Chapter 28
Road
Was the comforter ever this heavy before? Or is there someone in my bed?
I don’t dare to open my eyes, eager to remain unaware of mistakes made on a mixture of alcohol and drugs for as long as possible. I make a mental checklist. I can’t smell feminine perfume or shampoo—yet—but as I rack my brain for memories of last night, I remember dancing with girls, and Sawyer sitting in my lap at some point, but I couldn’t have—
Why would I sleep with a woman ever again after Clyde? Right now, even the thought of another man slobbering over my cock feels disgusting. But if I was really fucked up yesterday—
The weight on top shifts, and my body stiffens, waking up to… a scratchy lick?
That is not a kiss.
“Nutter! You little fucker!” I whine and push the cat off my face where he was about to sit his ass like some feline lap dancer trying to make extra cash.
The ginger cat yowls at me in complaint, and soon several more join in the godawful choir. At least that solves the mystery of why my comforter was heavy. It would be with six damn cats sitting on my chest. I must have left the door open last night.
Now they’re all demanding breakfast, and I cover my ears in despair, sitting up in the bed .
Nutter is right back, this time adamant that he’ll sit on the pillow my head has just vacated. If he thinks his furry butt is going anywhere near Clyde’s T-shirt, he has another thing coming, so I shoo him away.
I pick up the top Clyde left me with at the motel and press it to my face in hope of it soothing my hangover. It still smells like him—of whiskey, smoke, rosemary, and the unique aroma of his own flesh, but the scent is fading with each passing day, slowly replaced by that of my own body. If only the ache radiating deep inside me was as easy to cover.
I roll to my side as the cats rearrange themselves on top of me. It’s not my favorite way to wake up, but it beats having a girl here, or once again staring at the empty space next to me like a lovesick puppy.
It’s not like I’ve spent many nights with Clyde, and I’ve only ever woke up next to him a handful of times—most of them after naps between one fuck and another—but it always felt so satisfying to see his face next to mine. I would often just watch, then wake him up by pulling my fingertips over his stubbly skin.
Couldn’t it have been like that after our night at the motel?
Why? Why did I fucking have to get all honest about Roy’s death, even though it changes nothing?
My face buries deeper into the fragrant folds of the T-shirt, and I groan in helpless anger at myself. Before it happened, Clyde told me we were more than fuckbuddies, that he wanted to make things work, that he wanted to be with me , and I had to ruin it all by the stupid desire to know he’d still choose me if he knew the truth. That he’d want me no matter what happened in the past. That I wouldn’t have to lie to him any longer.
Fat fucking chance.
It’s been three days since I came back home, and all I can think of is the warm apprehension in his eyes when I entered him. The perfect way he felt around me, the warmth of his arms, and the sweetness of his fast, shallow breath on my lips.
All things I can never have again.
I should have salvaged it somehow, made up some fucked-up reason for Roy’s death to obscure the truth that I can’t tell him. He would have believed me. I know it. I could see the yearning to forgive me in his eyes. But how could I lie to him again ?
Where would that lead me ?
Between his legs , an ugly voice in my head suggests from behind the throbbing headache, but that’s not the only thing I want.
I groan at the memory of him gripping me with his thighs, moaning for more of my dick and kissing me so fervently. I didn’t want to steal his affection with another lie.
Still, right now I would make up any bullshit just to hold him, just to feel him stroking my head with so much affection my heart can hardly take it.
I message him often, I’ve tried to call, but there’s no answer, so I’m guessing he’s turned his phone off, and I don’t have his other number. I wouldn’t dare use it even now, because it could put him at risk. I did try going to his house, sat in the bushes nearby for hours, but he’s not been home once. As far as I know, he’s staying at the Butcher clubhouse, where I can’t reach him.
Nausea makes me unwilling to leave the bed yet, but as I’m about to doze off, a loud thump forces me to sit up so fast Nutter rolls off my chest and onto Bagel’s pudgy body resting in my lap. The sudden change of position makes my world spin, brain rattling in my skull as if it’s a bit of plastic floating in a snow globe. I fall back onto the pillow just as confident yet unhurried steps move through my house.
Whoever invaded my space doesn’t try to hide their presence, so I relax and force my eyes open to see Rooster as he stands in the open doorway to my bedroom. He freezes, seeing that my eyes are open, then offers me an awkward smile.
“Heeey, Road! Sorry, the door was open,” he says, entering with a large tray full of plates, cups, and bowls. “Thought I’d bring you breakfast since… you know, it’s already afternoon.”
Is it?
I pinch the bridge of my nose in vain hope that this could somehow help with the congestion and ache I’m feeling, but it’s no use. “I… had a headache.”
“My mom made it.” Rooster puts a big plate of food next to me along with cutlery. Bacon, eggs, a waffle, and even a toast with cheese. All of it reminds me of what Clyde fed me. I’ve never had better bacon than the one he fried for me. I almost see his bright smile as he hands me a plate, and the steaming food in front of me feels bland in comparison.
