20. Scarlett
Chapter twenty
Scarlett
Two Nights Later…
I throw on a fresh pot of coffee, gnawing nervously at my nail as anticipation builds. The boys are expected back from their run, and for me, that only means one thing. Rock will be showing up any minute.
For six months now, we’ve been caught in this strange limbo, living as each other’s dirty little secret.
In public, I keep up the act, pretending I can’t stand him, so no one suspects the truth.
It’s all just for show, waiting for the moment when we finally figure out what we are.
Harley has known for years that I’ve been head over heels for Rock, but she has no clue we’re sneaking around behind closed doors.
My heart races, knowing he’ll walk through that door soon.
Rock is the kind of man who demands control in every situation, needing everything to run smoothly and precisely—like a well-oiled clock.
He’s the epitome of calm under pressure, never flinching, never breaking a sweat, always collected and cool.
If you ever needed someone to put out a fire, he’d be your guy.
A walking, talking Xanax. The perfect SAA.
But he’s no pushover. He’s razor-sharp, quick with a comeback and even quicker with a smirk, the kind who can spit out a ruthless insult and then turn around to charm your mother into fucking him behind the bar, all in one breath.
He’s a beautiful asshole in the best way.
A man who keeps you guessing and wanting more.
For all his rough edges and wicked charm, there’s a sweetness in him that sneaks up on you, hidden behind those kind, knowing eyes and that golden-blond surfer hair that falls just past his shoulders.
His sharp goatee only adds to the devil-may-care vibe he carries, as if he were born to break hearts and put out with you for having to do it.
Very few people get to see the sweet side of him, but for six months, all my dreams have come true, and I’ve gotten to know this man on an intimate level.
I’m not delusional. I know I love him more than he loves me.
I don’t think he’s in love with me, but I know he loves me.
Could it be enough for a lifetime of happiness?
Only time will tell. I know how this sounds, but I think he knows he loves me enough, and I’m already integrated into the club enough to be a good choice as an old lady.
It’s not that he feels like he’s settling.
I believe I may just be the sensible choice in his eyes, like a business transaction.
Not much for romance, but I see a side of him most don’t.
Yet he never treats me any less. I’m willing to accept what I can get for now because I know that, given time, we could be really good together long term.
I know he will be good to me. Who needs real romance, anyway? Stability is far more sensible.
When he comes back from a run, he fucks me like a rabid animal, then cuddles me as I stroke his hair until he falls asleep.
I know I’m a hypocrite for not coming clean after the other night with the girls, but until he’s ready to make me his ol’ lady, I’m willing to keep quiet. It’s nice to have this time to myself.
I know how pathetic that sounds, the cliché line of you don’t know him like I do, or he will change for me, or even better, but I love him.
I’m not an idiot. I know he will probably never change.
I also know he could one day make a good father.
I know it would be easy with him because we already run in the same circle, anyway.
I don’t have to bring anyone new in, either.
He would be my security, tying me to the club even further.
If anything, I am using him. He is just as much a safe option for me as I am for him.
We both know what we are getting if we decide to make this permanent.
I know that I will always have a family within the club, but having him as my old man would lock me in for life.
Then he would get a woman who would love him and take care of him.
I never had anything close to a normal home growing up, no stability, no warmth, just a runaway dad and an alcoholic mom.
So when Harley brought me home for the first time as a small child, I latched on hard.
They became my family, the only place I ever truly felt I belonged.
That’s why the thought of shaking things up terrifies me, but the security that comes with the ol’ lady patch is everything I could ask for. It makes the risk worth it.
But whether I’m ready or not, this bubble isn’t going to last forever.
Life keeps moving whether I want it to or not, and right now it’s barreling forward faster than I can handle.
I’m two weeks late, and a pregnancy test is shoved into my purse.
I keep pretending it isn’t there, as if it won’t change everything if it comes back positive.
I’m dodging the truth like it’s the plague, and the only thing I know for sure is that I’m not saying a word about this to anyone—not even him—until I’m absolutely, one-thousand percent sure.
I can’t risk that fallout, not yet. If all of this blows up in my face with Rock, I don’t know how I’ll handle it.
All I can do is keep pretending everything is normal, hoping for one more day of peace before the storm hits.
One more day for him to come out to everyone and make me his ol’ lady.
I hear the bikes roaring down Main Street from my apartment, four streets back from the main drag.
As a lone rider gets closer, the glass rattles in my living room windowpane before he rides up, his headlight casting a comforting glow over me as I stand in front of the coffee pot, preparing to pour Rock's evening cup.
The ashtray sits on the dining room table for him, and a roast beef sandwich waits in the fridge. Everything is perfect.
I look up when I hear the lock disengage, the porch light shining on his sharp features in the dark.
The door opens, and blood smatters his shirt.
My eyes widen in shock. This isn’t the first time he’s come to me covered in someone else’s blood.
I’ve even had to stitch him up and bandage him a time or two.
He’s the reason I keep a fully stocked first-aid kit in the hallway closet.
I spring into action, grabbing a trash bag from under the sink and opening it as I walk over to him.
The closer I get, the more he smells like he’s been at a bonfire.
Rock stands there, his 6’4 frame unclipping his wallet from his jeans and dumping the contents of his pockets into the bowl I keep on a small red side table next to the front door for such occasions.
His presence commands the entire room, making it feel small.
I watch the heat in his eyes as he eyes me like a wolf ready to pounce, ripping the belt from his belt loops and dropping his jeans to discard later.
No evidence is good evidence and all that.
“Hands on the back of the couch,” Rock says in a deliberate tone, the bass in his voice traveling south to the tips of my toes.