Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
DRAVEN
W hen I wake up, every inch of my body aches.
I don’t want to move, but at the same time, I can’t stop my limbs from stretching in different directions, causing my sore muscles to groan in protest. As my pained body wriggles, the unmistakable squeal of leather rubbing against leather reminds me I’m not in my bed. My eyes shoot open, and the unfamiliar, darkened room bleeds into view.
I sit up quickly, which is a huge mistake. My head starts to throb as though it’s been thoroughly beat with a blunt object. A blanket I don’t remember covering myself with falls from my chest, folding over onto my lap as I look around.
Diplomas on the wall.
A desk, set diagonally in front of the corner of the room.
An arm chair and a coffee table.
Doc Caraway’s office.
I barely remember coming here earlier … today?
The sky is dark outside of the window, the only light streaming in coming from the street lamps.
Fuck, what time is it? What fucking day is it?
I pull my phone from my jeans and try to power it on, but it’s dead as a doornail. Putting it away again, I relax back onto the sofa and rub my eyes. Dazed, I remain seated for a couple moments.
What am I still doing here?
Why did she let me sleep?
Whatever the reason, I’m grateful. It’s better than being at home, getting reamed out by Royce.
I guess it’s a good thing it’s the middle of the night. I can sneak into the compound while he’s asleep and go a little longer without his wrath. I deserve it, but I don’t need it. The mental tongue lashing I’ve already given myself was severe enough; Royce can’t come anywhere close to making me feel worse than I already do.
I pull the blanket off my lap and stand. I’m still a little unsteady on my feet, but I’m much better than I was when I woke up in the police station. Folding the blanket, I drape it over the back of the sofa before quietly exiting the room.
My intention is to leave the house immediately.
Go outside, light up a cigarette, and find a way to call Atty to see if he can come get my ass so I don’t have to trek the three mile walk home. It feels wrong, being in the doc’s house so late at night, despite the fact that she knows I’m here. And despite the fact that I’ve broken into and snooped around people’s houses at night before with no issue whatsoever.
But my curiosity gets the better of me.
I approach the double doors on the opposite side of the foyer that I followed her through when we first got here. Wrapping my fingers around the handle, I expect to feel disappointment at being met by a locked door.
Only it’s not locked.
Does she have a death wish?
Doesn’t she realize she’s sharing her house with a murderer?
I don’t know what she and Delilah or Harleigh have discussed in the past, but I’d be surprised if she didn’t have at least an inclination of the crimes the club has committed.
She needs to be more cautious.
Walking through the doorway, I’m met by the same large table in the middle of the dining room I remember seeing earlier. There is enough space for at least ten people, and I instantly wonder if she has a large family. For a moment, I want to turn back, wondering if she’s sleeping upstairs with a boyfriend or husband. I’ve never noticed a ring on her finger, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
There’s also the lack of photos on display…
But let’s be real… If she has a significant other, there’s no way any man in his right mind would let some random dude crash on the sofa in her house.
If she were my girl, I sure as fuck wouldn’t be okay with it.
The thought is odd to me—having any girl—as it’s not one I’ve had often in my life. Even when I was with Eva. I thought having a girl is what I wanted because that’s what happens in life.
You grow up, get married, start a family … just like my parents did.
I guess that’s not always the case.
I thought I truly loved Eva. I wanted to love her. I tried to love her. But I just couldn’t. Maybe that's my punishment for the Lillian thing. Eva deserves to be with someone who loves her with everything he has.
And I didn’t.
Walking through the dining room, I make my way into the kitchen. I recall the way I startled the doc earlier. She had a similar reaction to me the first time we met, several years ago when I scared the shit out of her outside her office. I didn’t mean to… However, I didn’t necessarily make my presence known before approaching her either.
Her reaction, though completely understandable, amused me. But the way her long, wavy-brown hair blew gently in the breeze, wafting her floral perfume my way, stirred something in me. Something I’ve come to associate with the kind of guilt that eats away at your soul until you feel like a hollow version of the person you once were, with no sign of salvation.
