Chapter 4
After the shittyend to his night, and wondering how he got himself into the situation he was in, he spent several hours in his lonely bed, fantasizing about lush curves and a gorgeous smile, then another fifteen minutes jacking his dick to the memory of her—he hadn’t come that fast in years! Now that the morning had arrived, Patriot was eager to see a certain brunette. Rolling out of bed as soon as the sunlight breached his window, he dressed in a hurry, throwing on a pair of jeans, his club branded tee, his boots, and finally his kutte.
The text tone sounded on his cell and when he looked at who’d texted him, his stomach twisted, and his mood plunged deeper down.
What the fuck did Jaime want so fucking early?
Not even bothering to check, he slipped the phone into his back pocket and headed toward the door.
His night had been fucked, his sleep had been fucked, so far, his morning had been fucked, and now he was desperate to feel something other than fucked.
Mounting his bike, he pointed his wheels toward Millie’s, where Cilla usually worked mornings. Tense, sick to his stomach with anxiety and unspent frustration, he wanted—no, needed!—to see Cilla. To stand in her presence and feel the tension leave his body, to see her smile, and feel the warmth of her beauty—inside and out—fill him. Cilla was peace. She was goodness and light. No matter how fucked his day was, or how shitty his mood, being with her, seeing her, just knowing her, always took that anger, that frustration, that darkness and…lifted it.
She lifted him when life just got too heavy. And right then, he was a shouldering a goddamn blue whale.
He parked in his usual spot and wasn’t surprised to see the parking lot mostly empty. It was just coming up on 6:30, and not many people hit the diner so early on Saturdays, so it was the perfect time to come in and spend time with Cilla. Last night, he’d really enjoyed seeing her—holy fuck, it had taken superhuman self-control to keep his dick from getting hard at the sight of her in that dress, looking all kinds of fuckable—and speaking with her, and after his conversation and confrontation with Jaime, he’d been looking forward to returning to the party and seeing her again, to forgetting the fuckery Jaime had wrought in his life for just a few hours. Unfortunately, by the time he’d left Jaime smirking in his room, Cilla was gone. To say he’d been disappointed was an understatement.
Whipping the diner door open so fast it nearly collided with the plate glass window behind it, Patriot trudged through the doorway, ignoring the shrill tinkling of the bell over the door, and scoured the interior of the diner, looking for Cilla.
He could still salvage the day that had started like shit…all he needed was Cilla’s smile, the sight of her lush, sensual body, and a black coffee.
At first scouring, he didn’t see her, but that didn’t mean anything. She often ran back to the kitchen to help the cook when there weren’t many people in the dining room. Walking toward the counter, he took a seat on a tall, round stool, leaned forward onto his elbows, planting his forehead into the the heels of his palms, and let out a slow breath.
Only a few moments longer, and his day would get a million times better. It always did when Cilla was around.
And you could have her…morning, noon, and night….
It was true…and it wasn’t. Her attraction to him was about as obvious as the color orange, so he could have her…if it were his choice. But he really couldn’t do that to her. God, how easy would it be to just take her, make her his, and treat her like the queen she was? But he wasn’t the kind of man who kept women. He crooked his finger, fucked them, then showed them the door. He didn’t invite them to stay over, offer them drinks or snacks, and he sure as fuck never wanted to do any of that. After his time in the desert, killing men, and losing brothers, he wasn’t worth what Cilla offered. He wasn’t a whole man, let alone a king worthy of a queen.
Cilla didn’t need his brand of crazy and dark in her life.
He grunted, rubbing his fists into his eyes to push away the creeping headache invading his skull.
Headaches were common, especially after surviving several bombardments with 81 caliber M252 rounds with a percussive force that could shatter bones, let alone jam your brain around in your skull. And then there were the nightmares—screaming, explosions, heat, sticky blood, searing pain, and the feeling of helplessness—all invading his dreams until he awoke the next morning, bathed in sweat and reeking of fear.
But he hadn’t had a single nightmare in six months…not since setting his eyes on Cilla.
Cilla and coffee.
That’s all he needed.
And if the world ran out of coffee beans, he wouldn’t give a shit as long as Cilla was still there.
