Chapter 9
Shadow
I should’ve thrown the cookies in the trash. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. It’s not like I’ve got a history of making smart choices when it comes to people. Especially not the kind of people who look at me like I’m not a hazard sign.
But I didn’t throw them away. I carried them back to my bike and when I got home, I stared at the plate on my kitchen table for longer than I should have.
I acted like an ass. I know I did. I told myself it was the right thing to do.
That I was saving her the trouble of finding out later. But she ran after me.
Who does that?
She shoved the cookies into my hands like I didn’t get to refuse them, like she’d decided I was taking something good whether I liked it or not. And before I could step back, before I could put distance between us like I always do, she kissed me.
God. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the softness of her lips and the vanilla coconut fragrance of her shower gel or shampoo or whatever it is.
Fawnie.
Coming to Hart was supposed to be a new start. Or at least an escape. Same difference. I wasn’t looking to reinvent myself. I just needed somewhere I wasn’t the loser whose own mother looked at his scars and decided they were proof of something rotten underneath.
I figured if I kept my head down, earned my place in the club, stayed useful, I could exist without being looked at too closely. After a lifetime of being invisible, it was hard to be seen.
Because that’s what it is, isn’t it?
First Preacher taking me in, treating me like I mattered before I knew what to do with that. Giving me a place at the table without making it feel like charity.
Now Fawnie.
But she didn’t just see me. She really saw me. And I don’t know how to deal with that.
So I deal with it the only way I can, I ride through the dark winding roads.
The chill night air cutting through the leather of my vest, but it’s not enough.
She’s there at every turn, and that’s how I find myself at the clubhouse gym at two in the morning.
It’s not fancy. Concrete floors, a couple racks, free weights, a heavy bag that’s seen better days.
I come at night.
I tell myself it’s because the equipment’s free, but that’s bullshit. I come at night because I don’t have to make small talk. I don’t have to sit at the bar and pretend I’m not half outside the conversation.
Five years in this club and I still skulk in the shadows like I’m waiting for someone to notice I don’t quite fit.
It’s shitty. I know it is. After five years I should be more a part of things. I should be in there with the others, arguing about nothing, laughing at stories I’ve heard before.
Instead, I orbit. Close enough to belong, far enough to pretend I don’t.
I load the bar with more weight than I probably need and lie back on the bench. The metal is cool under my palms.
Lift.
Lower.
Lift.
The strain builds fast. My back tightens, scar tissue pulling the way it always does when I push too hard. There’s a line of pain that runs down the center of it, a reminder that skin doesn’t forget fire.
Good.
Pain is a distraction.
Pain is simple.
I rack the bar and sit up, wiping sweat from my face with the hem of my t-shirt. Through the open door I can hear the low rumble of the clubhouse. A few brothers are still awake.
I think about my club brothers. They’ve built lives here. Tyrant and Lark, Raiden and Ella, Atlas and Willa, Dravin and Kael, Lynette and Bullet, Crow and Tarynn… The list goes on.
I’m not jealous.
That’s not it.
But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to walk into a room and not feel like I’m trespassing in it. To have someone look at me and not turn away in disgust.
You don’t deserve that. You’re a waste of space.
And there it is. My inner snark reminding me who I am. They’re deserving of it, but who would look at me that way? My mom was right. The scars just act as a warning. But Fawnie saw beyond it…
Hero worship. That’s all it is. She’ll realize you’re a mess soon enough.
Dammit. I grab the bar again and press harder than I need to, like I can burn the memory out through muscle and strain. Let the pain drown everything else out.
I don’t know how long I’ve been doing reps when the door opens behind me.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
It’s Carver. Another brother who found his happy ending.
Preacher keeps telling me I should speak to him.
That he might understand some of what I’m going through.
He hid away too, until Dravin and Kael crossed paths with him.
He thought he was a monster. We’re both scarred, but in different ways. I wonder if Preacher sent him.
For a moment I panic and wonder if Fawnie told her father about what happened the other night, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have.
I don’t bother turning right away. “Thought you’d be home with Bronte and Elowen at this time.”
“Got a meeting with a new client tomorrow. Easier staying here, than having to wake the whole house up early.”
I sit up and glance over. He’s got that same stiffness in his posture he always has.
He’s a sculptor and a slab of stone crushed him a few years back.
He was pretty badly injured and shut himself away from everyone.
Including Bronte. He never knew he was a father, he was too wrapped up in feeling sorry for himself to care, and from what I’ve heard, she was too worried about him to tell him.
He grabs a pair of dumbbells and starts working through curls like he’s not about to stick his nose in my business.
“You’ve been quiet the past week,” he says.
“I’m always quiet.”
“Yeah, but it’s different.”
I shrug. No one knows my story. Well, they didn’t. Now Preacher knows I wasn’t burned in a car wreck but after rescuing his daughter. Part of me wants to tell someone what a fuck up my life is, but that’s not who I am. “Didn’t feel like talking.”
Carver watches me for a second, then says, “You’re allowed to want things, Shadow.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Is that what this is about?”
