Affliction: An Age Gap, Insta-Love Romance

Chapter 5

Three days later—atotal of four days since the party—Cilla was doing an admirable job of avoiding a certain biker, who seemed like he was making a point of being everywhere she was. Work. The grocery store. Walking down the street from Roseanna’s Pizza to her house….

Every time she saw him, she either ignored him or she walked faster, doing her best to put space or aisles or people or moving vehicles between them. Every time he appeared, her heart leapt—the stupid thing forgetting that he wasn’t hers, that he never would be, that he was with Jaime and was going to claim her. Her heart didn’t care. It still ached when she looked away, it still missed him when the sun set and she hadn’t spoken with him, heard his voice, or looked into his beautiful eyes.

And each time she managed to slip away without talking to him, Patriot looked more and more pissed off.

She had no freaking clue why he was being so persistent. He was with Jaime, was going to claim her soon, so why was he making a point of hunting her down every day?

Had she done something wrong? Had she inadvertently committed a sin against the club that last night at that party?

Reclining on her ten-year-old couch, she heaved a heavy sigh. Leaning her head back against the cushion, she closed her eyes and thought. Hard.

She remembered the night like it was a movie playing behind her eyes. She’d gotten the call from Stephie the day before, telling her about the party and how Patriot would be returning after being gone for three days. Cilla had missed Patriot—their morning chats over his coffee had been the highlight of every day. When he was gone, the diner always felt…empty. Cold. Like it was missing a vital piece that made it whole.

Much like her.

It hadn’t taken a whole lot of convincing to get Cilla to agree to attend, and once the ‘yes’ had left her lips, something had taken over her. She’d decided, in that moment, that she would make her move on Patriot.

Oh…sweet summer child.

What a fool she’d been to think that Patriot would even consider what they did have as anything more than patron and waitress. Sure, they chatted at the club parties but, as the Slut Trio had said, he felt obligated to her because Cilla was Stephie’s friend, and Stephie was with one of his club brothers. Those men would do anything for each other, even act as a sort of wingman to make sure the DUFF of his brother’s woman was occupied at the parties.

Swallowing back a fresh batch of tears, Cilla couldn’t stop her memories from the rest of her evening from invading.

Seeing Patriot, feeling her heart race from just being near him, talking with him, enjoying his presence…then the bathroom, being trapped in the stall while the Slutketeers tore her to pieces.

…disgusted….

…annoyed….

She’d been heartbroken and confused—how had she not seen how Patriot truly felt?

And now…she was more confused than ever.

She hadn’t done anything to expect club justice or whatever, so why was Patriot making avoiding him so much more difficult than it needed to be?

When he came to the diner Monday morning, he made sure to catch her gaze, stare her down, and then go sit in her section. She made sure to reassign her table to Dana, who was in helping her with the workday rush because their other waitress, Hanna, was sick, and Dana was more than happy to “serve” Patriot. When he sent Dana back, demanding that Cilla be his waitress, Cilla decided in that moment to take her break. And she stayed on break until he was gone—which made Barney, Millie, the owner’s, husband, a little miffed. Needless to say, she couldn’t pull that a second time.

The next two times he came to the diner, she couldn’t get out of serving him, so she did, but she took his order and didn’t stick around like she usually did. She spoke to him as she would any customer—with formal professionalism—and she stared at the table rather than making eye contact. She did everything she could to picture him as anyone else, someone other than the man she loved. The man she yearned for. On those mornings, she made sure there was plenty of busy work to do so that when she wasn’t at his table, serving his food, she was elsewhere—and not available for chit chatting.

She could feel the burn of his eyes in her back or on her face, but she refused to give in, to look at him, because she knew it meant nothing to him. She meant nothing to him. So she wouldn’t waste her time.

…waiting to claim Jaime….

Damn, those words from the night of the party picked at her, like a raven intent on pecking away at her flesh to get to the worms crawling under her skin.

Now, after a grueling day of ignoring Patriot, always looking over her shoulder, and dealing with life in general, she was exhausted. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she grunted. It was nine o’clock. She’d worked the morning shift, and then she’d run errands, so her body was ready to crap out…but her mind was still throbbing with all the thoughts she’s been wrestling with since that night.

The night that snatched her self-confidence and threw it backward four years, to the height of her worst year.

…disgusted….

All her life, she’d been bullied, fat shamed, humiliated. But senior year was the worst, because she’d comfort eaten all the summer before, and had gained twenty pounds. She knew that year would be terrible, but she hadn’t been prepared for how bad it had gotten. The nasty words, the physical attacks, the sexual harassment…. She’d barely survived intact, and when she’d finally graduated, she’d begun the arduous task of rebuilding all that had been destroyed through years of degradation, hatred, and mental, emotional, and sometimes physical abuse.

And now that she’d taken another hit to her pride, she just needed to forget about it. She needed to put Patriot and the Unchained MC out of her mind, and get on with her life.

Easier said than done, with Stephie being with Horde, and Patriot popping up all over the place. For a guy who was disgusted and annoyed with her, he seemed to come around a lot.

And what was with the frustrated expression every time she saw him? What did he have to be frustrated about? She gave him his space; he didn’t need to put forth the effort to be nice or hide his disgust from her. He was free from having to deal with her embarrassing and obvious crush. So why was he still coming to the diner and sitting in her her section? Wasn’t he tired of her awkwardness and clumsy attentions?

Maybe Stephie had said something to Horde, who said something to Patriot about how upset she’d been on Saturday. After Patriot had come and gone that morning, Stephie had called, asking about how her evening went after Stephie had taken off to spend the night alone with her man. Cilla and Stephie were close, having gone to school together from seventh to graduation. Cilla had been the fat nerd with no social skills, and Stephie had been the badass, take-no-shit brat from the trailer park who’d succeeded on her own merit, going to trade school, and graduating first in her class as a paralegal. She never gave a shit what people thought of her, and she latched herself on to Cilla in junior high, and clung to her.

