Affliction: An Age Gap, Insta-Love Romance

Chapter 13

Patriot checked the speedometer and,for the tenth time in ten minutes, wished the fucking truck could go faster. He’d been sent out to pick up a shipment of motorcycle parts that had been dropped at the facility in Tobyhanna and then left there, the shipping company having lost the giant crate in their paperwork. And what was worse than that was the facility was a goddamn Army depot, so he had no earthly idea how their shit even got through the gates. If that wasn’t fucking lazy logistics, Patriot didn’t know what it was.

No, that was a lie, it was a fuck up that meant he wasn’t spending the night with his woman. And that was fucking catastrophic—because his world would end if he didn’t get inside Cilla again soon. If their custom bike shop, Unchained Customs, didn’t need those parts for a custom bike build on a deadline, he’d have told Frost to wait and send Locust when the asshole got back from doing whatever it was that was keeping him away from the clubhouse for days at a time. The asshole was probably lost in quality snatch, and wanted to spend time getting her out of his system. Though, that would be the first time Locust spent any amount of time with a woman outside of fucking her.

Beside him in the truck’s passenger seat, Horde cursed.

“Motherfucker,” he grumbled, staring down at his cell like it had beat his momma.

“What’s that about, brother?” Patriot asked, wanting something to distract him from his annoyance at not being balls deep in Cilla.

“That was Cluster,” Horde answered, a note of “pissed” in his tone. “Stephie is at Cool Hands tossing back shots like they’re water.”

“Oh yeah?” Patriot mumbled, not really giving a shit. So much for a distract?—

“Yeah. And she’s there with Cilla. They’re both drinkin’, and neither of them seem all that interested in stopping.”

“What the fuck? Cilla?” Now he was fucking interested. “What the fuck did Cluster say?”

Horde turned his head to look at Patriot, his eyes narrowed and brimming with mischief. “What’s the problem there, Patriot? You interested in Stephie’s little friend?” The fucker was smirking, and if Patriot wasn’t driving a goddamn box truck, he’d reach over and throat punch the asshole.

“Yeah, I’m interested—more than interested, motherfucker, and you know that,” he admitted. “But my interest means shit when I have to hide her because of that fucker’s threats.”

“Any word from Red about the voice messages?” Horde asked, concern in his eyes.

Patriot shook his head. “Burners. The fucker uses a different burner phone each time. If the pattern stands, the only way to find out who he is is to keep a guy on Jaime at all times.”

Since that afternoon he’d listened to Jaime’s voicemail, he’d gotten two of his own, both from an unknown man threatening him, the club, and anything Patriot loved.

“…you took Jaime from me…so I’ll take something from you….”

The moment he’d heard that, he knew that keeping Cilla a secret was imperative, which meant that Horde was the only one who could know. Yeah, he could trust his brothers with his life, but those assholes still told their women, and those women were all gossiping birds. The second word got out that Patriot had a woman, she could be in danger. And that was unacceptable.

Patriot grunted, gritting his teeth. He didn’t want to spend time with Jaime, he wanted to be with Cilla every fucking moment of every goddamn day, but he had a duty to protect Stallion’s sister. He’d promised his best friend he’d keep his sister safe, and that’s what he was doing. But fuck if he didn’t resent that in keeping Jaime safe, he was straddling the line of bringing danger into Cilla’s life.

Just a little longer….Fuck. Red needed to figure shit out, because Patriot didn’t know how much longer he could keep Cilla and his love for her a secret. He was bursting with the need to claim her, to weave their lives together so tightly, no one could see between them. He wanted her wifed up, his baby in her belly, and his name on her back.

Getting angrier the longer he stewed on the complications in his life wouldn’t help anyone, especially Cilla.

“Now tell me what Cluster fucking said in that text, you nosy bitch.”

Horde snickered before lifting his cell and reading the text.

“Your woman is here with her girl. Getting drunk AF. Need intervention?” Horde recited flatly.

Patriot snorted, knowing full well that what Cluster meant was does Horde want Cluster to drag them, kicking and screaming, to the clubhouse, and keep them there for Horde and Patriot to collect. And Patriot damn well wanted his woman under lock and key. What the hell was she doing out drinking without him there to make sure she was safe? He had no problem with her spending time with Stephie—Stephie was an awesome friend to Cilla—but he did have a problem with Cilla making stupid decisions, like getting drunk at a club owned pub without him or Horde there to keep the assholes away.

Fighting the urge to pull over and call Cilla and demand she get the hell home, Patriot grit his teeth and pushed his foot to the floor, praying to God and the Devil for the fucking truck to move faster.

