Chapter 9
Jo-Leigh
I wake up to a throbbing in my temples and the taste of cotton in my mouth.
Ugh. Hangover. The room is dim, filtered light slipping through dark curtains.
My head is heavy, my limbs slow to cooperate.
For a second, I have no idea where I am.
Not my apartment. Not the diner. And definitely not my dorm.
I blink a few times.
The air smells like leather and motor oil and something else I can't quite place. Something familiar.
Swag.
The memories come rushing in like a bad montage. Tequila. Laughter. A dance. A kiss that almost was. And then him pulling me away, furious, sharp-tongued and burning. I groan and bury my face in the pillow.
Why do I remember telling Pretty Boy I’d never been kissed?
Why do I remember thinking Swag’s bed smelled good?
Why do I remember his voice, right at the edge of sleep?
Nice is the last thing I want to be where you’re concerned.
I sit up too fast and immediately regret it.
The room spins. Okay. Not sitting. Lying back down.
That’s the move. I push back the blanket and stare at the ceiling.
There’s no sign of Swag. No sounds beyond the low hum of conversation coming from outside the door.
I should leave. But a tiny, traitorous part of me kind of wants to stay.
Just for a little while longer. Just until I know what that last sentence meant.
I don’t have to wait long.
The door swings open, and in walks Swag.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I echo, voice dry as paper.
He stops beside the bed, holding out a glass of water. I take it with both hands, sipping slowly.
“How’s the head?”
“Pounding,” I groan. “Can you talk softer?”
That earns a snort. “Maybe this’ll teach you a lesson.”
“Doubtful,” I mutter, giving him a sidelong glance. “You pulled Pretty Boy away when he was about to kiss me.”
His jaw tightens.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
I blink. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is around here,” he says flatly. “My word is law.”
“I don’t live here,” I point out, voice steady. “And I wanted him to kiss me.”
Swag’s eyes flash.
“Careful, little bee,” he warns, low and sharp. “I was prepared to forgive you.”
My brows shoot up. “Forgive me? For what?” I shake my head, laugh bitterly. “You were literally getting a blow job from someone. In the middle of the party. In front of everyone.”
I lean in, not backing down.
“If anyone needs to be forgiven,” I say quietly, “it’s you.”
His smile should scare me. It doesn’t. All my body sees is how damn handsome he looks.
“You wanted him to kiss you?” Swag asks, voice low, rough. “Does that invitation apply to anyone, Jo-Leigh?”
My pulse thrums in my neck, loud as a drum.
“Yes?” I whisper.
His eyes darken. “Are you asking?”
I shake my head, slow. Controlled.
“Not asking,” I say. “Yes, it’s an open invitation.” Then I glance around the room with mock curiosity. “Is Talon around? I?—”
I don’t get to finish. Because Swag moves.
And his mouth crashes down on mine. But this isn’t the rough, punishing kiss I expected.
It’s desperate and possessive. His hands frame my face like he’s afraid I’ll disappear, thumbs brushing my jaw as his lips mold to mine.
My breath catches. The room tilts. And then I melt into him, my fingers fisting in the front of his shirt like I need to hold on or I’ll drown.
Because this isn’t just a kiss.
This is everything.
Every word he didn’t say.
Every moment I spent wondering why I wasn’t enough.
Every time he looked at me like he wanted to devour me and walked away instead.
And now he’s here.
And he’s kissing me like I’m oxygen. Like I’m salvation.
His mouth moves over mine, coaxing, claiming. When I gasp, his tongue slips past my lips, and the groan that rumbles from his chest is nothing short of devastating.
My body arches into him, and he pulls me into his lap like he has to. Like the space between us is too much. One of his hands slides into my hair, angling my head. The other settles on my hip, fingers flexing like he’s fighting the urge to grip tighter, to take more.
I whimper into his mouth, overwhelmed.
Not by him?—
But by the ache of finally.
Of this.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathing hard. My lips feel bruised and my heart pounds like it might shatter through my chest.
His voice is hoarse when he whispers, “You drive me fucking insane.”
And all I can do is whisper back, “Good.”
The air between us crackles. My fingers are still curled into his shirt. His hand is still tangled in my hair. We haven’t said another word, but we don’t have to. Everything that kiss said is still hanging between us, loud and undeniable.
Then, a hard bang on the door.
“Prez?” Talon’s voice. Muffled, but clear. “You decent?”
Swag curses under his breath, low and lethal. I jerk back slightly, but his arms don’t loosen.
“Not fucking now,” he growls.
“It’s important,” Talon calls. “Club business.”
Swag’s jaw clenches. His eyes, still locked on mine, flicker with something like regret or rage.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything.
So I do.
“You should go,” I whisper, voice soft but steady.
He looks at me for a beat longer. Then another. And finally, he pulls away.
“I’ll be back,” he says, almost like a threat.
And then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m left sitting on his bed, lips still tingling, chest still heaving, heart officially a disaster. I touch my lips, shaking my head. Did that really just happen?
He’s gone for almost an hour. The door creaks open again. I sit up, blinking against the brightness of the hallway light that floods in behind him. Swag steps inside, shutting the door with a soft click. But this time, his movements are rigid and calculated.
“Here.” He tosses a bottle of aspirin onto the bed. It bounces once and lands near my thigh.
I blink. “Thanks…”
He doesn’t answer. Just walks over to a small dresser, opens a drawer, and grabs a fresh shirt, swapping it without looking at me. The tension in the room is heavy like nothing happened moments ago. Like his lips hadn’t crashed into mine, full of fire and years of tension.
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask quietly.
His jaw ticks. “Don’t overthink it.”
