Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Lacey
The sun is already too damn bright, baking the front steps beneath me and turning the concrete into a skillet under my thighs. I loop my arms around my knees, pulling them to my chest and making myself as small as possible just as Aero storms out of the clubhouse door.
He’s moving like a man on a mission. His boots hit the concrete in a steady rhythm and don’t break stride.
The rest of the crew follow, the adrenaline lingering in their wake as they spread out toward their bikes.
Aero doesn’t even cast a glance in my direction.
I hold my breath like a fool as he passes me by, ignoring the way the concrete bites into my skin.
The ache in my chest burns hotter than the sun overhead.
I should be used to this part. The silence.
The dismissal. I’ve been on the fringes of club life long enough to know how it works.
Men like him, like my brother, they don’t bend for anyone.
The club comes first, and women like me…
we fall somewhere close to last. But that doesn’t stop the tears from threatening the edges of my eyes.
I watch as the ten of them swing onto their bikes and roll out in formation, the thunder of their engines vibrating through the foundation beneath me.
I shove to my feet, brushing the back of my legs with a little more force than necessary, like I can erase the heat or the humiliation.
Then I storm inside. The door crashes behind me, but I don’t stop moving until I hit my room.
A few people glance my way. No one says anything.
No one asks if I’m okay. Not that I’d tell them if they did.
By the time I make it inside and shut the door, I’m shaking. My hands find the edge of the dresser, gripping tight like it might hold me upright. My stomach twists. My breath catches somewhere between rage and heartbreak.
God, what the hell am I doing?
This isn’t me. I don’t cry over men. I don’t fall apart. But here I am, flushed cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, and I hate it. I’ve never been the type to sit pretty and wait to be seen. I don’t beg. I’m strong. I’ve had to be.
My shoulders rise and fall as I force the breath back into my lungs. I won’t fall apart. Not over him. Not over this.
My fingers dig into the dresser edge, and something sharp presses into my skin. I blink hard, forcing the tears away, and my gaze lands on the crumpled business card.
Garett Ricci’s name stares back at me. I stare at it for a long second before reaching for it. I drop onto the edge of the bed and slide my finger over the number.
I should throw it away.
Instead, I grab my phone and dial.
It rings once, twice. After the third ring he answers.
“Lacey.” There’s a smug satisfaction in his voice. “I hoped I’d hear from you.”
“How did you know it was me?” My voice cracks over the lump forming in my throat.
“Lucky guess. What can I do for you?”
I swallow hard, clearing my throat before I lose my courage. “Is the offer still on the table?”
“Of course. When can we meet?”
“I can be there in an hour.” I tell him, my nerves steadying.
“Perfect. I’ll see you soon.”
The moment I hang up, a knock taps soft against my door.
“Lacey?” Emery’s voice filters through, “It’s me. Can I come in?”
“Come in,” I say, through the unshed tears I still refuse to let fall.
She slips inside and shuts the door behind her, giving me the kind of look only your best friend can give, the one that sees right through the front you’re putting on. “Are you Okay?”
“I don’t want to talk about Aero.” I snap harsher than I intend to.
She nods, stepping farther in. “You don’t have to. But I know that look. You’re up to something.”
She crosses the room and sits on the edge of my bed next to me.
I don’t answer, I just show her the card in my hand.
Her eyebrows raise. “Ricci?”
“I’m not running away with him,” I mutter, half-laughing. “He offered me a job.”
Emery’s brows knit closer. “Are you sure about this?”
“I need something of my own. Something that’s mine.” My voice shakes, and I hate how raw it sounds. “I need to get back to me. And this is a step in that direction.”
“You have something here,” she says, her voice soft. “You have me. You have all of us.”
“No, Emery. I have you. I’m your friend. That’s not the same as being one of you.”
She flinches like I slapped her. “You’re not just my friend. You’re my best friend. That makes you family. That makes you one of us.”
Her words slam into my chest, because they echo Aero’s from this morning. “You’re Emery’s friend.” That’s all I am to him. Not one of them. Not his Ol’ Lady. I’m Emery’s friend and way to pass the time. I’m done being less than.
I straighten my spine, shoving off the bed. “I appreciate everything this club has done. I do. I’m grateful for the roof, the safety. But I can’t be a charity case. I need to work. I need to stand on my own two feet.”
She studies me, her eyes brimming with worry.
“I get it, but working for him?” she asks. “Ricci? I don’t know anything about him but I know that name puts Aero on edge. He’s not going to like this.”
I shrug. “It’s just a job. What harm is there? Besides, he doesn't have to know. I don’t need his permission.”
Her expression says she’s not convinced. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do.” I lie, “I’m good at taking care of myself. It’ll be fine.”
I stand, already reaching for the handle on the closet door. Hesitantly, Emery pushes off the bed and tosses me one last look of warning that I catch in the mirror in front of me. “Promise me if anything feels off, anything at all, you tell me.”
I turn to face her, taking both her hands in mine, “You worry too much but if it makes you feel better, I promise.”
“Fine.” She relents and drops my hands, “We’ll talk when you get back.”
“Absolutely.” I tell her, my voice clipped and turn away as she lets herself out. I don't watch her leave. I can't. If I do, the crack forming inside me might split wide open.
The door clicks shut, and I thumb through the closet shoving aside soft cotton sundresses like they personally offend me. I don't want sweet. I don't want safe. I want armor.
My hand closes around a hanger holding the perfect black dress.
Sleek, professional. Not too much but enough to remind myself, and everyone else, that I’m not to be underestimated.
I yank it free, stripping down and slipping into it, smoothing the fabric down my hips like slipping a blade into a sheath.
I pin my hair up with fast, practiced movements, not caring if a few strands fall loose. They’ll work in my favor. I swipe just enough color onto my lips to remind myself that I still know how to play the game. And win it.
Thirty minutes later, I walk out of the clubhouse with my head held high and my heels clicking against the concrete like a battle drum.
I’m a survivor. Always have been. And I’m damn good at it.