“You tell me.”
I stand and move to the rack, needing something heavier. “There’s nothing to tell.”
Carver sets the weights down and leans back against the wall. “You think I didn’t go through it?” he asks.
“Through what?”
“Looking in the mirror after the accident and wondering who the hell would choose this.”
I glance at him despite myself.
“You had her before,” I say, the bitterness slipping out before I can catch it.
His expression tightens. “Before what?”
“Before you got crushed. She knew you before.”
“With me,” I continue, “there’s no before. I’ve always been like this. Except now I’m like this with scars.”
The words hang there.
Carver puts down the dumbbell. “You think that made it easier?” he asks. “You think any of this is easy? You think I was happy learning that Bronte hid her pregnancy and kept the existence of my daughter from me because she was scared it would break me?”
I don’t answer. Because what can you say to that?
He exhales. “It’s not a fairy tale, Shadow. It’s work. It’s fucking hard work. It’s choosing it every day. Even when you don’t feel worth choosing.”
I look away.
“How can you do it?” I ask quietly, hating that I’m asking at all. “How can you just… step into it? Have a family. Laugh like everything’s okay.”
Carver gives a smile. “Because I decided I didn’t want to sit on the outside looking in forever. Because it’s not all about me.”
That hits closer than I’d like.
He studies me. “You’re not the only one who feels like he doesn’t fit. I thought it was just me, but there’s other brothers here who have problems. But no one talks about it.”
“I don’t feel like I don’t fit,” I say automatically.
He raises a brow.
I sigh. “Fine. Maybe I do.”
Carver nods like that’s enough honesty for one night. “You don’t have to stay there.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “That supposed to inspire me?”
“No,” he says. “It’s just the truth. You might be the prisoner, but you’re also the jailor.”
I stiffen at his words.
“Anyway, I better go get my beauty sleep. Early start tomorrow,” he says as he sets the equipment back and leaves me alone with my thoughts.
By the time I leave the gym, sweat-soaked and shaky, it’s almost four.
Rather than go home, I go to my room at the clubhouse too tired to ride.
I drag a hand down my face and head for the shower.
There’s no mirrors in my room. Not because I didn’t want them, but because whoever set these rooms up never considered that bikers would want to look at themselves.
Whatever reason, I’m thankful I can’t see myself as I stand there naked. The shower is set to cold.
Always cold.
Heat is pain.
The water hits me like a punch. My breath leaves my body in a harsh exhale. I brace both hands against the tile and let it run over my shoulders, down my chest, over my back.
The scars on my back react the way they always do—tightening, pulling, the sensation sharp even under cold. Like my skin remembers fire no matter what temperature I give it.
Good. Let it hurt. At least when it’s hurting it stops me remembering.
I close my eyes and see her anyway. Her face, close. Her brows drawn like she was mad at me and still couldn’t stop herself. Her mouth parting before she kissed me. The way she smelled of vanilla and coconut.
My pulse trips.
My body reacts in a way I can’t control, even as the water runs cold enough to numb me, my cock is hard.
I press my forehead to the tile.
“Stop,” I mutter, like I’m talking to myself. Like I’m talking to my body. Like either of them listen.
But the image doesn’t leave, it gets more vivid and my head fills in things I don’t have any right imagining.
Fawnie in my room. Fawnie on my bed. Her eyes looking at me all dark and lust-filled rather than with pity.
That wasn’t a pity kiss.
The way she kissed me. It was tender, it was sweet. Those lips.
Ah fuck.
My hand slides down my stomach without thinking, chasing sensation just to prove I can still feel something besides pain. It’s not gentle. Nothing about me is gentle. I grip my cock and slide my hand down the shaft.
What would her lips feel like wrapped around me?
Her mouth hot and wet.
Fawnie taking me in deep.
I work myself faster, imaging her on her knees in front of me. Her cheeks hollowed as I fuck her face. Her eyes watering as she opens for me.
God I’m a sick bastard. This woman is being kind and here I am jerking off in the shower to thoughts of her. I try and push it out of my mind. My hand gripping tighter, my other hand flat on the wall.
Would she moan. What would she taste like?
That image does it. Me on my knees, her legs parted, her pussy glistening and wet. Lapping her seam, tasting her honey and sucking her clit while she squirms under me.
I’m close, my breath is heaving as I stroke harder. I brace my hand against the tiles and let my mind go. She’s tight, her walls gripping me, milking me, as I thrust in harder. I can see her head thrown back, her lips parted as she comes.
That does it. I come in hot jets, painting the tiles with my release.
When it’s over, the shame settles heavy in my gut. I stand there under the freezing water, breathing hard, feeling like I’ve stolen something I had no right to.
I shut the water off and grab a towel, scrubbing my hair harder than necessary. If she wants to try and get closer, I’ll remind her I’m not the hero she thinks I am. I’ll make it easier for her to forget about me. That’s the smart thing.
I turn off the light and head for the bedroom. In the dark, though, I can still feel her mouth on mine.
I’m fucked.