Unfortunately, that only served to increase my hostility and frustration with her, because, after the initial honeymoon stage, things completely fell apart. We dissolved into the kind of dramatic, ugly relationship that could tear a man’s soul in half. We never inflicted violence on each other, and we never stole or broke things that belonged to each other, but in some ways, it might have been better if we had done that.
Rose could cut me down like no one ever could. I wasn’t any better by the end. Both of us were trying to pierce the other person’s soul with our words, to leave them metaphorically bleeding out on the ground as we stood over them, taunting them. And the sickest part of it all?
The only reason we really broke up was that she had moved to Utah for veterinary school. It wasn’t like I grew a pair and dumped her, nor was it like we had an epiphany of courtesy and honesty where we both just recognized we weren’t right for each other. Only the good—yes, good—fortune of distance broke us apart.
But boy, once I got out of that relationship, the entire club seemed to rally around me and tell me how awful she was. Butch had always been on my case about her, as had Lane too, but at the time, Lane was just a punk-ass teenager who I wanted to beat the shit out of more than listen to him. Even Lane’s father, the late, great Roger Carter, told me I needed to pick my women more carefully. And as for Butch, he and I had never completely embraced one another, our personalities the most similar of anyone in the club.
The efforts, though, had their desired effect. I swore I would never go back to her. No matter what, I would never make the mistake of dating someone so unhealthy for me.
And let’s be honest, it wasn’t like you were great to her either. It takes two to make a relationship that particularly ugly.
“Damn, are you going to go and see her?”
“What?”
“I said, are you going to go and see her?”
I snorted at the idea.
“No,” I said. “Back to the topic at hand. We got Butch, Red Raven, or Father Marcellus.”
And yet, even though I changed the topic, my mind still lingered on that text from Rose. Why the fuck had she reached out to me? Was she that desperate?
Or was she that changed that…
No. I swore never to go back. So I was going to be true to myself. I was not going to go back under any circumstances, no matter the temptation or curiosity.
“We haven’t paid much attention to Red Raven, man,” he said. “Could be.”
“Doubtful,” I said. “Red Raven’s older than the founder. I’ve seen Red Raven run into gunfire to be a human shield for Roger.”
Patriot shrugged. He didn’t have the same level of connection to the rest of the club that I did. By no means was I an old fart—I was, after all, thirty-six years old—but compared to those two kids in their twenties? I felt like a senior citizen in comparison.
The person I suspected the most, actually, was Butch. Like me, he was quiet, but unlike everyone else, who mistook quietness for calmness and loyalty, I understood that, with the right person, it could work as an effective mask. I didn’t have any proof about Butch, but then again, I’d had to spend most of my energy fighting the accusations from Lane and Patriot. How the fuck could I look at someone else when all eyes were on me?
My phone buzzed again.
“Damn, that girl really wants some of your Axle, huh?”
I gave Patriot an askance glance as I pulled out my phone. Sure enough, Rose had not gotten the hint.
“Whenever is good for you. Sincerely, I’d like to see you, LeCharles. We can do daytime tea or coffee if you’d like.”
There was something almost desperate in her words, almost yearning for me that left me with a sinking feeling in my gut. Why the hell would she suddenly come crawling back to me now?
I had no idea what could have possibly compelled her to reach out to me. She had everything—a daddy who spoiled her, a career path, good looks, everything. There was nothing I could give her other than some male company, and with her olive complexion, brown hair, mesmerizing brown eyes, and incredible curves, there was nothing about her that didn’t attract male attention. I was more than happy to feign humility to ensure some other man had to deal with her baggage and bullshit.
Maybe she was just lonely. Or maybe she just wanted a familiar face.
But that wasn’t going to be me. She didn’t need me.
She didn’t need anything. She had it all already.
What more could I add?
More importantly, what more did I really want to add?
Not a damn thing. Not when she had everything she wanted and nothing I needed.