Cilla…Cilla was all he needed.
Turning his wrist, he checked his watch—a precision piece he’d been gifted by his command sergeant major when Patriot had signed his discharge papers. It was a symbol of what he’d lost over the fifteen years. Time. And a whole lot else.
He flicked his eager gaze toward the swinging kitchen door.
Where was she? Hadn’t she heard the bell over the door?
Turning his head to look over his shoulder, he noticed only two other diners, heads down over their breakfasts.
A huff, and then a shuffling sound made him turn back, his gaze landing on someone coming through the swinging kitchen door that most definitely wasn’t Cilla.
Shit.
Dana.
Shit.
A mistake he’d made a year ago. He’d fucked her at one of the club parties, and since then, she’d been after his dick for another ride. One he wouldn’t give her even if she were the last pussy on Earth.
He’d known she’d worked the lunch rush at Millie’s, but he’d never come in to the diner during the lunch hour. The place was a breakfast and lunch eatery, so it was closed after 5pm every night, which he’d always remembered when the itch to invite Cilla out in the evenings had hit him. He’d never done it, but he knew she’d be free to join him if he had.
If Dana was there, it meant Cilla wasn’t. Why wasn’t Cilla at work? Was she okay?
Immediately, thoughts of Cilla running into trouble after the party rushed through his head. Did someone hurt her? Did she make it home safely? Was she hungover and feeling the booze and just not able to come to work? So many possibilities and not a single one was acceptable. They were friends—he knew that much—so he figured that if something had happened to her at or after the party, she’d know she could call him.
Her being hungover? Well, he couldn’t see that happening with someone as responsible as Cilla. The woman did everything in moderation. That was one of the reasons she was out of place in the clubhouse. There wasn’t a brother or piece of pussy at the compound that knew what the fuck moderation was. During the few times Cilla had been to a Friday night party, she’d been witness to some seriously raunchy acts. She’d played it off like it didn’t bother her to see men with their dicks out, women with their tits and ass out, and all the fucking on nearly every surface. To him, it was just another Friday night. To Cilla, it was an orgy—except she never called it that.
No, Cilla wasn’t a drink til you get hammered kind of woman. And he liked that about her—one of the many things he liked about her.
But there had to be an explanation as to why she wasn’t at work.
Fuck. He’d have to ask Dana.
Dana plastered on a customer service smile and headed toward the other patrons, filling their coffee mugs. She wasn’t as nice or as warm as Cilla, her voice abrasive, and her manner all business, like she just wanted to get that moment over so she could leave.
Not privy to his less than glowing thoughts about her, Dana caught sight of him sitting at the counter and her eyes widened like a cartoon character. She grinned, her expression going from plastered-on pleasant to predatory in a blink.
“Patriot,” she cooed, walking toward him with an obvious sway to her hips that did nothing to make her look appealing.
“Dana,” he drawled, leaning back against the seat to put some distance between them.
Dana took that opportunity to look him over. Thoroughly. Her eyes ate him up like he as on the menu. Her voracious gaze slowly moving over his thighs incased in his jeans, thick from leg presses and riding his hog, up his defined 6-pack, and over his broad bench press hewn chest. Most of the time, he was damn proud of his efforts to keep himself in shape, but in the moment, under Dana’s ravenous eye, he was disgusted.
“You’re lookin’ real good, Patriot,” she cooed coyly, coming up close enough to put the coffee carafe on the counter in front of him, and lean into his personal space. He leaned back further, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t see you ‘round here often, but I hear you come most mornin’s. You finally come to see me?” She licked her lips, and he fought the urge to shudder.
He cleared his throat. Fuck, if his brothers could see him then, they’d laugh their asses off at him. Never in his life had been so uncomfortable, being the object of a woman’s desire.
It’s because you only want one woman to desire you. Just as you desire her. You want to be hers…as she is yours….
No! She couldn’t be his. No matter how much he wanted her.
No matter how much he was coming to need her.
Ignoring that voice, he replied, “Actually, I stopped in because I thought Cilla was working this morning. She works most Saturday mornings.” He knew that, because most Saturday mornings, he was there with her, eating and chatting with her as she worked the tables. At least until business picked up around late morning. By then, though, he’d taken up enough of her time—even though he could spend hours more with her, if….
