Chapter 14
Cilla groundher back teeth together, which was better than crying. And, man, did she want to cry.
Not since that night at the clubhouse where the Slutketeers eviscerated her in the bathroom had she felt so damn helpless.
Four hours had passed since she and Stephie walked through the doors of Cool Hands, and the thrum of excitement she felt when she saw Patriot’s massive frame saunter through those same doors immediately deflated when Jaime slunk her blonde bimbo self right up to their table and made herself at home. On Patriot’s lap. Sure, he’d removed her pretty quickly, but he hadn’t done or said anything beyond that, like: “I’m taken, keep your bony ass to yourself,” or “Stop being a slut, Jaime, I belong to Cilla.”
And she, in turn, couldn’t announce, “Everyone, shut the hell up and listen. You see that sexy as sin, bad ass biker, hunk of a man right here? Yeah? He’s mine, keep your hands off!”
He couldn’t tell Jaime to keep her wandering hands and her lascivious eyes off of him because she’d ask why, then he’d have to tell her. And Cilla couldn’t pout or look angry—though she was freaking livid and heartsick—because then she’d make Stephie suspicious, because Stephie knew Cilla, and she’d want to know what made her bestie so upset.
So, Cilla was stuck playing like she was having the time of her life at a table with her best friend, her best friend’s boyfriend, her nemesis, and the man she loved but couldn’t claim publicly. And it was killing her. Quickly and agonizingly.
She didn’t know how much longer she could hold out before she broke.
As if sensing the gazelle was flagging, the cheetah pounced.
“Cici, I’m surprised to see you here,” Jaime cooed as she leaned across Patriot, making sure her tits rubbed against his chest, a menacing gleam in her eye. “How did you even get in? Aren’t you still in high school?”
“I’m twenty-two,” she grumbled. “And my name is Cilla.”
Jaime huffed, waving off Cilla’s correction. “Twenty-two? So, just barely old enough to not have a curfew, which must be nice for you with how often you follow Stephie to the clubhouse. I was always so worried you’d get in trouble for staying out late.” Jaime snickered, like she hadn’t just been a condescending bitch. “Still, I’m surprised you even come around the clubhouse or this place. Seems a little…edgy for you. You may be old enough to get through the door, but you’re still a little vanilla to be spending time in a place like this. I mean, shouldn’t you be at home baking cookies or sewing booties for your pet pigs, or something?”
“Enough, Jaime. Leave Cilla alone, she’s allowed to go wherever the fuck she wants,” Patriot growled, pinning the woman with a glare that even Cilla felt, though the glare slipped from his face quickly, replaced immediately by a casualness Cilla had only seen when Patriot was at the club. But it didn’t matter that he was finally speaking up after an hour of Jaime picking and pecking and posturing, the damage had already been done. Sure, Jaime was really good at hiding her snide remarks and insults in finely wrapped conversation, but it seemed like the more she drank, the less she cared about hiding how much she hated Cilla.
The feeling was mutual, but at least Cilla knew to keep her mouth shut. Because, while Jaime had a band of bitches, willing to slash tires and light things on fire to avenge any slights to their friend, Cilla had Stephie who, while she could slash and set things alight with the best of them, still had a reputation to uphold. So, Cilla had to keep her mouth shut, lest she end up the target of a group of vengeful club women, looking to put Cilla in her place.
Your place is beside Patriot….
Was it? She risked a glance at Patriot’s face and wasn’t surprised to see his expression blank. The man was ex-mil and a biker club VP, he knew resting “indifference” face better than anyone. If he didn’t want anyone to know he was mad or annoyed or even in pain, no one would know, not even her. She liked to think that, given enough time with him, she’d learn all the facets of him and his expressions, but they were new. So very new. And, honestly, after his request, she wasn’t quite convinced that they’d be together long enough for that newness to wear off. He was right there, sitting next to her, close enough for her to touch and taste, but still so far away…. Because he was mixed up in whatever problem Jaime dragged him and the club into, so Cilla was stuck, unable to show affection to her boyfriend because no one knew they were together. She hated being a secret, holding back a part of herself at a table full of people who were allowed to be themselves. She glanced across the table at Stephie and Horde, who didn’t seem to notice anyone else existed in the world. They were staring into one another’s eyes, their expression intense with longing and…lust so freaking hot Cilla could feel it in her core.
And she couldn’t even meet Patriot’s eyes for fear of giving them away.
God, I have to get out of here.
Jaime, ever the opportunist, leaned in and rubbed her tits on Patriot’s arm as she whispered something in his ear, her mouth far too close to Patriot’s neck, the neck she’d licked and sucked and nibbled just three days ago. Cilla waited, her breath stuck in her chest, for Patriot to do something, say anything to stop Jaime from getting so close, for being in personal space that belonged to Cilla and only Cilla.
