Chapter 22
By the time I realize I’m about to do something stupid, it’s already too late to stop myself.
That’s the thing nobody really tells you about jealousy when it gets under your skin deep enough.
People talk about it like it’s this clean, sharp emotion. Like it’s obvious. Like it arrives with enough dignity that you can identify it, manage it, maybe even shove it aside before it makes a complete ass of you.
That is not how it works.
Not when it’s bad.
When it’s bad, it gets in your bloodstream and starts wearing your bones around like a suit. It talks over every reasonable thought you’ve got and turns every neutral thing into a threat.
A text message becomes a betrayal. A smile becomes a challenge.
A date becomes a personal attack. And a man who should know better ends up standing in the middle of his own damn clubhouse trying not to burn his life down because a woman looked hurt and distant and done with him for all the reasons he deserves.
So yeah. By the time I realize I’m about to do something stupid, I’m already halfway through doing it.
The clubhouse is loud tonight.
Not rowdy. Not tense. Just full.Family full.
Club full. That lived-in, chaotic Deathstalkers kind of full where there’s always somebody laughing too loud in the kitchen, somebody else cursing in the garage, a couple kids running through the downstairs hall like they’ve never once heard the phrase indoor voice, and at least three separate conversations happening in every room whether you want them there or not.
Church wrapped up an hour ago, and now everyone was scattered into their usual patterns.
Logan is upstairs with Mac because she’d apparently gotten “too hot and too mad” halfway through dinner and decided his presence was offensive unless he was actively bringing her popsicles.
Dom is in the kitchen getting bitched at by Kya because he somehow bought the wrong pickles again, which I didn’t even know was possible but apparently absolutely is.
Carter is on the couch with Brooke tucked against his side while she cries over some home renovation show because “their backsplash is just really beautiful,” which sounds made up but isn’t.
Emma’s at the table with Amy helping her finish homework while Jason throws crackers at Cain, who looks deeply offended by his own toddler’s lack of respect for authority.
Shadow, Cobra, and Hammer are in the back corner with Landon and Blaze, talking shit over beers and a game nobody’s fully paying attention to.
Normal.
Everything around me is normal.
And I am so far from normal I might as well be on another planet.
Because Allison is here.
Sitting at the far end of the kitchen island with Ana and Shaina, one leg tucked up under her, a drink in her hand, hair down around her shoulders like she doesn’t know it’s the exact kind of soft, domestic thing that keeps catching me in the throat lately.
She’s laughing at something Shaina says. Not faking it. Not brittle. Not the careful, guarded version of okay she’s been giving me every time we’re in the same room lately.
A real laugh. And maybe that should make me feel relieved. Maybe it should feel like proof that she’s fine and I can stop carrying around this ugly weight in my chest every time I think about the way I’ve handled her.
Instead, it just pisses me off. Not because she’s happy. Because she looks like she’s figuring out how to be happy without me in the room. That thought is irrational and selfish and deeply unfair.
It doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Blaze, because apparently God hates me, drops into the chair beside mine and follows my line of sight without even pretending he isn’t. “Seems like you’re doing great with the whole, I don’t want Allie thing,” he says.
“Shut up.”
He grins into his beer. “Just a observation.”
“One you didn’t need to point out.”
“Fair.”
Across the room, Allie laughs again, softer this time, head tipping toward Ana as Shaina keeps talking with her hands like she’s prosecuting a case no one asked for.
Emma says something to Amy at the table, and Allie glances over automatically, smiling when Jason starts trying to climb onto Cain’s lap like he’s scaling Everest.
That’s the other thing ruining me lately.
How easy she is here. Not just because she grew up in this club. Not just because she belongs. Because she fits into the future of it too. Into the warmth. Into the chaos. Into all the tiny domestic things I never used to notice until I started seeing her in every one of them.
Helping Mac sort baby clothes. Talking quietly with Emma. Carrying drinks to Brooke before she even asks. Arguing with Kya over nursery themes like she’s been built for this life all along.
I should not be thinking about that. Especially not with Landon ten feet away.
I am anyway.
Blaze takes another sip of his beer and says, “You gonna sit here all night and stare holes through the back of her head, or are you planning to actually say something useful for once?”
