14. Empty
EMPTY
NOW
KITTY
“Congratulations,” Claire says as Callan wraps an arm around Rogue’s shoulders and draws her into his body, kissing her with an intensity that’s almost obscene. The words paralyze me. With Claire at his side, Cutter raises a glass to my brother, catapulting me back to the past.
He and Claire are standing in the exact position they were the night he announced their plans to marry.
I didn’t think there was a betrayal greater than him impregnating the bitch.
He didn’t even give me a fucking chance to come to terms with that news before springing into the next surprise.
I knew he was a bastard, but cruel? It felt sadistic and sent shockwaves through my body, the pain engulfing me in a chokehold.
“Are you okay, Kit? You’re white as a sheet,” Rose says from beside me, her baby sleeping in her arms. The hectic noise of the club bar rushes in, cutting through the static in my head, and I force a smile to my lips.
Clearing my throat, warmth spreads through my veins, the blood returning to my limbs. “Yeah, I’m fine. Happy,” I say with a weary laugh, almost breathless. “Really happy for them.”
Within three weeks of finding her in his bed, Claire had Cutter’s ring on her finger, her swelling stomach a constant reminder that she owned him, and I didn’t.
A club slut who shared my dad’s bed now shares one with the man I love.
She’s good enough—I’m not. I’d let the anger of it all fuel me, had fed the grief like it was an animal living within me until Claire gave birth and stopped coming around the clubhouse.
Cutter never moved, and eventually, I forgot the pain he inflicted and my heart thawed, allowing him back in. What a fool I was— am.
“Why did they take so long to announce it? She’s been wearing that ring for weeks,” Maggie says, placing a tray of champagne flutes on the table in front of Rose, Diamond, and me.
My glare makes her flinch, her eyes darting to Rose and the fatherless child in her arms. We only buried Daddy a few weeks ago. Rogue didn’t want to be insensitive.
“I think it’s wonderful.” Rose sighs wistfully. “The club needs this. It’s time to celebrate the good things. Life goes on.” Her gaze drops to her son.
“You’re right.” I plant a kiss on her cheek and slip out of the seat, taking a glass of champagne and approaching my brother. Clinking his beer bottle, I beam. “To the best decision you’ve ever made.”
Not taking his eyes off his fiancée, a knowing smile curves his lips. “I can’t argue with that.”
“One day, it’ll be your turn, Kitty cat,” Claire chimes in, clinging to Cutter’s arm, almost giddy.
Is she for real?
I blink an unnecessary number of times before retorting, “It’s not every woman’s life goal to be legally bound to one of these assholes.” I jab a finger at Callan, ignoring Cutter altogether.
“Good.” Callan ruffles a hand through my fake hair. “You’re not getting married until you’re thirty-eight—and it sure as shit won’t be to a brother.” I don’t miss Cutter’s body becoming rigid or him untucking Claire’s arm from his.
I don’t bother telling Callan to eat shit or informing him I’ll marry whoever I want. No one. Instead, I turn to Rogue and embrace her, whispering, “I’m so fucking happy for you.”
“It’s not just him I’m marrying, you know,” she assures me, pulling back and rubbing her hands up my arms.
“Oh, I know—it’s the club.” I snort.
“It’s you.” She tucks a blue strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re my family now.”
Love blooms inside me like a seed. I’m not alone in my pain anymore. Rogue sees me. Gets me. Loves me.
Claire’s thin arms suddenly wrap around our sides, squeezing like we’re old girlfriends. “That was beautiful,” she breathes out.
I suppress the shudder taking hold of me and step out of her reach. “I’ve got to go. Keg needs his hair brushed.”
“You brush your cat?” Claire’s pretty face screws into a confused expression, and Rogue bites her lip to stop from laughing.
“She doesn’t brush her cat.” Cutter exhales, shaking his head and turning his back on Claire to order another drink.
“We’ll celebrate later, yeah?” I slide my eyes to Claire without turning my head, and Rogue can’t contain her laugh this time.
“Yeah, of course. Go brush your cat.”
As I leave through the exit, I almost bump into my dad coming inside. “Hey.” I wrap my arms around his middle and inhale the oil and grass from his clothes. He always smells of summer.