Unless it really belongs to Jaime…just like the Slutketeers said….
No—she mentally shook her head—Patriot wouldn’t lie about wanting to be with her.
Her gaze latched onto the nearly R-rated scene going on next to her, and she couldn’t stomach the look Jaime sent her from under her lashes, a look that Patriot didn’t see because he was staring across the table at a glowering Horde. Jaime’s expression was a look of victory…of possessive claiming. Jaime, with just a look, told Cilla that Patriot was hers, and that Cilla was a pathetic idiot for even thinking she could have a man like Patriot as her own.
Cilla swallowed thickly, tears and bile collecting at the back of her throat.
Seeing Cilla’s discomfort, Jaime smirked, her blue eyes glimmering darkly.
Jaime flexed her hands and planted a paw on Patriot’s chest. He tensed, but did nothing to stop Jaime from sliding her hand from his defined pecs to his neck.
How much more of this is he going to make me watch?
Her gut clenched and nausea slithered through her. The Jack and soda, and nachos she’d ingested, turned into tar in her stomach.
“Aw, poor little baby Cilla, not used to hanging with adults? Don’t worry, Patriot and I will take this back to his place soon enough. He’s a fucking animal in the sack, but you would know what that’s like right? Being an animal yourself—snort, snort!”
Patriot slammed his fist on the table and grabbed Jaime by the back of the neck, holding her in place as he snarled in her face.
“Shut the fuck up, Jaime. Stop being a bitch and leave Cilla alone,” he warned, his voice a deadly timbre. He dropped his voice just low enough for Jaime and Cilla to hear. “And I wouldn’t take you back to my place if you were dying and the only way to save your life was to fuck you.” With that, he pushed her away from him so forcefully, she stumbled off the booth seat and nearly fell on her ass on the concrete floor. Gripping the edge of the table to remain upright—she’d had more than a few drinks, after all—her eyes widened with shock, and her mouth hung open in disbelief.
Jaime looked like a slapped fish.
“What the fuck, Patriot?” Jaime squealed, drawing the attention of the crowd and the people at the other club table. Seconds later, Sasha and Tasha were standing beside their bestie, glaring daggers at Cilla—like it was Cilla’s fault their friend was dropped like a hot, rotten potato.
“Shit,” Patriot muttered before reaching out and putting a hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “Sorry.”
At his apology, Jaime smirked, lifting her chin as if basking in his penitence like a blasphemed goddess.
Wait…he apologized? To Jaime?
Cilla’s gaze snapped to Patriot whose expression was one of intense contrition—like he was truly upset by what he’d done. His gaze flicked to Cilla, and she could see a flash of fear just before it was replaced with regret.
“Hey!” her friend’s barked word jerked Cilla’s attention from Patriot. Stephie was pointing a half-eaten hot wing at Sasha. “Don’t look at her like that, she’s not to blame for Jaime’s fall,” Stephie spat, ignoring Horde’s hand on her neck, no doubt reminding her where they were, and that the club didn’t like negative attention. She turned, snarled at Horde, and then turned back to Jaime and sneered, “Take your skank friend and get your skank asses out of here.”
Sasha shrieked, “I’m with Tornado, I have as much right to be here as you. I’m club, just like you. So are Jaime and Tasha.” Cilla wanted to remind her that Tasha wasn’t club, she was a hangaround, too, but suddenly, three sets of viperous eyes were pinned to her, and Cilla could feel the poison of hatred seep from her flesh and into her blood. “If anyone doesn’t belong here, it’s her. She’s just a hang around, she’s not club, and fat chance that any of the brothers would even look at her twice let alone claim her.”
“Sasha!” Patriot snapped, pouring rage down on her head, but that only made Jaime’s eyes narrow on him. He seemed to recalibrate at her look, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
Like defend Cilla.
“What, Patriot? You act like you like the fatty,” Jaime said, then snorted. “With as often as you two hang out, you’d think you two were together—but I know that’s not the case, because no one would ever fuck that. Besides, you’re with me, aren’t you baby?” She sidled up next to him and slid a claw down from the corded muscles in his neck to the hard planes of his chest. Behind her, Cluster, Marci, and two prospects came to a stop, staring at the group at the table like they were waiting for something truly juicy to go down.
Jaime shifted to look over her shoulder at the brothers and her friend, turned back to Patriot, and smirked. “I know you’re mad right now, baby, but I’ll make you feel real good later.”
Patriot grunted, his body tense beside Cilla, vibrating with the will to hold back, to play along with Jaime’s game. Right?
