"That's bullshit," he hisses. "You can't depend on Penelope forever, Cleo. Just let me help you."
I push away from him, and he lets me slide from his grasp. I'm used to struggling with men, and the easy acquiescence is unexpected and welcome.
"I need to go," I breathe, turning away from him.
"Cleo wait-" he calls after me.
I don't pause. I yank the uniform off as quickly as I can when I reach the back room and don a flowing maxi-dress. It's one of the few things that I have that still fits. I offer Vicky a hurried apology before I bang out the back door and into the rainy back lot.
I have to get out of here. I have to get away from Trent and Ryker.
He wants to be my knight in riding leathers. But I can't allow him to be hurt on my behalf. I can't be the reason another man dies.
More tears streak down my face, camouflaged this time by the rain. I reach my battered car in a little under a minute and slide inside, shivering and sopping wet from the rain. The pain that writhes in my abdomen only seems to get worse, and there's only one thing I know that can calm my frazzled nerves.
So I put the car into reverse and back out of the lot, joining a steady flow of traffic. Sheltering in South Hollen's mall is cowardly, but the sea of baby clothing at the shopping outlet reminds me I've got one good thing left to look forward to.
Little man kicks hard, impacting with the steering wheel. I smile.
"Let's go get you some baby booties, Bryan. We'll worry about Trent later."
2
Ryker
Ilean against the solid stone wall of the hospital, sheltering beneath the awning in the designated smoking area, far away from the rig and the oxygen it contains. It wouldn't do to blow it sky high because of my bad habits.
The end of my cig glows orange as I suck in a deep breath and hold it, the smoke curling in my lungs. I've been trying to quit this vice, given how much I've been over at Cleo's in the past months. She and the baby don't need the secondhand smoke. But after what went on today, I needed this more than I needed air to breathe.
I expel the smoke in a smooth line, glowering at the line of trees that surround the hospital. It's rare I get a quiet moment like this to myself. Between the accidents caused by the rain and the gang violence in the King's territory to the west, I'm never short on action. This moment of contemplation is unwelcome. My mind can only flit back to one thing, and it's the last thing I should think about during my work hours.
Cleo.
I only have to squeeze my eyes shut and there she is, dancing like some nymph behind my lids. Thick, dark hair piled on top of her head, exposing the tawny expanse of her neck. Her collarbones stand out, and I want to dip my tongue into them, taste the sweetness of her skin. I wonder if she'd gasp when I test my teeth against her throat.
I grimace and take another drag of the cigarette. And this was why I didn't enjoy the quiet. Better deal with a bleeding and battered body than dwell on Cleo. She's the itch I can't scratch. The forbidden fruit hung far out of my reach. I'm no fool. I know she's been in love with my best friend Cruz for at least a year, maybe longer. Even though Cruz is married now and expecting a kid of his own with Holly, it's hard not to miss the longing glances she casts him during club meetings.
I must be more delusional than I thought for thinking I had a chance once Damian was gone and Cruz was out of the picture. Cleo isn't mine and at this rate, she never will be. It doesn't matter that I've loved the hell out of her since the moment I laid eyes on her two years ago at the clubhouse. I've only had eyes for her. She has eyes for everyone else, her gaze skimming over me like I'm not even there.
Flicking the butt to the ground, I grind the remnants beneath one heel. I'm in too foul a mood to give a shit about the sooty stain it leaves on the concrete. When I climb back into the rig, my partner Heather shoots me a concerned glance over her shoulder.
"You okay, Fenton?"
I grimace. "Can't you ever call me Ryker?"
She snorts. "Like that's your real name. I'd like to go with whatever God and your parents gave you, thank you very much. Now what's crawled up your ass and nested there? You've been in a mood since we started."
It's true. I haven't been able to tear my mind away from the scenario at Rapture. Cleo clinging to me, shaking so hard her teeth knocked together. How good she'd felt in my arms, despite that. Her sudden flight and refusal to let me help her. The impotent rage that I felt on her behalf bubbled to the surface again and I had to roll through all the reasons that killing Trent McNeil would be a bad idea.
I should, at the very least, go to Cruz about this. Though I want to dispense a little justice myself, it would be smarter to have the co-president's backing before I make a move on the other half of our leadership.
"It's nothing," I grumble. Heather isn't likely to leave it alone, but like hell am I going to unload my girl troubles on her. It just isn’t the working relationship we have.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. Heather is pretty. A tall, statuesque blonde that barely looks capable of bench pressing a cup with her thin arms and svelte frame. I know that the impression is false. I've seen her carry three hundred pound men away from burning buildings. She's tough, and I can see the strength that lays in her blue-green eyes any time she looks at me.
But she's not Cleo. I've just got a white-knight complex or a need for a project because Heather has never drawn me how Cleo does. There's something in her soft-spoken nature, the defensive posture of her shoulders, the aching vulnerability she can't seem to hide. I have to be the shield that stands between her and whatever's coming for her, even if I'm not the warm body she wants in the way.
The radio hisses with static, and at once it diverts my attention from the sour mire of emotion I've been wading in. Time to get to work.
