Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DRIFTER
Iknock back the whiskey, the burn doing nothing to soothe the ache in my chest. I flex my knuckles, the grazes and swelling evident from fighting our way out of the Steel Delinquents’ compound.
It wasn’t supposed to go down like that, but I saw the marks on Hell’s neck and lost my shit. No one touches what’s mine.
And, yeah, I might have fucked it up, and yeah, she hates me, but she’s still my ol’ lady, and I intend to do everything I can to win her back.
Although, since we got back a few hours ago, she’s been locked away in our room.
It’s frustrating as fuck to have her ignore me still, but at least she isn’t running anymore. She’s here, safe.
A thunderous bang erupts from the staircase, and the entire bar goes silent. Conversations cut off mid-word as heads turn in unison. Something crashes down the steps, bouncing violently from stair to stair.
I shove through the crowd as a suitcase comes hurtling down the stairs towards me. I barely sidestep it before it slams into the wall beside my shoulder, the impact rattling the room.
I look up to find Hell standing at the top of the stairs. Rage radiates from her, sharp and uncontained.
She drags another bag to the edge, her movements rough, deliberate. For a split second she holds it there, staring down at me.
Then she kicks it. It pounds down the staircase, each thud echoing like a warning shot. And every single one of them feels aimed at me.
“Hell, what the fuck?” I growl as the bag skids to a stop at my feet.
“You can find somewhere else to fucking stay,” she yells before disappearing from view.
A second later, she’s back, launching a pair of my boots down the stairs. They bounce and skid across the floor.
“I don’t want you and those filthy fucking hands anywhere near me.”
She vanishes again. The bar stays silent, everyone watching like it’s a spectator sport. I drag my hands through my hair, exasperated.
A few minutes later, she reappears carrying a box. She stomps down the stairs and drops it at my feet with a heavy thud.
She plants her hands on her hips, her chest heaving, daring me to say something.
“Why don’t you go sleep on the whore floor with the dirty little tramps?” She pauses like she’s thinking then adds with a smirk, “Oh, wait, you already did that.” Her words cut me like a blade. “I’m surprised you could even pull yourself away from the fucking bar to come find me.”
“Hell,” I mutter, my voice breaking into something close to a plea. I reach for her hand, but she jerks it away like my touch burns, stepping back out of reach. “I thought we’d be okay,” I say, confusion bleeding into my tone. “I just saved you from Reaper.”
She lets out a hollow, disbelieving laugh.
It’s sharp, ugly. Nothing like her usual one.
“You thought that fixed it?” she snaps. “You thought bursting in with a gun like a damn hero makes up for the fact you were fucking Siren over the pool table?” Her eyes blaze, glassy but furious.
“You really think I’m that fucking gullible? ”
She steps into my space, closing the distance until there’s no room left to breathe.
Heat radiates off her, sharp and electric.
Her breath fans across my face, fast and uneven, as her chest rises and falls.
“You’re not suddenly the hero after playing the villain so fucking perfectly.
” She folds her arms across her chest. “And I would rather have Reaper fuck me and kill me than spend another night in the same bed as you.”
My fists clench at my sides. The thought of another man’s hands on what’s mine twists something dark inside me. She doesn’t fucking mean that. My nostrils flare, and she sees it. She fucking sees it.
A slow, cruel grin spreads across her face. “Not fucking nice, is it?” she whispers. Then she turns on her heel and heads for the stairs.
“Hell,” I shout. She stops midway up but doesn’t look back. “Hell!”
She stays still, rigid, so I push on. “You don’t mean that. Not now you’re carrying my kid.”
The words hang there. Her shoulders drop, and her head bows slowly to her chest, like I’ve knocked the fight clean out of her.
I head down the dimly-lit stairwell to the basement, each step echoing off the concrete walls. The air grows colder the further I descend.
I flex my hands. I need to take this shit out on someone.
By the time I reach the bottom, my muscles are coiled tight, and my heart is hammering against my ribs. The need to hurt something pulses through my veins.
I linger in the shadows for a second, letting my eyes adjust.
Rock stands off to the side, arms folded, keeping watch over our latest guest.
The VP of the Steel Delinquents.
He’s tied to a chair in the centre of the room, blood dried at the corner of his mouth. When I step out from the shadows, he lifts his head slowly and glares at me. There’s no fear in his eyes. Not a flicker.