“Well?” Horde prodded. “What’re you gonna do about Cilla? For me, I know where I’m headed once this shit is done. Stephie’s gonna be drunk as hell, and my woman is a goddamn fuckin’ rodeo queen in the sack when she’s drunk.” The man’s smirk turned smug as shit, and he chuckled under his breath. “Looks like my night took a turn for the better.”

“What’re you going to tell him?” Patriot demanded, desperate to know his woman was safe, and angry that he couldn’t be the one to make her that way. She was out on the town, drinking, and he was still more than thirty miles away.

Horde snickered. “Now who’s the nosy bitch?”

Patriot growled, turned his head, and glared at the asshole. “Just tell me, fucker.”

The asshole snickered again, then his thumbs were flying over the phone screen.

A moment later, he said, “I told him to keep an eye on them, and if he feels like there needs to be an intervention, then to take care of it. Honestly, Cool Hands is a safe place. Cameras, Cluster on duty, and Tornado is at the door. And word is out that Cool Hands is an Unchained establishment, so a man would be crazy as fuck to stir up shit there—especially with the women sittin’ at our tables. The most trouble our women can get into is if they start breakin’ shit.”

Shaking his head, Patriot grunted. He couldn’t picture his sweet Cilla breaking anything. She was about as violent as a butterfly.

“You could just text Cluster and ask him about Cilla, if it’s botherin’ you that much,” Horde offered, tucking his cell into the pocket in his kutte.

Patriot bit the inside of his cheek to keep from cursing. Horde knew what was going on with him and Cilla, and he also knew Patriot was keeping things under wraps, and why. The fucker was just pushing his buttons…and it was working.

Patriot didn’t miss the way Horde called the girls “our women”—his heart skipped a fucking beat hearing that. And the fact that he couldn’t actually claim her as his woman, was a goddamn kick in the balls. It was bad enough that Cluster didn’t know to text him about Cilla because Cluster didn’t know that Cilla belonged to Patriot—because no one fucking did.

And they couldn’t. Not with the shit with Jaime’s new stalker churning up club interest.

After hearing that first voicemail on Jaime’s phone, he’d texted Stallion, then he’d texted Frost, their prez, asking him to call church. That evening, in an emergency church, Patriot had filled the officers in on everything Jaime had told him, and what he and Red had dug up on Eliot. But since Eliot was actually in Pittsburgh—Red checked—it was unlikely that he was the one pulling shit on Jaime. Frost still had Red dig through Eliot Montaine’s life for information about him, and whether it was likely he would hire someone to scare Jaime. The jury was still out about that piece of shit, and they were still standing around, holding their dicks, waiting for the asshole who threatened Patriot to make another move.

Until the stalker resurfaced, Unchained was going about business as usual…but Patriot was fucking suffocating. As a club woman, sister to a patched member, Jaime was under club protection, and that meant that since there was a threat to her, she had a club brother or a prospect with her at all times. Surprise, surprise, she’d demanded that Patriot be the one to protect her. But Patriot was the motherfucking VP, which meant he had responsibilities outside of babysitting female vipers.

And the threat against the club, against Patriot, meant it was doubly impossible for him to claim Cilla. The moment word got out about her and how much she meant to him, she’d become a target—Patriot had no doubt about it. She was his only weakness, his soft spot, his whole fucking world. If she got hurt because of Jaime’s stalker bullshit…he’d strap himself to his bike, and drive it right into the goddamn ocean.

Probably realizing Patriot was lost in his thoughts about the mess Jaime dragged the club into, Horde heaved a sigh and clapped Patriot on the shoulder.

“Come on, man. Just a little longer, then we can meet our women at Cool Hands.”

Patriot flexed his jaw, hating that Horde was right…and wrong. Most definitely, they’d be heading to Cool Hands once they finished their drop at the clubhouse, but the only one who’d get to be with their woman tonight would be Horde. Because as much as Patriot wanted to charge into Cool Hands, grab Cilla, and kiss the fuck out of her for everyone to see…he couldn’t. It was safer that way. She was safer. And if her safety meant he would get blue balls watching her have a good time, then he’d fucking suffer for her.

An hour and a half later, the truck was parked at the clubhouse, and Horde and Patriot were headed toward downtown Scranton.

Cool Hands was a club investment in that they were approached by the son of Frost’s longtime friend, Mustard, to give a percentage of the startup money for a percentage of the profits. Unchained, knowing a pub was a great way to clean their money, bought in at 49%. That meant the owner, James Quinn, was still the owner on paper, but the Unchained made sure their investment was protected by keeping an eye on the place. Usually, a brother or two would stop in, and Tornado took on the job of bouncer/bar security. Quinn got his dream of owning a bar, and the Unchained got a new hangout and cash cow. Win-win.

