Affliction: An Age Gap, Insta-Love Romance

Chapter 7

Cilla didn’t knowhow long she sat on the couch in her living room, staring at the black screen of her TV.

Hours?

She couldn’t even remember what she’d been watching, whether she actually finished it, let alone when she turned the TV off.

She blinked, turning her head just enough to read the clock on the tiny entertainment center that held all her Walmart DVD bin movies.

What.

The.

Hell.

Happened?

She’d been tucked into her home for the night, basically slobbin’ out without a care, and then there was the knock…and there was Patriot. He’d been angry at her. She’d been angry at him. He’d reminded her about the night of the party, and then….

His mouth on hers….

His taste—sweet whiskey and cloves….

Her body heated, her skin pulling taut over her bones, her pussy growing wet and achy at the memory of his mouth on hers, devouring her.

Patriot kissed her.

Patriot, the badass, walking sex and danger…had kissed her.

Her!

Cilla St. James.

But why?

At that question, the ache in her pussy died, the heat in her flesh cooled, and the burning behind her eyes began.

…disgusted….

…claiming Jaime….

Those club women were right, weren’t they?

But if so….why had Patriot kissed her? He had Jaime, he was going to claim her, right? So why was he even coming around her? She gave him space, left him alone, didn’t force herself into his life—he was supposed to be relieved! He was supposed to be happy that she wasn’t there to annoy and frustrate him.

Maybe he needed her to actually tell him that his duties as Horde’s wingman were done, that he didn’t need to keep her “company” so Horde and Stephie could have some time together. It wasn’t like Cilla ever planned to go back to the MC clubhouse, so Patriot would never have to act like he wanted to be around her as some sort of martyr for the brotherhood.

Swiping at the traitorous tears spilling from her eyes, Cilla stood up on shaky legs and headed toward her bedroom. It was almost midnight, and she had errands to run tomorrow.

Climbing into her bed, Cilla viciously pushed all memories of Patriot’s kiss to the Do Not Touch bin in her mind. Yes, he kissed her, but it wasn’t because he’d actually wanted to. It could never be that, not when he had Jaime—and even if he didn’t, she was Cilla.

Fat.

Ugly.

Unwanted.

No, Patriot kissed her because he was still being the loyal MC brother—no matter how messed up that was. How far would he go to show allegiance to the Unchained? Would he fuck her, too, thinking about Jaime and other women he’d banged while banging her? Would he do her from behind so he wouldn’t have to see her face, so he could imagine it was some other woman? He’d have to, right? Hell, he’d have to imagine someone else just to get it up in the first place.

What about that “hello” in his pants? You didn’t imagine that erection….

She turned over onto her side and ignored the way her body tingled, remembering the press of his hard, thick dick into the jiggliness of her belly.

So what, he had an erection. The man was a sexual beast, his body was fine-tuned to equate kissing with the potential for screwing. He kissed her, his body assumed he was readying for intercourse, and then obeyed natural physiological cues.

There was nothing he did tonight that meant anything.

And she had to remember that.

First thing in the morning, she was calling Stephie to tell her to tell her man that he could stand down. That would get Patriot to back off and stop playing like he gave a shit about her. And then she could go about her life without him.

She wanted to be happy about that…so why did it feel like she was going to jump head-first into a deep, dark, lonely pit?

This was not how he wanted his day to start, but he couldn’t just ignore the frantic call from his best friend’s little sister.

After his confrontation—and that fucking kiss—with Cilla, he’d headed to the clubhouse to grab a few beers with Horde and Red. Horde—the pussy-whipped fucker—talked about Stephie, and Red—the unrepentant perv—talked about whatever the fuck a daisy chain was. And as the night progressed, those few beers turned into five shots, and he’d ended up crashing—still fully dressed—into his bed around 3 AM. Blissfully, he’d been too drunk to dream of Cilla. Painfully, he’d woken up with the hangover from hell and a mouth full of cotton wool.

The shrill ring of his cell hadn’t helped matters, and neither had the name on the screen.

When he’d answered, Jaime had been frantic. She’s said that someone had left a note on her door, and she’d found it that morning when she was leaving for work.

She wouldn’t say what the note said, but she did tell him that the person who left it had been caught on her Ring camera. She was adamant that he come immediately. She was terrified—rightly so. Jaime was a bitch, but she didn’t deserve to have a creepy fuck terrorizing her. If she’d caught him on camera, his bullshit with Jaime could very well be over much sooner than he’d hoped.

Armed with that knowledge, and pissed off that Jaime’s punk stalker had made a move, Patriot grabbed black tar coffee from the clubhouse kitchen to help wipe the booze haze from his brain, and headed out.

Jaime’s house was in Chinchilla, just outside of Clarks Summit where she worked, which was a forty minute drive from the Unchained clubhouse, especially during morning traffic on I-81.

On his bike, it took him twenty-five minutes, and when he pulled into the lot in front of Jaime’s tiny one-story bungalow, he wasn’t surprised to see her racing toward him from her open door, her hair wild, her face pale, her eyes wide and full of fear. He barely had the time to dismount before she threw herself into his arms.

Stunned at the violence of her reaction, he planted his feet and leaned in to keep from toppling over backward.

She sobbed into his chest. “Oh God, Patriot!” she cried. “I’m so scared!”

Uncomfortable at their closeness, he patted her back in a “there, there” motion, and then gripped her shoulders, pushing her back so he could look down into her face.

She’d been on her way to work, so her full face of makeup had been destroyed by the tears gushing down her cheeks. She looked a mess, and he couldn’t blame her.