“Don’t overthink what? That you kissed me and now you won’t even look at me?”
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he mutters, finally turning to face me. “It was a mistake.”
My stomach twists. “Oh.”
He nods once, as if that closes the chapter. “You’ll feel better after a shower. Then I’ll drive you home.”
And with that, he walks out, leaving the door open behind him and the chill of his words wrapping tight around my heart. I wait a beat and then follow him through the door. He spins, eyes narrowing.
“I’ll shower at my place,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
I expect him to give me lip, but he doesn’t. Instead, he motions for me to follow him through the clubhouse. It’s quiet, but I see a few familiar faces from last night. I don’t see Pretty Boy though.
Outside, Swag heads to a massive black truck and climbs inside. I struggle getting in, but don’t say anything. Swag’s jaw tics as he peels out of the gravel parking lot.
The silence in the truck is suffocating.
Swag hasn’t said a word, and every second that passes makes me feel more and more like a kid in trouble. My head pounds. My stomach churns. And his stupid jaw has been locked the whole time, like he’s clenching back a thousand things he wants to say but refuses to give me the dignity of hearing.
I finally break. “You’re really not going to talk to me?”
Nothing. Not even a glance.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. “You kissed me.”
He snorts, but it’s cold. Cruel. “Yeah. Mistake.”
I blink. My chest aches like I’ve been sucker punched. “Wow. Okay.”
I give him my address in a shaky voice and go back to staring out the window, pretending the blur of streetlights isn’t making me nauseous. The deeper we drive into my neighborhood, the more tense he gets. I can feel it rolling off him like a storm cloud—his disapproval, his disgust.
I want to shrink into myself.
When we pull up to my building, I make myself say, “It’s temporary.”
He doesn’t answer.
“It’s not as bad as it looks inside,” I add, knowing how pathetic that sounds. I hate how small my voice is.
“You’re staying here?” he asks, like I’ve told him I sleep in a goddamn dumpster.
“It’s all I can afford right now.”
His knuckles go white on the steering wheel as he looks around. The busted streetlight. The stairs that creak like they’re about to fall apart. The guy yelling on the second floor. The front door with no peephole and three different locks.
“It’s fine,” I whisper. “I’ve been in worse.”
He turns and pins me with a look that makes my stomach twist in knots. “Let me see it.”
“What?”
“Your apartment. I want to see it.”
“You don’t get to judge me.”
“I’m not judging.” His voice is ice. “I’m deciding if I’m letting you stay here.”
My eyes narrow. “You don’t control me.”
He kills the engine. “Wanna bet?”
He’s out of the truck before I can answer. I sit there, frozen, until I see him standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I follow. Because as much as I hate his arrogance, I hate the thought of being alone more.
Each step creaks beneath my feet. I pray my lock doesn’t stick the way it sometimes does.
Of course, it sticks.
Swag brushes me aside and jimmies it open like he’s been picking locks since birth.
The door swings inward. He steps inside first. The apartment smells like the cinnamon air freshener I hung by the vent, but I know what he sees—hand-me-down furniture, off-white walls stained yellow from whoever smoked here before me, a crooked table I found for free on Marketplace, and a too-thin mattress sitting on a squeaky metal frame.
Swag walks through like he’s searching for proof of something. Then he turns on me, voice low, dark.
“You sleep here. Alone. With no security. In this fucking neighborhood?”
I cross my arms. “Yes. And I lock the door. I check for bedbugs. I’m not helpless.”
He exhales hard through his nose. Like I’ve said the wrong thing. Like every answer I give just pisses him off more.
I steel my spine. “This isn’t your problem, Swag.”
He steps close and his voice is a razor’s edge.
“Make no mistake, little bee. When it comes to your safety, it is my problem. Especially if you’re too damn stubborn to realize what kind of danger you’re in.”
“I don’t need saving.”
He looks around once more, jaw tight. “You’re not staying here.”
“I don’t have anywhere else.”
“You do now.”
I blink. “What does that mean?”
“It means grab your shit. You’re coming with me.”
And just like that, I realize it’s not coldness in his eyes anymore.
It’s possession.
But I can’t let this happen, so I cross my arms and glare.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Grab your shit. You’re not staying here.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, so now you care where I sleep?”
Swag doesn’t flinch. “I’ve always cared.”
“No, you haven’t,” I snap. “You cared about sending me away. You cared about pretending I didn’t exist for four years. You cared about getting your dick sucked in front of me, but not enough to say more than a half-assed apology.”
His eyes narrow. “You don’t get it?—”
“No, you don’t get it, Swag. You don’t get to walk back into my life, kiss me one second, humiliate me the next, and then act like you’re doing me a favor by ordering me around.”
He takes a step forward, but I don’t back down. Not this time.
“I’ve had to take care of myself since I was a kid. You think this place sucks? Fine. It does. But it’s mine. I paid for it. It might not be much, but it’s the first time in a long time I’ve had something that’s mine.”
His jaw ticks. I see the war happening behind his eyes. The part of him that wants to yank me out of here and the part that knows he shouldn’t.
“I’m not your responsibility,” I say softly. “Not anymore. And if you’re only doing this out of guilt, save it.”
A beat of silence. Then his voice drops to something low and lethal.
“You think this is about guilt?”
“Isn’t it?”
He exhales sharply and turns toward the door. “Fine. Stay in this shithole.”
My throat tightens. “Fine.”
He opens the door but stops in the threshold, voice hard and cold. “Lock the damn door, Jo-Leigh. Don’t make me come back here to find you hurt or worse.”
“Don’t worry,” I mutter, “you won’t have to.”
And then he leaves.