Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
VIKING
Sitting on the sofa, I watch the men and women come and go. I watch as they play darts and pool, as they drink, and I don’t talk to anyone. Thankfully, everyone notices my shit mood, or feels it, and they leave me alone.
Everyone except Bullet.
The moment he appears in front of me, he doesn’t say a word. He just plops the fuck down, sitting a little too goddamn close as he clears his throat. “You are not happy,” he announces.
“I am drunk,” I state.
He shakes his head once, extending his legs and crossing them at his ankles.
I watch as he lifts his arms behind his head and laces his fingers as he leans backward into his hands.
Clearly, he’s not going to be going anywhere anytime soon.
He’s settled in and comfortable, which means he’s probably going to piss me off.
Bullet lets out a low whistle before he speaks. “I know you’re doing the right thing. You’re loyal to a fucking fault, Vike.”
“Am I?” I ask, but I don’t comment further, mainly because I don’t fucking believe him and I don’t feel the need to comment on it.
Fuck that shit.
My entire life is the Vicious Reapers, and I don’t think you can be too loyal to your family. I took my vow to the club seriously. And I continue to take that seriously. I am not my father. I refuse to be anything like him. Maybe that’s my fault. I don’t know.
“I’m not going to point out the obvious,” he begins. “Like the fact you love Lainey. What I am going to say is that you’re really fucking with her head and your own by being with her right now.”
“Being with her?” I ask.
My tongue feels heavy, and I have no doubt that I’m slurring every word I’m saying. It doesn’t matter, though. It really doesn’t fucking matter. Bullet has his opinions, but that’s all they are, and that is what they’ll stay, because it doesn’t matter.
And Shocker is dying.
Fuck.
I don’t want him to go. Shade was taken from us in a fucked-up way, but I don’t want to watch Shocker die. That’s the last thing I want, and the idea that’s what I’ll have to do makes me want to scream.
“Don’t worry about where I stick my dick,” I grind out.
Bullet doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t even change his posture or shift his feet or legs around at all. He stays exactly where he is, unmoving and completely unaffected by my drunken outburst.
“Lainey is one of ours, just like Cidney, just like Dakota. It’s important that we don’t forget that, Viking. I just want you to be aware. If you want her, take her. We’ll figure it out. But don’t fuck with each other's heads.”
“You think I’m fucking with her head?” My tone is stern and angry as fuck.
He’s not seriously coming to me with this shit in the eleventh hour. Instead of asking him that, I lift the whiskey bottle to my lips and take a pull, hissing as the amber liquid slides down my throat, burning as it goes.
“I know you’re fucking with your own head,” he states.
I think about that, about the fact that I’m fucking with my own head by continuing to be with Lainey. He’s right. As much as I say this is just to scratch an itch, just so I’ll have no regrets, just so I’ll have the taste of her that I’ve been thinking about for years.
I’m a goddamn liar.
Because I don’t just want one taste and then forget about her. I’m finding it hard to even be away from her right now. I don’t know how I’m going to watch her marry someone else and then never be with her again.
Bullet isn’t wrong, but he’s not right, either. If I confessed my desire to claim Lainey, how long would it be for? When would I get tired of it, of her? And how would everyone else view me if that were the case?
I can’t trust myself when it comes to Lainey and forever. I have nothing to back that up. My father wasn’t loyal, not to the club, not to me, not to anyone in his life. I’m trying to be the opposite of him, and maybe I’m fucking myself in the process, but that’s the price I’m willing to pay.
I think.
I can’t fuck Lainey up. I refuse to have her hate me, to have Piggy hate me, to have the entire Vicious Reapers club hate me. All because of my cock and who I stick it in. It’s not that goddamn worth it. Nothing is when it comes to family, because family is everything.
I am not my father.
I will not be him.
LAINEY
Staring at my reflection, I can’t believe the person looking back at me… is me. The dress is strapless with a slight sweetheart top.
It’s ruched at my natural waist, then flows out into an A-line princess-style ball gown that skims the floor with a short train at the back and button detailing all the way to said train.