“Come on,” he said, his voice coaxing. “Let’s get you inside.”

Sobbing, she snuggled her face into his chest and allowed him to walk her into her house. His gaze caught on the doorbell camera, and he hoped that whatever it had caught, it would be clear. He’d send the footage to Red, and Red would do his thing. The man had “access” to every PA database, so finding out who the creeper asshole was wouldn’t be difficult. Maybe, though, now that Jaime realized how serious the situation was, she’d give up the asshole’s name, and he, Horde, and Locust could stop by the man’s house for a visit.

Once inside, Patriot closed and locked the door, then helped Jaime to the overstuffed loveseat in her tiny living room.

She sat down and he went to sit on the coffee table, but she grabbed his hand, her fingers like clawed vices, and she pulled him down onto the seat next to her.

Leaning into him, she sniffled.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Patriot. I don’t know what to do,” she said, her voice cracking. She lifted her hand from her lap and placed it against his chest.

He immediately tensed.

Before Cilla, he wouldn’t have minded her touch, especially since she was a beautiful woman—Stallion’s sister or not. However, now that he’d determined to have Cilla as his ol’ lady, his mind and body were both in agreement—no one else touched what belonged to his woman. Everything he was and everything he would be belonged to Cilla St. James—body, heart, and dark, ugly soul.

When Jaime’s hand began a descent to his abs, Patriot bit back an annoyed grunt and snagged her wrist.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” he suggested, though his tone was all command. Yeah, he felt bad for Jaime, was angry for her and her situation, but he was frustrated at the timing. Just when he got his shit together and decided to claim an ol’ lady, things got complicated.

So uncomplicate them, that demanding voice in his head intoned.

That’s what he was working on doing.

Get the note. Get the Ring footage. Get the asshole. Get shot of Jaime and her blackmail.

Easier said than done.

It took another ten minutes of Jaime crying into his kutte, her mascara drenched tears leaving streaks in his leather, but she finally calmed down enough to tell him what happened.

She’d gone to bed at 11 PM because she had work the next day. She slept fine, didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. She got up at 6:30 AM as usual, got ready for work, and she was headed out when she caught sight of the note stuck to her door.

“Here it is,” she murmured, lifting a post-it sized piece of paper in trembling hands.

He snagged the note by the corner and turned it over.

you can’t fool me. i know you aren’t with the biker. you will always be mine.

Well, shit.

“See!” Jaime cried out. “He knows we’re faking it because you haven’t been doing your part, Patriot.”

What the fuck?

He turned to her, glowering. “Explain,” he demanded, his patience about as thin as a strand of hair. He did not want to deal with this shit today. He was supposed to be on Cilla’s doorstep, waiting for her to head out for her errands. He was going to invite himself along—and she’d have no fucking say in it. But, instead of having a day full of his Cilla, he was dealing with Jaime and her creeper.

Jaime’s face turned red, her smudged makeup all patchy and shit.

“I mean that when you agreed to help me, I thought you’d put a little more effort into the act. The only way this asshole is going to leave me alone is if he thinks I’ve moved on to someone who’s bigger and tougher than he is. And you read the note—he doesn’t believe we’re actually together.”

Shit.

“You have to actually put some effort into playing my boyfriend, Patriot. That means answering my calls, being seen in public with me, and doing boyfriend stuff.”

Boyfriend stuff? He narrowed his eyes at her.

She must’ve seen the annoyance in his expression because she quickly explained, “You know, showing affection in public. Since we started this, we haven’t done anything together outside of hanging out at the clubhouse. He can’t see us there, so we need to take this act into the public. Take me to dinner, go shopping with me—hold my hand, pull me into your arms—you know…affectionate.”

Patriot bit back a curse.

She wanted him to fake like she was his ol’ lady?

Hell no. All that shit she wanted him to do with her, was stuff he only wanted to do with Cilla. It was Cilla’s hand he wanted to hold, her he wanted in his arms, her he wanted to be affectionate with. He wanted to be so affectionate with her, people would call the cops for indecent exposure. Cilla and only Cilla would get the “ol’ lady treatment.”

He leaned back, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Jaime, you know what you’re asking, right? You’re asking me to fake you being my ol’ lady.” Which won’t fucking happen!

A knowing smile creased her lips, and he already hated what she was about to say.

“Do this for me…for Stallion. He’d want you to do whatever you had to to keep me safe.”

Yeah, he knew that, but he also knew that if his brothers and their women saw him and Jaime together like that, rumors would fly, and he’d have no way of stopping that shit from getting to Cilla—the woman he actually wanted to do “boyfriend stuff” with.

Glancing down at the note he still held in his hand, he knew he had little choice but to give Jaime something. He’d take her to dinner, shopping—wherever, but he drew the line at too “affectionate”. He’d put his arm over her shoulder and put his hand on her back—close enough to boyfriend actions to seem like he cared about her. The fucker, whoever he was, was escalating, and if showing him that he and Jaime were “real” would get him to back the fuck off, then Patriot would do his part.

He just hoped that Cilla didn’t find out before the shit with Jaime was over. He just needed another week or three, until Stallion returned, and he could come clean with his brother, handle Jaime’s creeper shit, and finally claim his woman.

Dragging his gaze back to the woman sitting much too close to him on the much too small loveseat, he ground out, “Tonight. We’ll do the fake date shit.”

As Jaime grinned, her eyes sparkling, Patriot couldn’t quite shake the feeling of…wrongness that crawled through his soul.