Cilla would be forever grateful for Stephie’s persistent friendship.

They were basically inseparable, which was how Stephie got Cilla to the clubhouse that first time, when she’d first met Patriot. Stephie had begged, and Cilla and capitulated.

Well, after her horrible night in the club bathroom, Stephie called, and Cilla had unloaded. By the time Cilla was done, Stephie was fit to be tied—determined to go to the clubhouse and beat the shit out of the Slutketeers. Thankfully, Cilla was able to calm her down enough to extract a promise that Stephie wouldn’t tell anyone what Cilla had told her.

Stephie agreed, grudgingly, but only because Cilla promised to bake her a strawberry rhubarb pie—one of Cilla’s better recipes. She’d made one on a whim one day, years ago, and it turned out okay. To Stephie, though, it was the best thing she ever tasted, and she begged Cilla to make it for her all the time. Cilla, knowing it could be used as a bribe, was a skinflint with the precious pie, only making it when she needed to appease Stephie…or keep her from doing something stupid.

Now, sitting alone in her house, Cilla felt…wrung out. She had the next two days off, and she planned to remain seated, comfy, and with snacks and sugary drinks within reach at all times.

But the universe wasn’t done toying with her.

Like a replay of the morning after That Night, someone pounded on the door.

She didn’t even need to get up and check the peephole.

“Cilla, I know you’re in there. Open the door.”

She froze, every muscle in her body locking up. She didn’t dare move. Maybe he could be fooled a second time. She had no idea how he hadn’t figured out she’d been home last time he’d come, but she figured that what worked then should work now. So, she remained still…silent….

He pounded on the door again, the force vibrating the wall on each side of the doorframe.

“You won’t get away with playing possum this time around, Cilla.”

Crap! He’d known she was home last time?

Of course, he did, you idiot! He didn’t become club VP by missing details like the car in the driveway and the TV playing when he got on the porch!

Ugh. She rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. But she didn’t have time for self-recriminations, there was an angry biker outside, and wouldn’t go away until she opened the door.

He pounded again.

“I’m waiting, Cilla. Open the goddamn door. You ignoring me, hiding from me—that fucking stops right now!” he commanded, his voice carrying through the wood and straight to her lady parts. She shuddered, her nipples going hard.

Shit! If he got any louder, she’d get noise complaints from the neighbors, and the Plains PD pounding on her door next.

Dammit!

Shooting to her feet, she rushed to the door, unlocked it, and swung it open.

She gasped.

Standing there, his massive arms braced against the two sides of the doorframe, was six feet plus of sexy as hell, pissed off biker.

His greens eyes flashed, pinning her to the spot, and she suddenly felt exposed under her loose “sittin’ ‘round” clothes.

Pushing off the frame, he crowded her until there wasn’t space to breathe between them. He leaned down until his mouth was close enough to hers for her to feel the words he growled.

“We need to talk.”

Before she could even get her brain back online to respond, he’d moved around her, forcing his way into her home, the door gaping open behind him. She flicked her gaze out the door and saw Mrs. Spencer across the street, peering through her windows, her eyes all squinty.

Ugh. That woman was a gossip, so Cilla knew news of her late-night visitor would be spread far and wide before morning.

Frustrated, tired, and just about freaking done with the bullshit of the day, she grit her teeth, stomped forward, slammed her door, then spun on her heel to face the giant asshole in her living room.

She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him…in all his glorious glory. Oh lord, the man was delicious. Was it possible that he’d gotten more gorgeous over the last four days? His dark hair was loose around his shoulders and down his back, and his beard looked just this side of sexy-disheveled. Usually, he was meticulous about his facial hair, but this scruffiness was…arousing. Because all she could think about was how all that soft hair would feel against the inside of her thighs.

Dammit!

Getting hot and bothered by facial hair…that’s what she got for being so inexperienced. Her one sexual encounter was nothing to write home about, since the man had stuck it in, grunted a few times, then filled the condom, before pulling out. She hadn’t even had time to work up a sweat before he’d pulled up his pants and headed out the door without a backward glance. And that’s what she got for giving in to the internal pressure to “live a little”—she got a drunken one-night stand that left no impression at all. That was the last time Cilla let Stephie talk her into tequila shots.

I bet Patriot would get you all sweaty…and he’d definitely leave an impression…in your mattress where he pounded you until you screamed.

Struggling to keep her glare from slipping, she narrowed her eyes at the intruder.

He, obviously not intimidated by her, simply crossed her arms over his massive chest and glared right back. Except he’d perfected the look—because he was the freaking VP of a biker club!

She dropped her hands but didn’t stop the glaring. She was angry at him. What the hell was he doing?

“What is it that you need to talk about that couldn’t wait until the morning?” she snipped, copying his stance—arms crossed, again, and legs wide.

His gaze dropped to her chest, then slowly, so very slowly, slid down until every inch of her five-foot-seven frame had been visually cataloged.

She knew her nipples were hard, but could he tell, just from looking at her, that every single one of those inches of hers wanted to be all over every single one of his…inches?

She cleared her throat, forcing his gaze back to hers, and she could swear that flames of desire were blazing through his eyes—before they were quickly banked.

Yeah, nah, she definitely didn’t see that. The man had Jaime, there was no way he would look at fat, ugly, awkward Cilla that way.

“Funny,” he finally spoke, “it’s a little difficult to have a conversation with someone when they are constantly running the other fucking way or making themselves so busy, they can’t stop and even say a goddamn ‘hello’.”

Oh no, he didn’t!