“Not sticking around to celebrate?” The white in his hair has become more prominent lately.
“I’ll be back later.”
“I dread the day you bring home a man,” he informs me, stress lines marring his forehead.
“So do I.” I cross my eyes, acting silly.
“You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?” He looks through the door to Callan then focuses on Cutter and Claire. Does he miss her?
“The only man I have is four-legged and furry,” I assure him while walking backward up the corridor, keeping my eyes on him.
“That’s the safest kind,” he grunts, running a hand up his arm.
“You okay?” I frown, stopping my retreat.
“Always. My son is getting married.”
“Yeah, he is.”
Monster appears behind him, his gaze dancing between us. “Everything good?”
“Fine. I’ll catch you later, Dad.”
He disappears inside the bar and Monster stands in the space he vacated, glaring at me.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
The thing about being the daughter of the president and living in the clubhouse: everyone is an annoying big brother.
“To brush my cat.” I smirk, turning on my heel.
“That code for what I think it is?” His dark tone follows me up the hall, bouncing off the narrow walls.
Pushing into my room, I head to the closet, throwing clothes on the chair in the corner and moving shoe boxes out of the way until I find what I’m looking for.
Staring down at the bowl, my stomach tightens.
The cold press of glass against my palm spreads like water seeping into the skin, expanding up my arms and settling in my chest. The fact Goldie died the day after I let Cutter back into my bed for the first time should have been a sign. It was just a fish, Kit. Get a grip.
But it was more than that. It was what I had left of our fucked-up relationship. Goldie was my pet, my comfort in a time I thought my heart was going to crack straight through my ribcage and bleed out—something alive and vibrant while my world decayed around me.
Getting to my feet, I grab my purse and shoot Tim a text.
Me: Need to go out. Meet me out front.
When I make it out front, Tim’s casually leaning against the hood of the SUV in dark, baggy jeans and a vintage t-shirt beneath his prospect cut, and his leg is bent, a boot resting on the tire.
“Hey,” I say. Ignoring me, he kicks off the rubber and opens the door, folding himself into the seat.
Making my way around the car, I slip inside and click the seatbelt into place. “I can drive myself if you’re going to be prissy.”
“Where are we going?” he asks, a bite to his tone.
“The pet shop.”
We drive in silence until it becomes deafening. Reaching over, I flip the switch for the radio and turn the volume up. It’s some pop crap but it’s better than nothing.
When he pulls up to the store, I jump out without waiting for him to follow, greeted with the scent of dried food and earthy tones as I enter.
Dog barks splinter the air like shockwaves as they yap to get attention.
Bypassing them, I head toward the aquarium at the back, focusing my attention on the fish swimming silently around their tanks.
A store attendant catches my eye, and I wave them over.
“Can I help you with something?” he asks, scratching at a patch of acne on his cheek. Brown, greasy hair curtains his face, and he smells like chip fat.
“I want a goldfish.” My fingernail taps at the glass tank.
“Goldfish usually do better in pairs.” He tugs at his pants, pulling them up his skinny frame. He’s built like a surfboard.
“I only want one.”
“Do you need a tank or…” he asks, surveying the store.
“No. I need the fish and some food.”
“Okay. You can head to the checkout. I’ll bag one up and bring it over.”
“Great.” Turning on my heel, I march to the registers and wait, drumming my foot impatiently as I listen to a customer in deep conversation about her poodle and how its shit gets stuck to the hair on its ass. Eventually, he arrives with my fish and a small tube of food.
Sixteen dollars and ninety-five cents later, the little gold blob is mine.
Tim doesn’t say anything when I get back to the car with my new fish in a clear plastic bag, but I feel his curious eyes stray in my direction. He drives slower, taking more care with corners than he did on the way here, and I tuck that away inside my Why Tim is a Catch mental diary.
Back at the club, I don’t say bye, doubting he’ll reciprocate anyway, and head straight inside.
Ignoring the curious looks from brothers, I rush to my room, kicking the door open with my boot and using my hip to close it.
I untie the band around the top of the bag and tip it upside down into the bowl.
The little goldfish plops into the glass sphere, sending water splashing over the edge.
It begins circling its new home, and my heart thuds against my chest. Welcome home.