It’s the same feeling I had to fight through every time I had sex with Eva. At first, it was unbearable, and she thought I was disgusted by her in some way. I finally managed to convince her it was a medical condition and didn’t have anything to do with her. I thought, eventually, it would go away. That I would one day be able to forgive myself for what I did to Lillian. But the entire time I was with Eva, that guilt was ever present.
I spot the doc’s phone plugged in on the counter and hope her charger is the kind that fits my phone. I need to power it up just enough to get Atty’s phone number. Fuck our reliance on these phones. We have no need to memorize anyone’s phone numbers any longer. I breathe a sigh of relief when the screen turns on, but the red flashing battery icon tells me my phone is dead- dead, and it’s going to take a couple minutes before I can even power it on.
I leave it on the counter and dig into my pockets for a cigarette as I walk back toward the front door. But when I flip open the pack of Marlboros, annoyance rocks through me when I see it’s empty.
Motherfucker.
Grinding my molars, I tell myself it’s fine…
My phone will be working in a few minutes, and then Atty will be here shortly after that. I’ll be out of here—the box I feel trapped inside of with the only woman who has ever made my dick twitch—in no time.
I pace the foyer for a minute, not wanting to go back into the kitchen to stare at a phone, waiting for it to charge. When my eyes land on the closed door on the far end of the foyer, I attempt to talk myself out of crossing any more of the doc’s personal boundaries this evening.
But I fail. Miserably.
I walk to the door and open it quietly, curious to see what’s behind it.
When I’m met with a set of stairs, I tell myself to close the door and wait patiently in the kitchen.
But that’s just not in my nature.
I’m thankful I didn’t put my boots back on yet—the noisy, shit-kickers they are. I climb the stairs slowly until I reach the top, making sure to stick to the edge of the steps where they meet the wall—less chance of the old wood making a noise and blowing up my spot that way.
On the landing, I’m met with a door that opens up onto a balcony as well as another hallway that, I presume, leads to the bedrooms.
Apparently, I do possess some measure of decency and respect for others when I opt to check out the small outside space instead of snooping around in what I assume are the more private areas of the doc’s house.
I crack the door open and listen out for any sign of movement or any indication that someone may have heard me. When I’m met with silence, I open the door farther and step outside.
Her house is set in the middle of a fork in the road about three quarters of a mile from the heart of town. I’m sure when this house was built, the scenery from where I stand was breathtaking. Not that it isn’t any longer, but instead of what was once miles of empty fields and hills sprawled out before me is now covered with houses and businesses. Like the bank that sits almost directly in my line of sight.
When I turn to check the view in the other direction, I find this one is much better.
Way more desirable .
My breath leaves me when I spot the doc through the sheer curtain in the window of a door on the opposite side of the balcony. She’s lying in the middle of her mattress, bathed in a sea of fluffy, white bedding. Her chestnut curls are spread across the pillow she’s resting her head on.
My dick grows hard just before the heavy weight of guilt sets in.
Adjusting my jeans, I realize that her eyes are squeezed shut. Her brow is furrowed, as though she’s frustrated or concentrating hard on something.
I think she’s having a nightmare until I realize there’s something moving beneath her blanket. Right where I assume her legs begin. The details begin to click into place as a delicious moan fills my ears through the thin glass pane of the window.
A cold sweat breaks out over my skin, and my heart thumps like the bass of a techno beat in my chest. The familiar, aching guilt I feel when I begin to get even remotely turned-on shoots through my stomach. I force myself to avert my gaze from the sight of the doc pleasuring herself before me.
Retracing my steps, I carefully close the door behind me as I reenter the upstairs hallway. I take the steps down two at a time while trying to keep as quiet as I can be. Padding my way back to the kitchen, I see my phone has just enough juice to call Atticus. Finding his name, I press send and breathe a sigh of relief when he answers after three rings.
“Draven? Where the hell have you been?”
“Long story. Can you come pick me up at the gas station on the corner of Race Horse and Chambersburg?”
“Yeah, I’m leaving now.”
Ending the call, I practically run to the front door, no longer caring how much noise I make. I stuff my feet into my boots and flip the lock on the doorknob before closing the door behind me.
Then I flee down the street like I just robbed the place.
