“You don’t enjoy going to the clubhouse.”
Another statement. This guy doesn’t believe in asking questions. I kinda like it, he’s direct. Despite the earlier vague comment about literally being murdered.
“It’s not my scene,” I reply.
“Yet you work for the club.”
“How do you know so much about me, Mace?”
His hand clenches on his thigh and I can’t help looking at it. Oh, this guy knows what he is doing to me. The sad fact is, I’m reciprocating, despite the topics of conversation, and the slight disdain for one another.
“I see things, I listen.”
“What exactly have you heard and seen?”
“You come to the club for work but any other time, it’s an obligation, you feel like you owe them.”
“I don’t owe anyone anything. I got to where I am today on my own merit,” I tell him indignantly. “You think I coasted my way through law school because I’m related to criminals.”
“That’s rhetorical irony if I ever heard it.” When my head whips around to face him, he stares back. “I’m educated too, Cassie.”
“Never implied you weren’t. I was responding to your statement I don’t have a mind of my own.”
“That isn’t what I said. Going to law school should be something that takes you away from what your family do, but with you, it binds you to them even more. And you don’t like that.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me. You don’t know what I do.”
“You’re invaluable to the Devil’s Chaos, question is, do you like it, or…”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Proves my point.”
“It proves nothing, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I huff.
We’re finally on the I-80 getting closer to home. I don’t like how easily he is reading me. Just this afternoon I was questioning my own morality. Defending Vance Roderick, a perverted, scumbag who is stalking and very possibly hurting women, doesn’t sit right with me. It never will. How different is it from what I do for the MC?
I fucking hate him for bringing this shit up. The dick is astute enough to realize he hit a nerve. Maybe that was his intention? But why? I’m doing him a favor. I press down on the gas to go faster. The sooner I get him out of my car the better.
“Look, I call it like I see it,” Mace says after a mile or two. “I’m not trying to offend you.”
“I’m done with that conversation.”
“We all have our crosses to bear,” he replies. “Obligation and loyalty sometimes override what we really want. That’s all I’m saying.”
“You don’t strike me as the philosophical kind.”
“Because I’m in a motorcycle club?”
“Yes.”
His brow lifts. Okay, point taken. Although I resent his insinuation we’re in any way alike.
Deep down, I know that isn’t true.
We ride in silence for a while, each lost in thought. He’s nothing like I thought he would be. It’s wrong of me to judge, but based on what I’ve grown up around, it’s hard to disassociate the asshole vibe from a biker.
I guess there are some exceptions. I’d never tell Waverley so, but Hudson is a decent guy who cares about the club, but he loves her more.
