Chapter 18
There is not enough alcohol in Alabama for the kind of mood I’m in.
That’s the first coherent thought I have the morning after Ambrosia, standing outside the clubhouse with my coffee going cold in one hand while the sun comes up over a yard full of bikes and bad decisions.
Mine included.
Mostly mine, actually.
I slept like shit. That’s putting it generously.
What I really did was spend the night in that useless half-state between awake and not, where every time I drifted off my brain decided to replay some new, particularly vicious piece of last night just to make sure I didn’t get too comfortable.
Allie on stage. Allie in her office. Allie looking up at me with flushed cheeks and parted lips and trust I absolutely did not deserve.
And then…that moment.
That split second where I realized what I hadn’t known. What I should’ve known. What I should’ve slowed down long enough to ask instead of acting like some half-feral asshole who’d forgotten how to think the second she looked at him like that.
I stare out over the lot like it personally offended me. Because underneath the guilt and the anger and the very real urge to put my fist through the side of the building, there’s something uglier sitting in my chest that I can’t quite kill no matter how much I try.
Something possessive. Something mean. Something selfish enough to make me want to crawl out of my own skin.
The fact that she’s only ever been mine.
That thought should not be landing the way it is. It should not be the thing my mind keeps circling back to like it’s a live wire I can’t stop touching even though I know it’s burning me.
I should be focused on the part where I handled everything like a complete fuckup. On the fact that she looked hurt when she left. On the fact that I made something that should’ve been about her feel like a goddamn problem I needed to solve instead of the truth it was.
Instead, every few minutes my head goes right back there anyway.
She’d never had anyone else. Not really. Not all the way. And some ugly, selfish, primitive part of me can’t stop thinking about the fact that it was me.
That after all these years of watching her, avoiding her, wanting her, denying her, pretending none of it mattered as much as it did, it was still me.
Jesus Christ.
I hate myself a little for that. Maybe more than a little.
Because it’s not enough that I wanted her too much. Not enough that I crossed a line I can’t uncross. Not enough that I’m standing out here trying to convince myself I should feel only guilt and concern and regret.
No.
Apparently I also get to be disgustingly pleased by the knowledge that no other man got there first.
Like a caveman. Like an asshole. Like exactly the kind of man I’d happily knock teeth out of if he ever said something like that out loud in front of me.
And maybe the worst part is that it’s not just about sex.
That would be easier too.
It’s not just that she’s only ever been mine in that sense. It’s that somewhere under all the noise in my head, I’ve apparently been carrying around some deeply stupid, deeply dangerous sense of her belonging to me long before I had any right to it.
That’s what’s really got me pacing like a caged animal before seven in the morning.
Because I know exactly how bad that sounds. I know exactly how wrong it is. And it doesn’t change the fact that it’s there.
The clubhouse door opens behind me.
I don’t have to turn to know who it is. Cain’s footsteps have always been heavier than most people’s, not because he’s clumsy but because he’s built like he was put together specifically to make floorboards nervous.
He comes to stand beside me with a mug in one hand and his phone in the other, looking like a man who has already dealt with one child tantrum and one toddler breakfast negotiation before sunrise.
He glances at my face.
“Rough night?” he asks.
“Nope.”
He snorts into his coffee. “Right.”
I say nothing.
Cain’s smart enough not to push when a man looks like he’s one bad sentence away from committing arson, but he’s also known me too long not to clock when something’s off.
He leans one shoulder against the porch post and sips his coffee in silence for a second before saying, “You look like you’re thinking about murder. ”
“Just a light hobby.”
“Uh-huh.”
We stand there another beat.
Then he says, “This about Allie?”
I go completely still. That’s answer enough.
Cain sighs like a man who has accidentally walked into exactly the kind of bullshit he was hoping not to be involved in before breakfast. “Jesus.”
“Mind your business.”
“Would love to,” he says easily. “But unfortunately, your face is making this everybody’s business.”
I look out toward the bikes instead of at him. “There’s nothing to say.”
“That’s usually when there’s the most to say.”
“Not in this case.”
Cain studies me for another second, then lifts both hands slightly in surrender. “All right. Be a dumbass then.” He leaves it there, which I appreciate more than I’m willing to tell him.
Because if he pushed right now, I might actually say something I can’t take back. And I can’t have that.
