Chapter Forty-Two
Alex
Coco Beach, Florida.
It had been almost two months since I killed Arizona and left Eros to his own fate on that storage room floor, and while I tried not to think about what happened to Eros, it was never far from my mind.
Still, I did exactly what he told me to do, and I ran.
I ran so far from South Dakota, the Brotherhood, my family in Athens, Texas, that I made damn sure no one could ever find me.
Mainly, I ran from him because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
I missed him. As much as I hated to admit it, I did.
Still, it wasn’t enough for me to return to him.
Not that I could. I’d killed a man. I was probably wanted for murder, though I didn’t have the courage to find out.
So instead, I disappeared and tried to make a new life for myself, and that life led me to Coco Beach, Florida.
Where the sun always shined and the ocean was only a block away.
Thanks to the money I stole from Arizona, I had no problem finding an apartment.
Then I got a job working at a bar and grill called Twisted Intentions, waitressing to pass the time.
I didn’t really need to work, but after a few days of staring at walls and listening to my thoughts, I needed something to occupy my time before I went crazy.
It took some time, but eventually I found my groove. A place where I thought I could make a go of something normal. Something away from all the clubs, wars, lies and deceptions. Where I could just be me, or at least figure out who that was without him.
The bar was hopping tonight—tourists, locals, and a few bikers crowded around the tables as the music pumped loudly through the speakers. Jimmy Buffett. Always fucking Jimmy Buffett in a beach town. I had heard “Margaritaville” so many times I could recite it in my sleep.
I balanced a tray of drinks on my shoulder, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. Table seven, with four drunk college kids celebrating spring break a month too late. Two margaritas, a beer, and something fruity with an umbrella that cost twelve dollars and tasted like diabetes.
“Here you go,” I said, forcing myself to smile as I set the drinks down. “Enjoy.”
One of them, a blond with a sunburn that looked painful, grabbed my wrist. “Hey, you’re really pretty. You got a boyfriend?”
I pulled my hand back smoothly. “Not interested, but thanks.”
“Come on, just one drink.”
“She said no, asshole,” Emory shouted from across the room, her voice cutting through the noise as she carried her own tray, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, her expression daring the kid to push it.
I met Emory Carter not long after I started at the bar.
She was a little bit wild and wasn’t afraid to throw down when tourists got handsy with her.
Like me, Emory rode a Harley, which we bonded over one night when I walked out of the bar to find Eros’ bike had a flat tire.
That night she called one of her friends and waited with me as he efficiently changed the tire.
Which I was grateful for, because God only knew what Eros would do to me if he found out I wasn’t taking care of his bike.
The patron raised his hands in surrender, laughing. “Alright, alright. Just asking.”
I shot Emory a grateful look and turned back toward the bar.
The bartender, Maverick, was pouring shots with the efficiency of someone who had been doing it for twenty years when he caught my eye and nodded toward the next order ticket.
Table twelve. Six beers, two shots of tequila, and a vodka cranberry.
I grabbed the tray and started loading it up, my mind drifting the way it always did when I was working. Autopilot. Muscle memory. The kind of mindless routine that kept me from thinking too hard about where I was or why I was here.
Two months. Two months of sun and sand and pretending I was someone else.
Two months of telling myself I was free.
Two months of lying awake at night and wondering if he was looking for me.
If he even cared that I was gone. If he thought about me the way I thought about him—constantly, obsessively, with a kind of ache that never quite went away.
Stop it.
I shook my head, forcing the thoughts down. I couldn’t afford to think about him. Couldn’t afford to wonder if he missed me or if he had already moved on to some other broken girl who needed fixing. I was done being broken. I was done being his.
Liar. The word whispered through my mind, soft and insidious, and I ignored it. I had to. Because if I let myself admit the truth, that I missed him, that I wanted him, that some fucked-up part of me still belonged to him, I would never survive.
“You gonna cause trouble tonight, Alex?”
Smiling, I looked at Maverick. “Who, me? I’m as innocent as a lamb.”
“You know wolves eat lambs, right?”
“Only if they catch it.” I laughed as I hoisted the tray onto my shoulder and turned toward table twelve, and that was when it happened.
A hand, thick, sweaty, and entirely uninvited, grabbed my ass.