Hold back…play along…because his club brothers were there, and…Cilla was his dirty secret.
“I’m not mad, and Cilla is just a friend of a friend. It’s not like that between us.” Patriot’s words rang like the church bells at a funeral, signaling death.
Humiliation flooded her, making the blood rise to her skin, where it turned the whole of her a bright pink—she could feel her neck and cheeks burning. God…would this night ever end? And that wasn’t the worst of it…because while the Slutketeers spat their ugly words, Patriot sat there, saying nothing, doing nothing—for the second time that night, he’d allowed someone—a club woman, with the rights and protection of the Unchained MC—to treat her like shit.
She stared at him, waiting…waiting…waiting for him to take back what he’d said to Jaime, to tell Jaime that he was wrong, and that Cilla wasn’t just a friend of a friend, she was his forever. His ol’ lady. But long moments passed as the women continued to spew angry, mean words, then Tasha joined in until they were all tearing her to pieces. Drunk as hell, Stephie was yelling at them, gaining more attention than Horde liked, because he was trying to calm her down by hissing at the Slutketeers to get the hell out. They didn’t listen, because they too, were drunk, and having far too much fun skinning Cilla with their words.
And the whole time, Patriot sat there, mute, picking at his own basket of hot wings. Finally, he turned to her, and the look in his eyes tore a hole in her stomach.
Conflict. Confusion. Anger…and resignation.
He was torn between defending her and drawing attention to them as a couple, and keeping them a secret and letting the women continue their tirade.
It was obvious which he’d chosen.
She was done.
Gathering the dregs of her strength and pushing the agony of humiliation, betrayal, and rejection aside until she could get home and fall apart, Cilla squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and locked eyes with Sasha.
“You’re right,” Cilla said, her voice—shamefully—cracking. “You are absolutely right. I don’t belong here.” Pushing to her feet, she ignored Patriot’s stiff as a board body—avoided him altogether—and clumsily scooted past and over Stephie to get out of the booth. Thankfully, Horde stood up and let her by, helping to steady her when she finally put both her feet on the concrete floor. “I’ll never belong here. Not with people like you.”
She could hear Stephie gasp, but when she went to grab for Cilla, Horde held her back. The woman had downed far too many drinks to be able to walk on her own, so it was better that Horde take her home. Offering Horde a small smile in thanks for caring for her friend, Cilla grabbed her purse from the table, sucked in a deep breath to stave off the rush of tears barreling toward her eyes, and put one foot in front of the other, headed toward the door and her car in the parking lot.
I need to go. Need to get home. Need to break. And break. And break.
“Cilla, wait a fucking minute—” Patriot called, but she ignored him. She refused to look at Patriot, but she could feel his gaze burning into her. And she didn’t care. Never in her life had she felt so…alone. Cilla knew that club business meant he couldn’t go public with whatever they were, but that didn’t mean that he should leave her vulnerable to the snakes and scorpions that skittered through the Unchained MC nest. That didn’t mean that he couldn’t have her back, tell those women that Cilla did actually belong, because even though she wasn’t claimed or club…she was still a person. She was still human, with human feelings…and Patriot had let those women trample all over them.
Patriot’s betrayal hurt far worse than any wounds inflicted by Jaime or Sasha’s words, because he’d told her he cared about her, that he wanted to be with her, that she meant everything to him. But at the first hurdle, the first test of what she could expect from their “secret” relationship, Patriot had failed her.
And Jaime…Patriot let that woman touch him, and she spoke to him like they were a couple, like she was his ol’ lady.
Had Patriot lied, were he and Jaime really together? And if that was the case, why had he slept with her, why had he said all those things about wanting her and wanting to claim her?
Greasing up the pig….
Suddenly, it was all too much, because the only explanation was that she’d been wrong about Patriot all along.
His words from tonight echoed through her thoughts, then collided with her heart.
“…it’s not like that between us….”
Maybe that was the truth.
Cilla hadn’t been subtle with her feelings toward Patriot. Ever. He’d known how she felt from the beginning…and he’d used that. He’d used her. He’d wanted easy, wanted to keep easy on the down low so he wouldn’t run into any problems once he got around to claiming Jaime.
“…it’s not like that between us….”
…disgusted….
…annoyed….
…waiting to claim Jaime….
And, apparently, the claiming had already happened, because Jaime had basically outed them right there at the booth in Cool Hands.
Cilla was numb as she drove home, and once she was there, she locked the door behind her, kept the lights off, and stumbled her way to her bedroom, her legs unable to carry her and the weight of her pain.
Sobs, caged in her chest, finally broke free, and hours passed before she crashed into the waiting arms of sleep, still fully dressed, still weeping, still broken.