“You think it’s okay to take my ol’ lady?” I growl.
The fucker laughs. “Didn’t look like she wanted to be your ol’ lady to me.”
I bring back my fist before landing it square on his nose. It busts, pissing with blood, and he spits on the floor beside him.
“Hit a nerve, did I?” He sneers, his smirk antagonising me further. I land another punch, and his head whips back from the force. He shakes it off, laughing. “Is that all you’ve got?”
I release another heavy blow to the side of his body, and he hisses out a sharp breath. I take a step back, inhaling a calming breath.
I can’t let this fucker get under my skin. It’s what he wants.
“I want all the details on your patch. Who are your runners?” I demand, wiping the blood from my knuckles down my jeans.
“Not a chance,” he spits.
“You wanna end up like your Pres?” I question, my brows arching.
“I’d rather die than give you anything.” His eyes are fixed, his jaw tight, and I’ll give him credit—his loyalty to his club is undeniable.
I lean in close. “I’ve got a fate worse than death for you,” I hiss, my body fighting every desire to end him right now.
“Do your fucking worst,” he spits, blood splattering my face.
I step forward and drive my boot hard between his legs.
The chair screeches across the concrete, skidding violently before tipping backwards. A groan rips out of him, strangled and raw, as the old wood splinters under the sudden force.
For a split second, it hangs there, then it gives. The chair collapses completely and he slams onto the floor. His head cracks against the concrete with a sickening thud that echoes around the basement walls.
“Fuck you!”
I stand over him and press my boot to his throat. It’d take minutes to end him, maybe less, but I don’t. I need him breathing. I need something to absorb all this rage clawing through me. His club were the last bastards stupid enough to touch what’s mine, so he’ll pay the price.
Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, but he’s still smiling. Mocking me. He lifts his chin slowly, pushing against my boot like he’s daring me to press harder. Goading me.
“Do it,” he hisses through clenched teeth. I look down at him then snigger before releasing his neck and heading for the stairs. “You fucking chicken shit,” he shouts after me.
I turn to Rock. “Keep the fucker alive.”
I head up and go into my office, slamming the door behind me. I sit at my desk and pull out the bottle of whiskey from my top drawer. It’s been taunting me for days.
I stare at it for a few silent minutes, then I sigh heavily, unscrewing the lid and taking a large swig. But the burn does nothing to soothe my rage. If anything, it adds to it, fuelling the fire raging through me.
I’m angry with myself. I caused all this, and now, I don’t know how to fix it.
I scoff, eyeing the bottle. If I hadn’t lost myself in this, I would have seen clearly.
I growl. Hell was right.
I launch the bottle across the room, watching as it shatters against the filing cabinet. I fist my hair, holding my head in my hands.
What the fuck have I done?
ROCHELLE
I slip on my flats and make my way to the kitchen.
It’s been a couple of weeks since I came back, but it no longer feels like home. Drifter has tried to talk to me, but each time, his presence makes my skin crawl and I send him away.
My focus has to be on me and the baby now.
I’m standing by the coffee machine, staring into space and lost in my own head, when I sense him. The door opens a little harder from his force, his heavy boots thudding across the floor, and then his aftershave wafts my way.
The coffee machine beeps, indicating it’s finished, so I grab the sugar and add a spoon, ignoring him completely.
I feel his eyes burning into me as he opens the fridge to grab the milk. He places it on the counter for me.
“Should you be drinking coffee?” he asks quietly. I bring my eyes to his, and he immediately looks as if he regrets his words.
I pour some milk into my cup, then slide it across the counter back towards him. “I just mean . . . with the baby and all . . . is it safe?”
I sigh heavily. “You lost the right to question my choices when you slid your dick into another woman.” I keep my tone bored but calm. I don’t need another slanging match with him.
He takes the milk and places it back in the fridge. “Of course,” he murmurs. “You look beautiful today, by the way.”
I ignore him, rolling my eyes as I pick up my cup and head for the door. I don’t need his compliments.
“Hell?” I pause and turn to look at him. “We need to talk.”
I shake my head. “No, we don’t. The only reason I’m still here is because I know it’s the safest place for me right now.” My free hand instinctively goes to my stomach, and his eyes follow my movement.
“We need to talk about us—”
“There is no us,” I snap.
“But you’re carrying my child,” he says, running his hand through his hair in frustration.