Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Lacey
The light filtering through the blinds is bright and warm when I stir.
For a second, I’m content, cocooned in the tangle of sheets and the lingering scent of sex and him in my nose.
I reach across the mattress, my fingers splaying across the sheets.
It’s cold and empty. My stomach drops before my eyes even open.
No. Please, no.
I sit up slowly, the ache between my thighs a sharp reminder of last night. Of the way he claimed me. Of everything he said, everything he made me feel with his body, with his mouth, with his damn words.
Tomorrow, I’m going to wake up with you next to me. And I’m not letting you go again.
Liar.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stare across the room.
His cut is gone. His boots, the ones he kicked off in a hurry last night, leaving one tipped on its side near the bed are gone too. The dresser’s empty. His keys, his gun… all gone. So is he.
The silence punches me in the chest harder than any fist ever could. I press my hands to my face, trying to will the burn behind my eyes away. I told myself not to believe him. I knew better. He’s always said just enough to keep me tethered, only to yank the chain when I got too close.
But last night felt different. Didn’t it?
I stand, pulling the sheet around my naked body like it’ll shield me from the sting of the hard truth.
There’s no note. No message on my phone. Not a single fucking sign that I meant anything more to him than another night of control and sex.
The Lacey from a few months ago would rage. Would tear his room apart, scream at the walls, and storm out like fire licked her heels.
But that girl’s tired. I’m so damn tired of his indecisiveness making my head spin. I’m tired of always hoping this time is the one where he chooses me instead of the club. Instead of his demons. Instead of whatever the hell it is that keeps him so damn guarded.
I spot my dress on the floor, ripped to shreds from his jealous hands. I couldn’t wear it again even if I wanted to. And I definitely don’t.
My bra’s half under the bed. I grab it, along with my underwear, my fingers shaking just enough to piss me off. I knot the sheet tighter around my chest and cross the room, my bare feet brushing the carpet as I slip out into the hallway.
I don’t care who sees me. Everyone here knows about us. About this game Aero plays with my heart. He’s hot, he’s cold, he’s here, he’s gone. And I keep letting him.
I move down the hall like a ghost, silent but not small. My head’s high, my shoulders squared, but every step feels like I’m drifting, untethered, and raw. The sheet twisted around me clings like a chain. His touch, his words, now feel like a dream slipping through my fingers.
I slip into my room and close the door behind me with a quiet click.
Cold air brushes across my bare skin as I let the sheet fall away from my body.
I cross the room and push open the bathroom door, turning the knob until the water hisses out in a scalding stream.
I step beneath it, welcoming the burn. My tears mix with the stream, hot and bitter, and I don’t hold them back.
No one can see me here. No one can judge.
This isn’t about washing him off, it’s about feeling something other than hollow.
I brace my palms against the tile, my shoulders shaking, and let them fall.
Eventually, the water runs cold, but I stay in it longer than I should, letting the sting numb me down to the bone. The tears are gone now. I’m drained, empty, and raw, but standing.
I shut off the water and step out, grabbing a towel from the rack.
I dry myself, each swipe scrubbing away the parts of me that still ache.
I pull myself together, piece by jagged piece.
No more crying. No more waiting for someone who walks away before the sun even rises.
Someone who makes promises he doesn’t intend to keep.
Padding across the floor, I move to the dresser and yank open the top drawer.
Inside I find one of Aero’s Royal Bastards black cotton T-shirts.
My fingers graze the soft fabric worn thin in all the places his body used to stretch it.
I remember the night he left it behind, how it smelled like him for days.
For a heartbeat, I consider putting it on, letting myself curl into it like it could hold me together. But I shake the thought away.
I shove it to the back of the drawer and grab my own clothes instead. Changing into black leggings, and a loose charcoal gray tank that hangs low on one shoulder.
I dress quickly, slipping into my boots and tying my damp hair up into a knot at the top of my head. A smear of mascara lingers beneath one eye in the mirror, and I wipe it away with the heel of my hand.
I pull open my door and make my way down to the common rooms. My focus now is on making things right with Emery, instead of everything that’s wrong between me and Aero.
I find Emery, perched on a barstool with a cup of coffee cradled between her hands. She’s in ripped jeans and an oversized shirt that swallows her tiny frame, her red hair looped through the back of a baseball cap.