Hard.
My tray tilted. Drinks slid. Glass shattered as the entire tray crashed to the floor, beer and tequila and vodka cranberry mixing into a sticky, alcoholic puddle at my feet.
I spun around, my hand flying up before I could think, and slapped the fat fucker across the face as the sound echoed through the bar, sharp and satisfying.
For a second, everything stopped. The music kept playing, but the surrounding noise died as heads turned to watch.
The guy in his mid-forties, balding, with a gut that hung over his belt, stared at me in shock, his hand rising to his reddening cheek.
“Not again, Alex,” Maverick groaned from behind the bar, his voice loud and exasperated.
I ignored him. My heart pounded as adrenaline flooded my system, but I didn’t give a single fuck that I had just made a scene. The fat fucker’s expression shifted from shock to rage as his hand drew back, fist clenched, and I braced myself for the hit that never came.
A hand shot out from somewhere behind me and caught the guy’s wrist mid-swing. The grip was iron, unyielding, and the voice that followed made my blood run cold.
“Mine, fucker.”
The growl was low, dangerous, and unmistakable.
No.
No, no, no! I turned slowly, as my breath caught in my throat, because he was here.
Nano. Standing right behind me, his hand wrapped around the drunk’s wrist, his eyes locked on the guy with a look that promised violence. His leather cut hung open over a black T-shirt, the Brotherhood of Bastards patch visible on his back, as his jaw tightened with barely restrained fury.
The fat fucker blinked, then his face went pale as he looked past Nano to the men standing behind him, around him.
Brothers. Lots of them. I recognized the faces—Scythe, Carver, and Wanderer.
They were all staring at the drunk, daring him to make a move.
Daring him to touch me again. Before the guy could decide whether to fight or flee, Wanderer and Scythe hauled him from his seat and dragged him toward the door as he kicked and screamed.
“Thanks for taking out the trash!” Maverick shouted.
“No problem, Dread,” Scythe yelled as he punched the fat fucker in the face.
I stood there, frozen as my heart hammered in my chest and the reality of the situation crashed over me. He found me. I forced myself to look at Nano, to meet his eyes. His expression made my stomach twist. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cold.
He was... something else.
Something I couldn’t name.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered, refusing to back down even as my pulse raced.
His eyes never wavered. “Can we talk?”
“No,” I growled, turning fast on my booted feet as I walked away from him.
“Wrong move, Alex!” Maverick laughed. “You never run from a hungry wolf!”
Ignoring Maverick, I kept walking and heard Nano sigh. A sound that was equal parts frustration and resignation, and then his boots hit the floor behind me, heavy and deliberate.
“Line ’em up, Dread,” Carver called from somewhere behind me, his voice laced with amusement. “Looks like the big bad wolf is gonna teach his little lamb a lesson.”
The room rumbled with laughter.
I ignored them all, my hands shaking as I yanked off my apron and headed for Maverick’s office. My mind was spinning, my chest tight, and I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
He’s here. He’s really here. I shoved the office door open and tried to slam it shut behind me, but Nano was faster. His hand shot out, catching the edge of the door before it could close, as his boot kicked it shut with a force that rattled the frame.
Then his hand was on my neck, his fingers wrapping around my throat as he hauled me backward. My back hit the wall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. His body pressed against mine, pinning me in place, and his face was so close I could feel his breath on my skin.
“Hello, Alexandra,” he whispered, his voice low and rough, and devastatingly familiar. “Miss me?”
Yes. The word screamed through my mind, desperate and furious and entirely unwelcome.
But I didn’t say it. I couldn’t. Because admitting that I missed him.
That I thought about him every single day, that I dreamed about his hands and his voice and the way he made me feel, would be admitting that I was still his and I wasn’t.
His thumb brushed against my pulse, and I knew he could feel it racing.
Knew he could see the way my breath hitched, the way my body responded to his touch despite everything I told myself over the past two months.
“Let go of me,” I sneered, trying to mask my trembling with a steady voice. Despite the confidence in my words, my resolve felt fragile.
Nano refused to release his hold. His gaze bored into mine, dark, intense, and I caught a fleeting hint of relief in his expression. “You left,” he whispered, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the charged silence between us.