Not with Cain. Not with anyone. Especially not with Landon.
That thought lands hard enough to sour the coffee in my hand.
Because Landon doesn’t know. Not really.
He knows there was tension last night. He knows I was wound too tight over the amateur night shit. He knows enough to suspect something’s off. But he doesn’t know this.
Doesn’t know I had his sister in her office with my hands all over her and enough bad judgment in my bloodstream to make me forget who the hell I was supposed to be to her. He doesn’t know, and I have no idea whether that’s temporary or cowardice.
Probably both.
The front door bangs open again and this time it’s Logan. And from the expression on his face, the universe has apparently decided I’m not allowed to sulk in peace today. “Need everybody downstairs,” he says.
Cain lifts a brow. “Why?”
Logan just looks tired. “Because apparently the women are all going to die if they don’t get very specific food in the next forty-five minutes.”
I close my eyes. Of course this is my life now. Not the emotional implosion. That part, unfortunately, tracks.
I just mean that apparently even when I’m actively trying to spiral in private, the universe still expects me to participate in whatever snack-based hostage situation is currently unfolding inside.
“What happened?” Cain asks.
Logan rubs a hand over his jaw. “Mac wants strawberry lemonade from that place in town that only uses crushed ice. Kya wants curly fries and a root beer float from somewhere else. Brooke wants the cinnamon sugar pretzel bites from the mall, which should not even count as breakfast but apparently I don’t get a vote. ”
Cain stares at him. Then at me. Then back at Logan. “Y’all know women have been having babies since, like, the beginning of civilization, right?”
“Apparently not like this,” Logan says darkly.
From inside the clubhouse, Dom’s voice carries clear as day. “If I have to drive to three different places before nine a.m., I’m filing for emotional damages.”
Kya immediately shouts back, “You should’ve thought of that before you forgot my ranch yesterday.”
Cain grins.
I don’t. Because somehow, despite the absolute absurdity of this entire situation, I still feel like I’m standing outside my own body watching all of it happen from a distance.
Normally I’d enjoy this. Normally I’d be the first one talking shit. Normally I’d be standing in the kitchen laughing while Logan gets glared at by his pregnant old lady for bringing the wrong juice or whatever fresh hell they’ve decided counts as a crisis today.
Today I just want silence and about six hours alone with my own terrible choices.
Unfortunately, that’s not what I get.
Ten minutes later, I’m in the kitchen with Logan, Dom, Carter, Cain, Shadow, Cobra, Hammer, and Landon while the women issue demands like they’re generals prepping for war and we’re all just barely qualified foot soldiers.
Mac is seated at the island with a legal pad and a pen, because apparently she’s decided if this circus is happening, it’s going to happen efficiently.
Kya is on one of the stools beside her, looking deeply suspicious of all men in the room.
Brooke is sitting on the couch with her feet up, one hand on her stomach and the other holding a half-eaten granola bar she no longer wants but also refuses to let Carter throw away.
Emma is standing by the sink with Jason on one hip and Amy beside her helping rinse fruit, looking like the only sane person in the room. Which tracks. Emma always does have that calm, motherly way about her, like she could talk a rabid dog into taking a nap if she had to.
Ana and Shaina are leaning against the counter with the kind of entertained expressions that say they’re enjoying this way too much for people not currently being sent on a multi-stop food pilgrimage.
And Allie is there too.
Standing near Emma in one of those soft oversized sweatshirts that swallow half her hands, her hair up, face bare, looking tired in a way that hits me square in the chest because I know exactly why and I am one hundred percent the reason for it.
She doesn’t look at me. Not once.
That should probably be a relief. It isn’t.
Mac taps the pen against the pad. “We are doing this one time, and if any of you screw it up, I’m sending you back out.”
Dom mutters, “This is fascism.”
Kya points at him. “Write that down. He’s being dramatic again.”
“Babe,” Dom says, “you asked for curly fries from a place that doesn’t open for another twenty minutes.”
“Then you can wait.”
Carter rubs a hand down his face. “Why are the pretzel bites from the mall?”
“Because that’s where they are,” Brooke says patiently, like he’s maybe the dumbest man she’s ever loved.
“That’s forty minutes away.”
“And?”
He stares at her.
Brooke blinks innocently.
Cain leans toward me and mutters, “We should’ve all joined the military. Would’ve been easier.”