In fact, the smell of butter makes me a bit ill, but I don’t stop Rooster when he waves Nutter away from the plate.
“Uh… thanks? Did we party together last night, or something?” I ask, reaching for the cup of black coffee, which might be my only salvation right now. It’s bitter, strong, just li ke I like it, but it can’t help with the emptiness I feel each time my thoughts drift to Clyde.
What is he doing? Does he miss me? Was I a mistake to him? Is he plotting revenge with his brothers? Is he considering another lover now that he’s eased into—
I must have clenched my fingers on the cup handle too hard, because it breaks, and the whole fucking cup of coffee falls into my lap, spilling all over the comforter.
“Oh fuck!” Rooster exclaims and tries to grab the T-shirt off me to dab the bedding, but my instinct kicks in and I growl at him like a damn dog. I pull away with it so fast, only Rooster’s reflexes save the plate of food.
He takes a deep breath and stands back awkwardly with my breakfast in hand.
“So… I can take this to the laundry later if you want.”
I glare at him. “What is it, Rooster?”
“I just wanted to say that I know you weren’t all that happy about me stealing the Butchers’ van, and there might be a vote on my membership soon, so if there’s something I can do—”
“ Not the right time , Roost, Jesus Christ,” I growl, kicking off the covers. Thankfully, all the pussies scattered when the coffee spilled onto the comforter. “And you got that right, I am still pissed off over that,” I say, rolling out of bed, still in the clothes I wore last night, in my boots, and with gongs echoing in my head every time I move.
Rooster puts the plate on my table and shifts back with his hands up. “Okay, so when you feel better, maybe we can talk about it. Just let me know what you need, man.”
I need Clyde in my bed, but he can’t get me that, now can he? I wave him off and stare at the food before taking hold of a dry piece of toast. Two of the cats are peeking over the edge of the table, interested in what’s on offer. I don’t stop them when they approach the plates. It’s not like I have the stomach for anything but bread. I’m surprised to notice there are two pills resting on the edge of the tray, alongside a glass of water, so I stuff them in my mouth, hoping it’s Tylenol, or some other thing that can help me with my hangover.
I’m assuming Rooster’s mom wouldn’t give me speed for breakfast.
The change in my behavior has already been noticed, and I need to act normal if I’m to avoid answering uncomfortable questions. So shower it is, and then I need to show myself around the settlement, no matter how little I want to interact with anyone while sober.
I make another attempt to call Clyde, but when that brings me no closure, I shed my clothes and head to the bathroom. The icy water makes me shiver, but in time, I get used to its temperature. The rivulets sliding over my skull and rolling down my sweaty skin feel good, refreshing, but as I rest my forehead against the wall, my one night at Clyde’s place comes right back, and I see myself on my knees, swallowing his cock, and him holding on to my shoulders.
The memory stabs through me, soon turning into a dull ache that has me questioning whether I should have ever approached him for sex in the first place. Back in the hospital, he visited my room to silence me, I’m certain of it, but things settled down after that, and our dying wishes could have been forgotten. But no, I decided to go after the guy whose brother I tortured and killed, like some fucking psycho.
What the hell was I thinking?
I probably wasn’t. The possibility of having him was too tantalizing. The long hair, the strong, tattooed body, the ice-blue eyes, and cocky smirks… And now I’m in over my head, it’s no longer about getting to nail his dimpled ass, and I’ve got no idea how to handle my feelings.
I’ve never gotten like this about any of the few women I’ve slept with, so I assumed that’s who I am. Easygoing and horny, aloof and in it for an orgasm.
Now look at me. An absolute fucking wreck because a guy won’t like me back.
I knock my head against the tiles with a groan, but I don’t get to wallow in self-pity much longer, because the ringing of my phone pulls me out. Deep down, I know it’s not Clyde, but I still run to pick up the call as if my life depends on it.
It’s not him, of course, but one never rejects calls from club brothers so I pick up.
I don’t know why I expected this day to keep floating like a drunken whale, but I have a role in the settlement—as well as the club—and I can’t neglect it just because I’m sad . Problem is, I feel like shit, and I cannot be the enforcer everyone needs me to be if I end up falling over on the way to discipline a thief.
My mind made up, I grab the pot of artificial flowers standing on one of the shelves and remove the small packet of coke from the secret compartment inside it. I might have been overindulging a bit since the fiasco with Clyde, but who doesn’t sometimes? The world won’t stop simply because I want it to.
I shove old dishes to the middle of the table and eyeball the dust before dividing it into two lines. The rest of it goes right back into the fake plant, so that none of the cats get any stupid ideas, but then I’m breathing in the powdered rush, and the sting in my nose makes me jerk back so fast I nearly fall over on my ass. It hasn’t kicked in yet, but it should by the time I’m ready to face the music in the caves.