* * *
I had just enough time to get into the store, grab a couple packs of cigarettes, light one up, and take the biggest inhale of my fucking life before Atticus showed up.
He—gratefully—didn’t ask a lot of questions when I got in. Just whether or not I was okay. There’s no doubt all the guys know of the fucking mess I got myself into. But apparently, Royce was a little more tight-lipped about my appointment with the doc.
I can only assume she got a hold of Royce and let him know I passed the fuck out on her couch, or else the boys would have come looking for me long ago.
Well, maybe.
Atty’s old Mustang rumbles over the gravel drive that leads to our compound. The bumpy ride jars my body and doesn’t do anything to ease the ache in my muscles, my stomach, or my cock.
I’m looking forward to getting out of this car, but when we come to a stop in front of the clubhouse, Atticus’s words keep me from vacating as quickly as I’d hoped to.
“You look like shit, man. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m beyond irritated at … everyfuckingthing… But I can’t allow myself to be irritated at him. Especially after he just came to get me at three in the fucking morning.
Am I okay?
Well, let’s see…
I just buried my mother.
I got into a fist fight with my brother at her funeral.
I’ve spent the last two weeks not giving a fuck about anyone or anything.
Shirking all of my duties and responsibilities to both the quarry and the club.
Drinking more than I’ve drank in my entire lifetime.
I went on a death-inducing joyride that ended with my bike smashed to shit in a ditch and me in jail. Which, in hindsight, was the best possible outcome because I could have fucking killed someone.
And now I just woke up from a hungover stupor on the couch of my therapist, who was finger-banging herself one floor above me. Also who—by the way—I may want to fuck. You know … if fucking someone without feeling like I’m going to die from soul-eating guilt is even possible.
I scoff.
“No, Atty. I really don’t think I’m fucking okay.”
“What the hell were you doing in town at three in the morning? How did you get there? Royce told us the cops picked you up but that you were ‘out’ and ‘working on your shit.’ Whatever the hell that means.”
“Listen, can we talk tomorrow or like, next week or something? I can’t even fucking make heads or tails of everything yet. I honestly don’t know how to answer your questions.”
Finally lifting my head, I look at him, my eyes pleading for him to drop it.
“Yeah, man.” The skin between his eyebrows bunches with concern and … pity, maybe. “Of course.”
“Thanks, brother.” I gently knock my fist against his arm before gripping the handle of the door. “I owe you one.”
Before I can get out of the car, he grabs my arm, and my head swivels back in his direction.
“Just get yourself right again, man. That’s all I want from you.”
With a stiff smile, I nod before turning away from him again and exiting the car. When the door slams shut, he drives around the back of the main house until he disappears from my view.
Atty lives in the barracks with the rest of the guys. I used to live there, too. Until Royce and Delilah renovated and moved into the shack on the other side of the property. When Maggie turned it down, Royce insisted I take the primary suite in the main house. I was hesitant, thinking it should go to her, but she was emphatic that she didn’t want anything to do with it. Technically, she still lives here, but she doesn’t come home often anymore.
Not since she caught Royce and Delilah together three years ago.
When I enter the house, I contemplate going directly upstairs and getting into the shower. But there’s something else calling my name. I make my way into the kitchen and pull open the freezer. Digging out the pint-sized delight, I grab a spoon from the drawer then lean back against the island in the middle of the kitchen.
Opening the lid of my favorite Ben and Jerry’s flavor—Chocolate Fudge Brownie—I dig in and practically melt faster than the ice cream does when it hits my tongue.
Moaning, I let my head fall back as I savor the flavors. My entire body feels like it could whither into the floorboards beneath me. Ice cream is my biggest guilty pleasure. I eat it every day, with not so much as the smallest amount of regret.
Well, I eat it every day that I’m not in jail or passing out in sentence-imposed therapy.
Just as I dig out a large brownie chunk and suck it from the spoon, the lights in the kitchen flash bright overhead, and my attention is drawn to a half-asleep Maggie standing in the doorway.
“Jesus, Draven. I thought Royce and Delilah were in here desecrating yet another surface in this house.”
“Sorry,” I mumble around the piece of brownie. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You … didn’t… Not really.”
