Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Aero
The morning’s too damn quiet to silence the war raging inside my head. Last night I claimed her in every way possible out of rage and jealousy and the part of me that feels like I have to prove myself to men like Garett Ricci, despite what I’ve made of myself in the last four years.
She is mine. Even when I push her away. Even when she hates me for it. But that word, mine, feels dangerous in my head now, not comforting. Because men like me don’t get to keep things like her. Not for long. And sure as hell not forever.
But I fucking claimed her.
Not with flowers and whispered words. I claimed her with teeth and bruises and sweat. With everything I know how to give. Pain and pleasure mixed in one brutal knot.
But now what?
Her body’s marked up from my grip. Her lips are still swollen from my mouth. I can still smell her on me.
The weight in my chest is a bitch, heavy and stealing my breath as I stare at her.
Sunlight filters through the blinds in slats, cutting across Lacey’s bare skin like a cage of gold.
She’s curled into my side, her bare leg draped over mine like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
Her breathing’s soft and steady, her mouth slightly parted, her cheek pressed against my pillow.
She looks so soft and peaceful. The sight of her like this should calm the war raging in me, but it doesn’t.
I should keep holding her. I should wake her up with soft kisses, but I’m not that guy. I never was.
Instead, I ease my arm out from under her, being careful not to wake her.
The second her skin leaves mine, I feel the cold rush in.
I swing my legs over and sit at the edge of the bed, counting how many ways I could fuck this up.
Not just Lacey, but everything. The Club’s bleeding cash.
Ricci’s making moves, and I’m too busy losing my damn mind over a woman I don’t deserve.
I stand quietly, being careful not to make a sound.
Her lashes flutter like she might wake, and I pause, holding my breath.
If she opens those eyes, I’m done. I’ll crawl back into bed like a fucking weak man, pull her into my arms and lie to her face about forever.
I don’t have the right words, or the right timing. So I do what I always do.
I leave, because I don’t know how to stay.
I grab my jeans off the floor, pull them on, then snatch my shirt from the chair. My boots thud against the floor as I slide them on. I swipe my gun, and my keys I tossed on the dresser last night. The room smells like sex and sweat and her, and I fight the urge to look back.
I swing my cut onto my shoulders before I go out there and become the man the world expects me to be.
The man who can’t keep her.
I shut the bedroom door behind me and regret slams into my chest like a punch.
I don’t go far. I lean against the wall in the hallway outside my room, my hands braced on my knees like I’ve taken a hit I wasn’t ready for.
Last night she looked at me like I was everything. Like maybe this time, I wasn’t going to wreck her. And what did I just do? I snuck out like a damn coward while she’s still in my bed. Still believing my lies.
“You’re mine, Bambola.”
Fuck.
I didn’t say it just to get her off. I meant it. God help me, I meant every syllable. But she deserves better than some broken bastard who solves problems with his fists and never stays the morning after.
I pull myself together the best I can and make my way downstairs. What’s done is done. She’s going to hate me now but not more than I hate myself. I tell myself that she’s better off without me and if she shuts me out permanently this time, I only have myself to blame.
The clubhouse is quiet this early, only the soft hum of the TV in the commons room hinting anyone’s awake.
I don’t bother looking to see who it is, cause frankly I don’t give a damn.
I keep walking toward the kitchen, finding Crank hunched over the counter nursing a cup of black sludge he calls coffee.
“You look like hell,” he says without looking up at me.
“I feel worse.” I grab a mug, pour myself a cup I won’t drink and try to push thoughts of Lacey in my bed out of my mind and focus on my job. “Did our special delivery make it?”
Crank nods. “Prospects checked in. Torrent out in Newport, Rhode Island was appreciative of our gift. Said he had the perfect market for them. The boys should be back this afternoon.”
“Good.” I bring the mug to my lips and take a sip. Crank side eyes me, and my instincts prick up. “Is there something else?”
“Got word early,” he says, lighting a cigarette with one hand, the other wrapped around his coffee. “Quick job. Docks. Low-profile grab, but heavy payoff. Could float the casino if it goes clean.”
I take a slow sip, watching him over the rim. “What kind of cargo?”
He smirks around the cigarette, then flicks ash into a tray already overflowing. “Manifest’s blank. But my guy says it’s weighty. Weapons, most likely. Military grade.” He pauses, eyes narrowing. “Might be connected to the stash we pulled from the warehouse.”
That gets my attention. I straighten, setting the mug down with a dull thud. “Go on.”
“Word is, some Russian crew’s been sniffing around the Eastside. Used to run their product through Ricci’s pipeline, until he iced them out. Now they’re freelancing.”
I cross my arms, leaning back against the counter, the cold edge of the granite biting into my spine. “And this crew at the docks?”
“No real muscle. No patches. Just a few rent-a-thugs playing soldier. They’re sloppy and vulnerable. If we hit them hard and fast, we can make it look like a rival crew jacked the shipment.”
“How clean can we make it?”
Crank grins around the cigarette. “Cleaner than your conscience, Prez.”
I snort. That’s a joke if I ever heard one.
I nod once, “We hit it tonight. In and out before they even realize what the fuck happened.”
Crank smashes out his smoke and nods. He starts rattling off crew names, logistics, timing.
He’s already building the bones of the job while I just stand there with my heart thudding like a war drum I can’t quiet.
I let him talk, let him plan because it’s what he’s good at. What I need him to be good at.
This job might be just what I need. Something to pull my head outta the mess with Lacey, hit Ricci where it hurts, and stack some real cash. Cold, hard, untraceable. Before this casino turns into a damn money pit.
I push off the countertop, the knot in my chest still tight.
“I’ll catch you later,” I give Crank a slap on the back. “Need a minute to clear my head.”
Crank doesn’t question me, he just gives me a grunt and a nod before diving back into the heist plans. He knows the drill. Knows when I need space. Knows better than to poke at the shit behind my eyes.
I step out of the clubhouse and into the cool air that hits me like a bucket of water. The hangover from last night isn’t alcohol, it's guilt, and it clings worse than smoke. I lit a fuse with Lacey I can’t put out.
Her face flashes in my mind. The way she slept, curled up in my sheets like she belonged there. Like I hadn’t already let her down once and might do it again.
I light a cigarette, barely feeling the burn in my chest as I suck it down. I should go back. I should explain. I should fucking try. But the truth is, I don’t know if I can.
So I don’t.
I pace the lot instead, my boots grinding into the gravel, my jaw clenched so tight it aches.
I stare out across the open stretch of road, the kind of space that promises a clean slate, even if it’s a lie.
I flick the cigarette into the dirt, watching the ember fade like the part of me that wants to believe I could have her and keep her.
Then I throw a leg over my bike and tear out of the lot and on to the road.
The wind bites at my face, cuts into my skin, but I welcome it.
The pain reminds me I’m still alive. I take the back roads, the ones that weave through forgotten parts of this city with its abandoned lots, shuttered factories, and streets too cracked for the rich to care about.
I have no destination in my mind. No plan. Just the road stretching out in front of me, endless and empty. Like me.
I made a choice, and right now all I want to do is ride.