If.
At Cilla’s name, Dana dropped the sex kitten act. Her lips curled into a sneer, and her eyes narrowed. She planted her hands on her hips and huffed.
“Why do you need to know where she is? Don’t tell me you’re fuckin’ her,” Dana scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Nah, no way you’re fuckin’ that pig.” She laughed to herself, like she didn’t just insult one of the kindest, sweetest women on the fucking planet.
Stiffening at Dana’s tone and her fucking audacity, Patriot stood, towering over the bitch who dared to insult his Cilla.
“You keep your ugly words about Cilla to your goddamn self, and we won’t have a problem. I’m looking for her, and you don’t need to know why.” He took a menacing step closer to the woman, whose expression read that she finally realized she’d fucked up. Dana tensed, her eyes wide. “Where is she, Dana?”
Dana’s mouth pursed, like she was planning to lie.
“And don’t lie to me. You don’t lie to an Unchained….” He left the threat to circle them in the air. It finally landed when she began trembling.
“Fine. She swapped with me. I work her Saturday morning, she’ll work my Sunday afternoon.”
Surprised, he furrowed his brow. Shit. Tomorrow he’d be on a run, so he couldn’t catch up with her until he got back Monday morning.
“She say why she wanted to swap?” Did she have plans that morning? And if she did…why hadn’t she said something to him last night?
Dana huffed, shrugging, some of her audacity returning. He grit his teeth, knowing that if he strangled her like he was wanting to, he wouldn’t get answers out of her.
“How am I supposed to know?”
One of the patrons called out for more coffee, and Dana scowled.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to work.” Without another word, Dana snatched the coffee carafe off the counter and turned to walk away.
He let her because he had somewhere else to be.
He left the diner, mounted his bike, and headed toward Cilla’s duplex. She lived a little outside of Wilkes-Barre in Plains Township, where it was more suburb than small city.
It took fifteen minutes to get to her place, and he was glad to see her car parked in her spot.
She was home, and in mere moments he would see her.
He needed to see her. It was a fucking compulsion, this need. This drive to be where she was, to look her in the eyes, to breathe in her scent—vanilla and goodness, like fresh baked sugar cookies—to touch her smooth, warm skin.
Friends.
They were friends.
Fuck, if he couldn’t keep things strictly platonic between them, even in his thoughts, what chance did he have at keeping himself from taking her mouth and kissing the shit out of her the moment she opened her door?
Shaking himself, he knocked on her door.
He could hear the TV playing.
He knocked again.
The TV shut off, and he waited.
And waited.
Where was she? He knew she was home.
He knocked again.
Still…she didn’t answer.
Why wasn’t she answering the door?
Cilla…his Cilla…was ignoring him?
What the hell?
Giving her a few more minutes to answer, he could only sigh when the door remained shut, and Cilla remained on the other side. Hiding from him.
Realizing he wasn’t going to see her, that she was keeping herself from him, he walked away.
Had she somehow figured out about him…about what he’d done…about what he was? Had someone told her about Johnny Smith and the atrocities he’d committed in the name of patriotism?
Was she running from him because she finally realized what a monster he was?
His mind reeling. His heart misfiring. His breath lodged in his throat.
This is bullshit!
No. She didn’t know. She couldn’t. The only one who knew the real him—Sgt. Johnny Smith of the 56th Battalion—was Stallion, and that man would rather cut out his own tongue than ever spill any of Patriot’s secrets. Even if he did eventually hate his guts for what Patriot had done with Jaime, Stallion was a man of honor. He wouldn’t tell a fucking soul, as Stallion the Unchained MC nomad or as Sgt Maj. Brandon Green, fellow soldier, and childhood friend.
No, Cilla didn’t know anything Patriot didn’t want her to know, so why was she hiding from him behind her door?
I’ll get the truth from her…even if I’m hiding all my truths from her.
He’d give Cilla until he got back on Monday to deal with whatever the fuck kept her from answering her door. But she couldn’t hide from him forever.