“Want a bite?” Placing the spoon inside of the container, I hold it out to her.
She rolls her eyes but offers me a soft smile before hopping up on the island next to me. I haven’t seen Maggie smile much in the last couple years. Between her finding out about Royce and Delilah’s relationship then the death of her fiancé, she’s really had a tough go of things. Taking the ice cream from me, she scoops some out.
“So,” she begins once she’s eaten a couple spoonfuls. “Haven’t seen you around a lot lately.”
“Yeah, well I could say the same about you.” I flip the conversation back on her, taking the ice cream as she hands it back to me.
“Yes, but that’s nothing new for me. It’s not normal for you, though, so what’s the deal?”
“I’d tell you, but I don’t want you to think less of me.” I attribute the unexpected honesty to my fatigue.
“Seriously? Draven… Out of everything I know about you, you think you could tell me anything that would make me think any less of you than I already do?”
She looks up at me and laughs. Her glee tugs a smile from the deepest recesses of my soul. Which is no surprise because if anyone can lighten my mood with the way I feel right now, it’s her. Maggie and I have always had a closer, sibling type of bond. We can both be very critical of one another, but we’d have each other’s backs in a heartbeat.
“Oh, you got jokes?”
Taking another bite of a brownie, I hold the spoon between my lips as I replace the lid on the ice cream and put it back in the freezer. After rinsing the utensil, I place it into the dishwasher before joining Maggie at the island again.
I scratch my chin and pucker my lips, readying myself to talk to her.
“I just…” Shaking my head in disbelief of my own behavior, I pull in a deep breath. “I fucked up. Bad.”
Maggie listens intently as I summarize my comings and goings—and all of my fuck-ups—for the past two weeks.
“Draven, don’t forget that I’ve been where you are. I fucking still am where you are. I may not have almost died and gotten arrested, but you’ve seen me break down from time to time. Thinking about Fernando … not having him here… The pain is insurmountable most days.”
She runs her hand gently up and down my bicep to comfort me.
“You need to give yourself some grace. I mean, not too much, though, because risking your own life like that is beyond stupid. So please simmer in your guilt for just a little while longer.”
She smiles, though I know she means every word.
“But in all seriousness, you should think about talking to someone.”
“Jesus. Not you, too.”
When she looks at me like I have two heads, I elaborate.
“Your fath—Royce and the good sheriff of this town decided that, as part of my punishment, I complete ninety days of therapy. That’s where I was today—yesterday.”
“Oh.” Surprise has her eyebrows shooting straight for her hairline. She looks like a deer in headlights, presumably because she never expected I would agree to therapy—which I didn’t, but here we are. “Well that’s good, then!”
“So when are you going to talk to someone, Mags?” Rolling her eyes at me, she looks away.
“Fuck off, Draven.”
I know her. She suggested therapy to be helpful, never imagining I would actually go. That way, I wouldn’t be able to throw it in her face—like I just did. Because whether it’s lawfully ordered or not, I’m going for my issues, but she isn’t.
I laugh—a real, actual laugh—for the first time in ages, and I’m rewarded with a punch to the arm.
“Just trying to be supportive.” My words are nearly drowned out by the sound of her stomping away from me and up the stairs.
My lungs feel heavy as I settle myself against the island again. For a moment, my mind goes back to the doc. Different images of her flash, unwanted, through my mind.
Up against her car the night we met.
Outside of the police station yesterday morning.
In her kitchen.
In her bed…
With her hand between her legs…
I don’t like the thoughts her memory elicits. But whereas I felt sick with guilt at her house—like I always do—right now, all I feel is a delicious, yearning desire.
Fuck, maybe I’m broken? Or would this be considered healed? Have I put my body through so much in the past two weeks that it’s reset itself?
Who fucking knows. But it’s been a long time since I’ve jerked off and actually been able to enjoy it. And I plan to take full advantage of my current state of mind.
Walking out of the kitchen, I hit the lights. I take the stairs two at a time and shout goodnight to Maggie as I pass her closed door.
The shower is calling my name, and I have a feeling it’s going to be one of the best I’ve ever had.