I hesitate in the doorway, biting the inside of my cheek. She looks up. Her expression is soft like nothing ever happened. She motions to the stool beside her. “Didn’t think I’d see you before noon.”
“Hey,” I say, my voice rough as gravel, “What time is it?
Emery glances at her phone on the bar, “Eleven fifty-nine.”
I chuckle and take a seat next to her. The stool creaks beneath me. “I’m sorry Em. I said some shit last night…”
She shrugs off my apology. “Please, we’ve said worse.”
“Still. I was out of line.”
“I told Surge where you were because I was worried. I knew he would tell Aero. I knew he would protect you and from the looks of it he did more than that.”
I wave a hand, not wanting to unpack that mess. Not yet. “Thank you for being my friend even when I’m stubborn as shit.”
“That’s a trait we have in common. You’re just louder.”
My lips twitch. Then hers do too, and suddenly we’re both laughing. It’s quiet at first, then deeper, and louder. The sound fills the space between us, understanding, forgiveness, and love all twisted together.
Emery wipes the corner of her eye, still smiling. “God, I love your bitchy ass.”
I grin, the weight on my chest a little lighter. “Yeah… I love you too.”
Emery drags her oversized bag across the bar top, the metal zipper scraping loud against the wood. “You can tell me about the sex in the car.”
I snort. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”
“Suit yourself.” She shrugs, eyes gleaming with mischief while rifling through the mess in her bag. “I’m checking out a property today for the shelter. You coming?”
“Yeah. Of course.” I nod, glancing around the common room and suddenly realizing how empty it is, “Surge not tagging along?”
She yanks her keys free with a victorious grin, the jingle loud in the quietness. “Nah. Club business. You know how it is. All I got was they’ve got a job tonight, something that might run late.”
My heart skips a beat. My breath catches in my throat, but I play it cool even though hope flickers to life in my chest, fragile but real. Maybe that’s why Aero left this morning, and not because he regretted last night. That thought alone lets me breathe a little easier.
The clubhouse door swings shut behind us with a clang, and the midday sun nearly blinds me. Emery’s already striding ahead. I tug the knot in my hair tighter and follow her, the heat rising off the blacktop like steam.
Emery’s beat-up old Bronco sits crooked in its usual spot. It’s dusty, dented, and rattles when you hit forty. She hates the damn thing, only bought it dirt cheap because unlike California, you can’t ride year-round out here.
“Want me to drive?” I ask. My Subaru Outback is parked a few spots down. It’s not showy, but it’s practical, dependable. It’s the one thing in my life I refuse to let go to shit.
She shakes her head, tossing her bag in the backseat, half-zipped, its contents spilling out. “Nah. You navigate.”
I nod and slide into the passenger seat. It smells like old fast food and lavender air freshener. Emery hands me a sheet of paper, its corner crumpled from her grip. I scan it, find the address, and plug it into the GPS on my phone.
The Bronco rattles as Emery pulls out of the lot, her sunglasses sliding down her nose. She pushes them back up with one finger, eyes on the road.
“You remember that time we broke down on the 405 in your mom’s minivan?” she asks, a grin tugging at her lips.
I snort. “Broke down? Emery, it caught fire.”
She laughs, the sound sharp and familiar, like a match strike. “Right. You were crying over your heels in the backseat.”
“They were Jimmy Choos knockoffs, and they melted.”
“You still wore them for a week.”
I grin, “They matched the trauma.”
We fall into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes from years of surviving everything from heartbreak to engine failure together.
The Bronco wheezes through town, suspension groaning over potholes like it’s begging for mercy.
Emery hums along to some old alt-rock station and I roll down the window to let in some air.
Her hand flicks the turn signal. Mine rests on the open window frame.
By the time we cross into the east side the shopping center creeps into view.
It’s a half-dead strip mall where the parking lot’s cracked and overgrown with weeds. A payday loan place anchors one end, a boarded-up vape shop on the other. In the middle sits what used to be a diner with peeling red letters above the door and windows smeared with grime.
Emery slows as we pull in, the Bronco bumping over a pothole the size of a sinkhole. She parks crooked in front of the diner.
“Quinn said it’s been empty for two years,” Emery says, already hopping out and slamming the door. “Last tenant got caught running oxy out the back.”