I don’t answer. Because the answer is no. I’m not going to say something useful.
I’m not going to say anything, actually, because every time I get within breathing distance of Allison Mitchell lately, I either make things worse or almost make things worse and then find some new, inventive way to still land on worse.
The hallway. The office. The date. The kiss.
Christ.
That one still sits in my chest like a bruise I keep pressing just to see if it still hurts.
She’d kissed Drew. She’d said it was nice. Then I’d kissed her like I had a right to ask for comparison. And she’d melted into me just enough to make me believe, for one weak, dangerous second, that maybe none of this was actually over.
Then I’d done what I always do. Stopped short of the part that matters.
Blaze lets the silence stretch another beat, then says, “You know, for a guy who looks like he wants to drag somebody into a closet and confess his love, you’re doing a weird amount of nothing.”
I turn slowly and stare at him.
He shrugs. “What? You think the rest of us are blind?”
That shouldn’t hit. It does.
Because that’s the thing I’ve been trying not to think too hard about.
Not whether I want her. That part is a lost cause.
Whether everyone else can see it.Whether Landon can.
Whether Emma can. Whether every brother in this room has already figured out that I’ve been acting like a territorial asshole over a woman I still haven’t had the guts to claim honestly.
I lean back in my chair and say, “You’re real talkative tonight.”
“You’re real obvious tonight.”
“Go to hell.”
“Probably.”
Before I can decide whether or not to throw him off the porch later, the side door opens and one of the club girls comes in from the back deck.
Tasha. Blonde. Pretty. Confident in the way women get when they know exactly what effect they have on a room and have no moral objections to using it when it suits them.
She’s been around long enough to know everybody, smart enough to stay out of real club business, and bold enough to flirt where it’s welcome and back off where it isn’t. Normally, she’s background noise to me.
Tonight, my brain latches onto the sight of her at exactly the wrong moment.
Because she smiles when she sees me. Because she heads in my direction without hesitation.
Because Allison is still at the island in my peripheral vision.
And because the ugliest, stupidest thought I’ve had all week slides right into place before I can stop it.
Make her look. That’s it. That’s the whole rotten idea.
Not because I want Tasha. Not because I’m trying to actually do anything beyond prove some pathetic, childish point I couldn’t even articulate if somebody held a gun to my head.
Just because I’m angry. Because I’m jealous. Because I’m hurt. Because I’m apparently not above dragging my own dignity behind the truck if it means I don’t have to sit here feeling like I’m the only one losing this fight.
And the worst part?
I know exactly how bad an idea it is while I’m doing it.
Tasha stops beside my chair and rests one hand lightly on the back of it. “You look miserable.”
Blaze makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like he’s trying not to laugh.
I should tell her to keep moving. Instead, I look up at her and say, “You got eyes. Congratulations.”
She grins. “You always this charming?”
“Only when I’m in a mood.”
“Dangerous.”
There’s a beat where I can still fix this. A beat where I can lean back, keep my mouth shut, let her wander off toward one of the unattached prospects or brothers or literally any other man in this building who doesn’t currently have his own head up his ass.
Instead, I do the exact wrong thing. I reach up, catch her wrist lightly, and tug.
Tasha laughs and settles into my lap like she’s done this kind of thing a hundred times before, one arm looping loosely around my shoulders.
The room doesn’t go silent. That would almost be easier.It just shifts.Subtle. Barely noticeable.
But I feel it anyway.
Because I’m hyperaware now. Because I did this on purpose. Because I hate myself for it before the move is even fully finished.
Tasha smells like vanilla and expensive body spray. Her hair brushes my jaw when she leans in to say something about whether I’m getting her a drink or she’s supposed to suffer through my bad mood for free.
I don’t hear half of it. Because the second she lands in my lap, my eyes go straight to Allison.
And there she is. Looking.
For one sharp, brutal second, our eyes meet across the room.
And I know. I know immediately that she saw exactly what I wanted her to see.
Because her face changes. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else in the room to clock it unless they were already watching too closely.
But I know her. I know the little shifts. The tiny tells. The almost invisible ways she reacts when something actually gets under her skin.