Parking their bikes in the designated spots nearest the doors, Horde headed in while Patriot scanned the parking lot. Quinn had put a good amount of the seed money toward redoing the lot, adding lighting, security cameras, and expanding the number of spaces available. Patriot was glad about the improvements because that meant that Cilla would have been safe to cross the lot to her car, which she—smartly—parked under a light post.

Jogging to her little Toyota, he did a quick check to make sure the doors were locked, before he jogged back to the bar and slipped inside. He tipped his head to Tornado in greeting as he passed the brother working as the bouncer, then paused to scan the crowd. He could see Horde’s head above everyone else’s, since the man stood 6’6” and ate his Wheaties every morning.

Catching the gaze of the bartender, he pointed at the corner table, silently telling the man he wanted service at the club tables. It would mean dealing with one of the simpering, bad boy thirsty waitresses Quinn hired, but Patriot didn’t give a fuck. As long as Cilla was beside him, he could weather even desperate women looking to score Unchained cock for the night.

Pushing through the milling crowd, Patriot cursed when he saw Jaime seated beside Sasha and Tasha at one of the club’s tables. The prospect assigned to her, Jimmy, was seated next to Cluster, who was downing what looked like a shot of rye. Almost as if she could sense Patriot’s presence, Jaime turned, spotted him, then flashed a wide, predatory smile. Her expression was a practiced “come fuck me” look, that probably worked on many men in the past, but it didn’t work on him.

With Jaime and her posse there, that meant he would have to be more than careful about how he reacted to and treated Cilla. Any sign of affection, any lingering look, any word out of place between two friends, and those women would catch it like an STI, and spread it just as quickly, too. And it wasn’t just the women and the club brothers he had to be careful of. Since he had no idea who the stalker was, he couldn’t know if that asshole was in the bar, watching. He could be following Jaime, waiting for the Unchained to let their guard down. He could be watching Patriot, looking for something to take from him to punish him for “taking Jaime” from him.

Fuck…this was bad. Jaime should have stayed home; coming out was dangerous and fucking reckless, but that was Jaime, only thinking about herself and what she wanted.

No doubt, Jaime was expecting “boyfriend” shit tonight, but he absolutely refused to to that shit with Cilla right there. Jaime would just have to deal with it for a few hours.

Lifting his chin in greeting, he continued past Jaime’s table, ignoring the way her expression morphed into a glare, and he came to a stop beside Horde, who was grinning down at Stephie.

Impatient to see his woman, Patriot’s gaze glided to the woman seated across the booth from Stephie.

God.

Fucking.

Damn.

What the hell was she thinking, coming into a bar dressed like a motherfucking goddess? He remembered that dress—it was burned into his fucking memory. She wore that the night he first saw her, the night she swanned into the Unchained clubhouse and fucking bewitched him. He’d been under her spell since, and he was more than happy to be a thrall to her forever.

Unable to bite back a growl, Patriot nearly shoved Horde out of the way to get to the booth opening so he could grab Cilla and drag her to the bar’s office.

Cilla hadn’t noticed him yet because she was staring, wide-eyed, at Stephie, who was eating a chicken wing covered in a bright orange sauce. Her face was covered in the sauce, but that didn’t seem to deter her as she went to town on the wing. From the basket of picked-clean bones in front of her, she’d already had a dozen.

“Ladies,” Patriot drawled, his voice deeper than he intended, but what the fuck did he expect? Cilla looked like a buffet of sexual delights in that dress, and the way her hair was loose, and the way her cheeks were pink from the heat and booze…his cock was wide awake and in desperate need of her mouth.

Startled, Cilla turned toward the end of the table where the two bikers were standing. How she didn’t notice them immediately, Patriot had no fucking idea. Sure, it was loud in the bar, but it wasn’t like their shadows hadn’t cast over the table.

Stephie who, from the collection of shot glasses in front of her, was drunk, so her mental focus was about as tight as a ten-cent whore. But Cilla….

Patriot’s gaze pinned to her, and he noticed the uncertainty there…and the wariness.

Shit. He recognized that this was their first encounter in public after they’d made things official…and secret. No doubt she was unsure of how to act, or of what to expect.

So, he’d lead. And he’d keep his fucking hands to himself.

Yeah, you tell yourself that, asshole…. He could feel the burn of Jaime’s gaze against his back, and he tensed, knowing he was about to put on the show of his life.

Grinning at Cilla—in what he hoped looked like a friendly grin and not a “I want to eat your pussy until you scream” grin, Patriot sat on the end of the booth seat and leaned his elbows on the table. One way to keep his hands off Cilla was to make sure they were nowhere near her.