I keep heading for the door, only to realize I’ve forgotten something, but once I have my gun, my favorite knife, keys, mints, and a bottle of cold water, I leave behind my home and head down the hill. I know people have been talking behind my back, and likely coming up with the weirdest explanations for the shift in my mood. The best I can do is act as if nothing happened, so everyone moves on. I don’t need pity. I don’t need pats on the back, or encouraging words.
My whole relationship with Clyde happened in the dark, as far away from normal life as we could get, and whatever happens, I will deal with it the same way. On my own.
A whistle comes from a bench I’m passing, and its sharp, high-pitched sound is like a nail hammered deep in my skull. I suck in air to scold whoever’s disturbing my last moments of peace, but when I raise my head, I see Isaac watching me from behind a tattoo magazine. He’s been growing a mustache that looks quite attractive on him, and combined with a white tank top, it makes him resemble the men drawn by Tom of Finland. Which is something I can’t share with him, of course, because what straight guy would know anything about that?
“Uh… what?” I ask, not in the mood for politeness of any kind.
“Don’t know what you’ve done to Rooster, but that boy was running from your house as if there was a fox after him.”
I roll my eyes. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Because why hide that truth? The other secrets I have already weigh too much.
“I heard he’s been drooling to get a patch once he turns eighteen, maybe that will mean room for a new prospect?” He raises his eyebrows.
Isaac’s been with us for a few years, but this must be the first time I hear him expressing interest in joining the motorcycle club. It’s reasonable that he took his time observing us all instead of trying to jump in as soon as he started living here. I trust the guy with Smokey, and there is no higher recommendation than that.
“Might be,” I tell him, then dive my hand into the packet of roasted nuts lying at his side. He doesn’t stop me, and I continue my walk toward the middle of our settlement with the crunchy treat spreading savory saltiness over my tongue. At least the toast settled my stomach enough that I no longer feel sick .
On my way, people greet me with waves and nods, but I ignore any attempts at longer conversations, even when Sad Billy offers me an unexpected smile. God knows what he might want.
I eventually enter the ravine, and while the shouts I’m hearing must be coming from inside the cave, they’re loud enough for me to hear them at a distance. Annoyance throbs in my temples, because I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to deal with any shit, even though this is important club business. At least the coke is already kicking in, and its electric charges make my steps springier.
“What the fuck is that noise?” I shout, entering into the shadow of the rocks and then past the entrance, into the very first chamber. Stalactites and stalagmites—or dragon teeth, as I used to call them before I got to spend way more time in caves than I ever thought I would—grow out of the rock on both sides of the passage, leading me into the twilight.
“Road! Come on over here!” Yeti yells from afar, and it’s followed by the sounds of a scuffle.
I have to slide through a narrow tunnel, but then I emerge in the large cave where some of our production takes place. The workers are picking up broken glass and clearing equipment, while Yeti is holding a guy whose name I don’t remember. I recognize his face though, as he’s caused trouble before.
Yeti, like his nickname suggests, is a massive, hairy guy with a bushy unibrow. “About time!” he yells at me as the man in his hold struggles to pull away.
“I didn’t do anything!”
But Creep is here to corroborate what Yeti has already told me on the phone. “I saw him stealing,” he says plainly. He’s sitting on one of the tables, eyes glued to the man who dared break our rules. His legs are crossed, wiry body leaning forward like a gargoyle on the facade of one of those medieval cathedrals.
“He said he just wanted to take a photo of it,” one of the workers says, stretching in her gray overalls. Olivia might be better at reading than I am, but she overslept when nature was handing out brain cells.
“Really? He wanted to take a photo of it ? Are you fucking kidding me, woman?” Yeti asks, picking up a large bag of fresh leaves, which can send a person’s mind to the other end of the universe when consumed.
“She’s his girlfriend,” Creep fills in.
Her cheeks flush. “I’m not— ”
Creep’s dark eyes turn to her menacingly. “I saw you with him yesterday, beyond the hot springs. And it wasn’t the first time.”
I have to admit I’m impressed by how he seems to know everything about everyone. I just hope he never followed me to any of my meetups with Clyde. The thought is… uncomfortable at best, and my death sentence at worst. He mustn’t know, or Prophet would have confronted me, since everyone knows Creep spies either for the club or for Brigid.
“I literally took it out of his pocket, Road,” Yeti shouts, agitating my pulsing head further.
“It was a mistake,” the guy—Rog, that was his name—whimpers, staring at me from behind a curtain of sweaty bangs.
“Definitely. I saw him take it,” Creep tells me, which is the fucker’s sentence. The people working here are paid handsomely, as well as allowed to live on our land, under our protection. If they choose to betray the trust put in them for a quick buck, I have no sympathy.
The gun cools my sweaty palm as I grab it, but not enough to calm the buzz of annoyance.
The edges of my vision tremble as I pull the trigger.