Chapter 22 Zoey
ZOEY
What the hell did I do?
The thought hits before I even open my eyes.
I lie there for a long second, staring at my bedroom ceiling, trying not to move or think and failing at both instantaneously.
Everything from yesterday comes back in pieces. The gunfire. The shock. The shower. Him.
Shit.
Whiz.
Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I squeeze my eyes shut again like that might undo the memory entirely. It doesn’t. If anything, it sharpens it, makes it clearer.
“What the hell did I do?” I whisper out loud this time and then turn my head.
Whiz is still there.
He’s flat on his back, one arm bent under his head, and he’s fast asleep. The lines of tension that usually define him are softened enough to make him look… peaceful, less like someone carrying around the weight of the world.
Seeing him like this does funny things to my chest.
I stare at him longer than I should, my mind running in circles. Maybe I can chalk up last night to the situation, the trauma or adrenaline or… anything other than what it really was: two people giving in to feelings they refuse to name and grasping onto something good.
You’re an idiot, Zo. A complete fucking idiot who’s lying to herself.
Because it wasn’t the situation or the trauma or the adrenaline.
Yes, it was.
No, it absolutely was not.
I close my eyes and suck in a breath, trying to calm myself before I do something stupid like wake him up or start overthinking this even more than I already have. When I finally sit up, I move carefully, easing out of the bed like I’m trying not to disturb something fragile.
Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?
The bathroom light is still on from last night, and our clothes are still on the floor. I avoid looking at myself in the mirror as I turn on the shower. The water helps ground me, and by the time I’m done, my head is clearer, the panic dulled to a manageable degree.
I wrap a towel around myself and return to the bedroom where I find my bed empty. For a fraction of a second, the panic returns, although it’s for an entirely different reason.
He left. The asshole actually left.
I get dressed, my anger building with every minute that passes, but then I hear a clanking sound coming from the kitchen.
He stayed.
Relief crashes over me like a tidal wave. I choose not to focus on the feeling because it doesn’t mean anything. I’m just your average girl who doesn’t like to be walked out on.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that.
Ignoring my inner self, I dress quickly and head to the kitchen.
Whiz is standing in front of the open fridge, wearing nothing but an offended expression.
“This is depressing,” he mutters without looking at me.
I lean against the counter, my eyes trained on his bare ass. I might have been known as Dead Zone Zoey, but I’m not dead. Whiz is sexy as hell.
When I clear my throat, Whiz straightens and glances over his shoulder. “Like what you see?”
“Nope,” I say automatically, but his smirk tells me he knows I’m lying. I clear my throat again. “So, what’s depressing?”
“You don’t have any food.”
“I just moved in, remember?”
“So. You still need to eat.”
“There are eggs,” I point out.
He looks unconvinced. “Questionable eggs.”
“They’re fine.”
He shuts the fridge with a sigh. “We should go grocery shopping.”
The suggestion is so completely, absurdly normal that it almost makes me laugh.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “We probably should.”
He nods once like that settles it, then starts to walk toward the door.
“Uh, Whiz,” I call after him.
“What?” he snaps, clearly not happy about being stopped.
I tip my head at him. “Forgetting something?”
He glances down, then chuckles. “Be right back.”
He returns a minute later wearing his clothes from yesterday, and he keeps shaking his legs out and adjusting himself, I assume because the fabric is still damp.
“Okay, now we can go. But we have to stop at the clubhouse first.” He pulls his shirt away from his torso. “These are still wet, and none of my stuff got dropped off last night.”
The clubhouse is nothing like I’d imagined.
First of all, who the hell lives in an airplane hanger? Kings of Anarchy MC, apparently. Second, it’s so much louder, busier and chaotic than I anticipated. It takes a few seconds for people to realize we walked in, but as soon as they do, all focus lands on… well, me.
Whiz doesn’t seem to notice, nor does he linger.
“Stay here,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the main room. “I’ll be back.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone.
I stand there for about three seconds before it really sinks in that I’m alone, in the middle of a biker clubhouse, and surrounded by people who absolutely know I’m new.
“Fresh meat.”
I turn toward the voice and find five women staring at me like I just arrived to be their entertainment for the next hour.
Great.
“Don’t scare her off,” one says, stepping forward with a grin. “She looks like she might bolt.”
“I’m not going to bolt,” I say, even though every instinct I have demands that I do.
“Good,” the first one replies. “That’d be boring. I’m Peach.”
She points around the group one by one. “Savvy, Star, Lulu, and Patti.”
“And you are?” another—Patti—asks.
“Zoey.”
Recognition flashes across a couple of their faces. “Death’s Door girl,” Star says.
“That’s me,” I reply carefully.
“Well,” Patti says with a grin. “You picked one hell of a job.”
My hackles rise at her tone, and I have to mentally remind myself that these women aren’t the kids who teased me relentlessly when I was growing up.
Two more women approach, and their energy is much different than the five currently assessing me.
“Hi,” one says, offering her hand. “I’m Mellie, Lyric’s old lady, and this is Lucy, Zombie’s better half.”
Lucy’s smile is warm as she offers her hand next. “You’re the new mortician.”
“Yes.”
“How’s that working out for you?” Mellie asks.
“Ask me again in a week.”
That earns me a round of laughter.
“Oh, I like her,” Savvy announces. “She’s staying.”
“Lucky you,” I mutter.
“Girls night,” Lulu suddenly says, like she’s just had the best idea in the world. “We’re overdue.”
“Yes,” Lulu chimes in. “You have to come. It’s practically a requirement.”
“I don’t know, I’m ki—
“You’re gonna want to come,” Mellie cuts in, grinning. “Trust me.”
“Okay,” I say, giving in, and their reaction is immediate.
“Yes!”
“Thank God.”
“Finally, someone new.”
“Do you drink?” Star asks.
“Yes.”
“Perfect.”
We’re in the middle of debating drinks versus wine versus ‘whatever doesn’t taste like regret’ when—
“No.”
That single word, and that demanding tone cuts straight through our planning. I look over my shoulder and see Whiz standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression flat.
“That’s not happening,” he says as if he hadn’t already spoken.
The entire group turns toward him like a pack of wolves spotting prey.
“Excuse you?” Savvy snaps.
“It’s not safe,” he says, but his tone is a little softer, and I can tell by the way his body relaxes slightly that he respects her.
“Neither are we,” Savvy fires back.
“This isn’t the same thing,” he replies.
“It’s literally exactly the same thing,” Lulu argues.
I watch the whole exchange, amusement bubbling in my chest.
“Whiz,” Mellie says, stepping closer to me. “You don’t get to cancel girls' night.”
“I do when it puts her at risk,” he counters, tipping his head at me.
“She’s already at risk,” Lucy reminds him. “That didn’t stop her from doing her job yesterday.”
“We’ll keep it contained to the clubhouse,” I say before Whiz can come up with another reason why girls' night is a bad idea. “If that makes it better.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Fine,” he says finally. “At the clubhouse and nowhere else.”
The girls practically cheer, and I can’t stop my smile.
“Thank you,” I say, rising onto my tiptoes to kiss his cheek as my earlier regret melts away and is replaced by something more profound.
I’m starting to care about Whiz. I shouldn’t, but I do.
Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing is yet to be determined.