At least until he got her home, because then his hands would touch her like he’d been hungry to touch her since leaving her fucking bed three days ago.

“You girls enjoying yourselves?” Horde asked as he slipped into the booth to sit beside his woman.

Stephie giggled then dropped the now decimated chicken wing. She turned to Horde and gave him a saucy—literally—grin. He chuckled, grabbed a napkin from the table, then began to wipe her face.

Cilla snorted beside him, and he turned to see her lift her glass to her mouth. It looked like soda, but there could be rum or Jack in there, too.

“You tipsy?” he asked, not bothering to lower his voice. It was a question one friend could ask another, right? He was just being friendly.

She shook her head, offering him a small smile.

“No. Originally, I wanted to let loose with Stephie, but once we got here, I figured one of us should stay sober,” she replied, putting the glass back on the glazed wooden table. “But I’ve had two of these…I’m getting some water next, though.”

He nodded. “Yeah, smart. You never know what kinds of assholes come here, so being drunk isn’t a good idea” And those assholes could see you, want you, and try to take you from me, but then they’d be dismembered and left to rot in a car trunk at the junk yard along the highway.

“Right,” Cilla agreed. “Also, I didn’t know what to expect. I’ve never been here before, and I didn’t feel comfortable getting too drunk in a new place, ya know. Stephie’s been here…she, uh…she said this was a club bar.”

Patriot hummed and opened his mouth to make more “friendly” conversation when a miasma of pungent perfume hit his nose, seconds before a warm body slid against his bicep.

He turned, ready to snap at whoever the fuck thought they could get that close to him, but he stalled when he noticed it was Jaime. Right behind her was a waitress, Sheryl, who was one of the staff most determined to get into his bed.

Fuck. He had to be careful how he handled this. Before he’d gotten with Cilla, he’d had his fair share of women, even picked up a few from this bar, so both Sheryl and Jaime would be suspect if he didn’t act as he usually would—flirtatious and looking for a good time.

He couldn’t see her, but he could feel Cilla beside him, could scent her clean, sugar cookie scent over the booze and Jaime’s perfume, and he wanted to turn and gather Cilla into his arms, and plant his nose in her neck, and inhale the scent of his woman.

But he couldn’t. Because, to everyone in the bar but Horde, Cilla wasn’t his.

He really didn’t need this, not when what he really wanted to do was get his woman out of there, and spend the night reminding her that the awkwardness was only temporary. He could see, during their short, “friendly” conversation, that she was frustrated. She wanted to be Cilla, his woman, and not just Cilla, Stephie’s friend.

“Hey there, Patriot,” Jaime cooed much too close to his ear.

He leaned away, offering a smile he hoped would keep her satisfied.

“Jaime,” he replied, then met Sheryl’s gaze. She bit her lip and blushed, then lifted her tray to indicate she was there to take his order. “Sheryl, a water, two Jacks, another Coke, and two dozen ‘Better Sign the Waiver’ wings.” He didn’t bother greeting her, because he didn’t want to encourage more than the eye groping he was already getting. That wouldn’t be new for Sheryl, since he’d never had any interest in her, and therefore had never actually flirted with her before.

Jaime turned to glare at the other woman, sniffing when Sheryl narrowed her eyes, then turned to head to the POS by the bar to put in his order. While his attention was diverted, Jaime planted her ass in his lap—what the fuck?!

Thrown, Patriot could only sit there, tense, as he tried to figure out what the fuck just happened. Once his brain triggered, he picked Jaime up by her waist, slid out from under her, then planted her bony ass onto the seat beside him…but as far from him as he could put her.

That meant he was closer to Cilla, who was as stiff as a board.

Fuck! Jaime had never been so forward before, and he could chalk it up to her wanting to push the “boyfriend” act just in case the asshole who was stalking her was watching, but Cilla didn’t know anything about that, since he’d only told her that he was “playing nice”, so she’d see Jaime’s actions as exactly what they looked like—a woman getting physical with a man she felt she had a right to.

Jaime pouted then winked at Patriot, which made Cilla fidget in her seat. He could practically feel her need to run.

Of course, seeing her man get eye fucked by the waitress, then having Jaime act a little too comfortable with him would anger her. He’d be angry if the situation was reversed.

But there was nothing he could do about it until he could claim her.

If she’d still have him once all this bullshit was done.

Patriot nearly doubled over at the sudden twisting in his guts—the thought of losing Cilla was goddamn unacceptable. But the dread roiling in the depths of his ink dark soul told him that Fate didn’t give a shit about what was acceptable or not. But he couldn’t put Cilla in harm’s way, couldn’t give even the slightest hint that he felt anything for her.

He just hoped that, for once, the something good he reached for, wouldn’t slip through his grasp.