Chapter 29
TWO WEEKS LATER
The engine of his Harley rumbled as he turned onto the compound, headed for the line of hogs parked outside Steel Mustang.
It had been four weeks since he walked through the doors and spotted his woman behind the bar.
It had been twenty-three days since he sliced open Scorpion’s jugular and watched him bleed out in the middle of an empty warehouse.
Twister usually preferred a gun—but it felt only right to exact justice with a blade.
For Phoenix.
For Ali.
He hoped eliminating the bastard she considered a grave threat would be enough to get her home, but with each passing day, it became more obvious—more unavoidable—more frustrating to admit Scorpion wasn’t the only thing that compelled her to run.
Her silence seemed to stretch over an immeasurable, unknowable distance.
Two days after his last message, he went back to Dayton only to find she was gone; and this time, he couldn’t guess where.
Yet, no matter where she was, Twister refused to believe they were finished. All she needed was time. That’s all she’d ever demanded of him—and he loved her enough to give it to her. He couldn’t make her come back. He couldn’t fix what was broken inside of her. But he could wait.
For her, he would fucking wait.
Now, as he killed the engine of his hog and dismounted, he glanced across the expanse of the parking lot.
He wasn’t surprised to see her Bronco was not at the back that night, but neither was he deterred.
As he’d done nearly every night for the last three weeks, he made his way inside, headed straight for the bar.
The band on stage was in the middle of their set, the Thursday night crowd busy enough to keep his brothers occupied but not overwhelmed as they slung drinks.
Wrangler had been pitching in where he could—and it was him behind the bar with Rodeo and Mustang that night.
Mustang spotted Twister as he approached, and the annoyance that marred his brother’s hazel-blue eyes almost made him chuckle.
“Not servin’ you water all night—don’t care what your kutte says. If you’re not here to drink, sit your ass by the door. My muscle’s behind the bar. You could at least make yourself useful.”
Twister understood he wasn’t the only one feeling Ali’s absence, but he was in no mood for attitude. “You know, it’s not my fault she’s not returnin’ your calls,” he replied, any trace of amusement he felt suddenly up in smoke.
“Oh, yeah?” Mustang grumbled with a furrowed brow. “She returnin’ yours?”
Twister didn’t bother with an answer but pulled out an empty barstool and took a seat.
“Corona,” he ordered.
Mustang hesitated, shook his head, then reached for a pint glass.
“Sooner or later, I’m gonna have to put up a job posting,” he muttered as he poured from the tap.
A flash of anger coursed through Twister as he glared at the man. “She’s comin’ back,” he declared.
“So you keep tellin’ me.” Mustang delivered the beer then continued, “Couple weeks ago, I might have believed you.”
“She’s fuckin’ comin’ back,” he semi-repeated.
“Yeah, well, tell that to my wife.”
Mustang walked away before Twister could respond. Not that it mattered. He didn’t know what to say to that, which only pissed him off more. He couldn’t say what bothered him most—Mustang’s doubt, or the whisper of fear he knew he harbored himself; the fear which spoke of his own doubt.
‘Whatever we had, it was just pretend.’
He shook the memory away only to rattle loose another one.
‘Stop tellin’ me I don’t know what’s in my own fuckin’ head. Just leave, Ben. Leave!’
Twister reached for his beer and gulped down a big sip.
The taste held none of its usual appeal, and he suddenly felt the urge to hurl the glass against the wall.
He wanted to see it shatter. He wanted to expel the rage fueled by the helplessness he’d felt since he stood in that motel room, watching his Ali crumble right before his eyes.
The gentle touch of a hand grazed the back of his shoulder, and his heart jumped as he spun in search of her. The disappointment that knocked him square in the middle of his chest at the sight of Lyla standing there left him almost breathless.
“Hey.” She spoke only loud enough to be heard over the music, the expression in her blue eyes as unguarded and hopeful as he’d ever seen on her. Rather than curiosity at what she wanted, he felt angry to be looking into blue eyes rather than the green ones he craved.
He shrugged, signaling his distaste for her touch, and barked, “What do you want?”
She didn’t bristle at his response. Neither did she turn on the attitude he’d learned to expect from her. Instead, she worked her way into the space between him and the empty barstool next to him and propped her elbow on the counter.
“I’m not an idiot, you know? I live at the clubhouse. I’ve got eyes and ears.”
“Lyla—I could give a fuck.”
Her eyes flashed, but she drew in a deep breath and forced a smile. Twister could see she was trying her damnedest not to be a bitch, but he suspected her intentions were far from noble. He didn’t trust her. Never had.
“All I’m saying is I’m here, alright? Whatever you need.” She leaned in closer, speaking softer as she continued, “And whatever happens, I won’t tell.”
And there it was.
Twister was so on edge, he could feel his hands as they began to tremble.
Gripping his beer so as to contain his fury, he got in her face and grumbled, “Hear this—your cunt will never know my dick again. Best chance you got at foolin’ anyone into makin’ you his ol’ lady is if you pack your bags and find yourself a dumb-fuck in another chapter.
“In fact, you get gone, I’ll be so relieved to not have to see your face again, it’ll be me keepin’ my mouth shut.
I won’t tell my brothers how used up you are; how you’ll spread your legs as a ploy; or how you’re so fuckin’ selfish, the only thing you care about is a man’s title and the power it’ll earn you. ”
Her eyes were glassy with tears even as she glowered at him and declared, “That’s not true! How could you say that? After everything we’ve shared?—”
“Lyla, the only thing you’ve shared is your pussy—and the second you took Scorpion’s cock, you sealed your fate. The fact that you don’t know that makes you dumber than I thought. Now, get the fuck out of my face.”
“Twister…” she whimpered pathetically.
He turned away from her, shifting his attention behind the bar as he took another pull from his beer. He knew he was being a cold-hearted bastard, but he didn’t care. Hers was not the touch he wanted to feel. Hers was not the face he wanted to see. Hers was not the voice he wanted to hear.
She’s comin’ home. You know she’s comin’ home , he told himself, repeating it for good measure.
Home.
No longer the slightest bit interested in his beer, he stood, reached for his wallet, and dropped a twenty on the bar. He then stomped his way out the door, leaving Lyla in his wake as he returned to his hog.
It wasn’t long before he was pulling into Ali’s driveway.
Her home.
She wouldn’t leave this place behind. If he was certain of anything, it was that.
When he dismounted, he didn’t bother heading for the front door.
He did what he’d done nearly every day for the last three weeks—he made his way to her back gate, invited himself into her yard, and headed for the hose hooked to the spigot on the side of her house.
As the sun began to set on yet another day without her, he watered her garden in her absence.
He didn’t have a green thumb. He couldn’t say whether he had been doing it right—but the various flowers she’d planted were still alive.
She was still a part of this place. Still his.
He had to believe it.
The alternative was to go back to the way life was before.
Before her.
Before them.
No calls. No flowers. No expectations other than a fun time had by all.
It used to be more than enough. Now, he wanted his woman’s name to light up the screen on his phone.
He wanted to hold the woman whose skin smelled like wildflowers.
And he wanted the kind of promises made with a needle and ink.
Fuck , he thought.