It’s a type of structured satin fabric and looks almost like it could be liquid from a distance.
It’s beautiful.
And if I were going to be marrying someone I loved, it would be an exciting moment to be standing here looking at my reflection in a white princess ball gown, but I have never wanted to rip fabric from my body so damn fast.
“It’s perfect,” the salesgirl exclaims. “Although everything has been perfection on you. Are you ready to show the girls?” she asks.
If she says it’s perfect, then it probably is.
Even if I don’t care for it. It’s probably best that I don’t love it anyway, because I don’t love the man I’ll be marrying when I wear it.
And the last thing I need to do is fill my mind with thoughts about fantasies and fairy tales. Because that is not what this is.
This is a contractual agreement. And I need to keep reminding myself of that. I also need to stop feeling the need to mourn what I’m losing with Gunnar. Because I’m not losing anything. What we have is physical only. What we have is something to pass the time and to distract.
What we have is so that we know what would have been.
No regrets.
Smiling, I pick up the skirt and make my way out into the waiting room, to stand in front of what feels like a million mirrors and a sofa where all the girls are sitting. Looking down, watching each step I take, I step up onto the platform and pinch my eyes closed as I stand in front of them.
“Stunning,” Dakota whispers.
Flicking my gaze to meet hers, I watch as wetness fills her eyes. “It’s just so stunning,” she says, repeating herself. “Like it was made just for you.”
And the rest of the girls also dish out compliments. I guess this is the one. The fifth dress I’ve tried on today seems to be the charm. The sales associate makes a noise and rushes off. I don’t pay attention to where she’s going, but when Millie stands and walks toward me, my eyes widen.
“The dress is beautiful, Lainey. Is this what you want?” she asks.
I don’t have the heart to tell her that I don’t give a shit what I’m wearing because it doesn’t matter.
None of it matters. And that is starting to slam into me like I’m standing in front of one of those automatic baseball pitching machines and the balls are just speeding toward me over and over, hitting me in my stomach and chest.
The associate returns, and I notice that she’s got netting in her hand. “You need to see it all put together, veil and everything,” she says, and the others ooh and aah.
I guess I’ll be seeing the dress with the veil and everything.
I stand still as she manipulates my hair into a clip, then slides a comb through the front and fluffs this veil on my head, around my shoulders, and down my back.
She also adds something to my waist, and I lift my hand to touch it at the same time I dip my chin and look at the crystal belt.
It’s too much, too sparkly.
I open my mouth to say that, but Millie must sense my unease. “I think we should go with no belt. I don’t think it needs any embellishments.”
The sales associate slips it off, then tells me to close my eyes. She wraps her hands around my shoulders and gently guides me around on the platform until I’m facing the mirrors.
“Keep them closed. I want you to see the grand reveal.”
I almost laugh, but she seems to be really into this, so I decide against being a smart-ass.
“Okay, you can open them now.”
Inhaling a deep breath, I hold it for a moment, then let it out slowly as I open my eyes to take in my reflection, veil and all. It’s beautiful. And Millie is right; it doesn’t need anything else.
The sales associate is talking, but I don’t hear anything she’s saying. All I can do is focus on myself, on my reflection, and then, for just a moment, I allow myself to imagine a man standing beside me.
The man who instantly pops into my head is the one I should not be thinking of. But Gunnar Lund, in his jeans that fit like a glove, boots, black button-down shirt, and his club cut, appears standing beside me, with his now short hair, his blue eyes, and just a touch of scruff on his face.
That’s who I want to marry.
Him.
It’ll never be him, though, and I accept that…
I promise I do. It doesn’t mean my body, my imagination has it all figured out yet.
My brain knows, but nothing else has caught up yet, probably because we keep having out-of-this-world sex.
Because he makes me come twice at night and once every morning.
Because we can’t keep our hands off one another…
I would look amazing next to him in this dress, though. A wave of sadness slides through me because it’ll never happen.
“Can I walk out with it today?” I ask.
“You can…” she says, her brows furrowed.
“Then I’ll take it.”
And that is that.
That. Is. That.