfortable. It’s a part of me, and I thrive in the chaos of it all. But I don’t feel good about Claire. I’ve shared drinks and meals with the bitch, seen her love Pres with a desperate need to be claimed by him. Like Kitty with me. This feels dirty.
“I want to feel her out, see how she reacts to seeing you. You haven’t spent time together since that night.”
Unlocking his door, he pushes it open, and Claire looks up from the floor, her arms wrapped around a trash can, eyes wet and bloodshot. Her brow is soaked as she heaves, vomiting into the can.