She wasn’t there when I woke up. It wasn’t unusual. We had our separate rooms, after all, but that didn’t mean those were my favorite mornings. No, my favorites were the ones where she allowed herself to feel like she could live here without having to pay her way. The mornings when, instead of getting up and putting food in the stomachs of men who were big enough and smart enough to do it for themselves, she would allow herself to lay next to me without feeling guilty. No matter what Ayda tried to tell me, I knew more than anyone how she felt about living under this roof for nothing. It’s why she did what she did. It’s what made her different to all the whores out there. She didn’t want to be another taker.
It took me a while to wake up. The thoughts of the conversation we’d had through the night and the black smoke of that dream were still lingering around the edges of my mind, even when I showered and slowly dressed myself as though it was my body that was aching, not my chest. I stayed in my bedroom as long as I could, doing what I never did and straightening out the comforter in case Ayda chose to spend the night in my place again. It was only when I stood back from the bed and stared down at the neatness of it all that Icrossed my arms over my chest and scowled.
Huh.
Was I becoming one ofthoseguys?
Well, shit.
I couldn’t help smirking to myself at the thought. All those nights I’d spent alone, staring at cold, bare walls inside the joint. All those women that I’d fucked for the sake of fucking, trying to feel something other than the self-gratification it would eventually give me, and never once did I think I’d be the guy who straightened out his bedding and picked his socks off the floor for a chick.
Fuck. My socks!
Giving the room a quick glance over, picking shit up and shoving it all on the chair in the corner, I eventually walked through the bathroom and back into my office, wearing a slightly too smug look on my face. There was no denying that talking to Ayda last night had taken some weight off the nightmare that had haunted me. Maybe she was right about the grief eating me up and making everything darker when I kept it all hidden away. I didn’t know. I was trying things that I would never have dreamt of before she came along, but the further I opened up to her, the more I began to like the idea of who I could become if only she chose to stick around.
Running my thumb over my bottom lip and walking to my desk, I pulled the first black account's book in front of me and flipped it open, tucking one hand into the back pocket of my jeans as I started to read the rows upon rows of figures that stared up at me. Credit to Harry, the pawn shop was doing better than everything else was these days. There was money in gold. There was money in things people didn’t realize—even people’s misery, which is where the repo sideof work came into it. The guys had done well since I’d been away. They’d done better by being on the right side of the law. They’d achieved what I'd thought I could have with the boxing rings.
As it did most days, my thoughts began to drift back to the businesses I’d sent underground, and before I knew it, I was sliding into my chair, grabbing a pen and trying to ignore that twist that instantly churned my stomach up. A lot had changed since the night of the fire at Ayda’s old house. A lot of truths had had to be shared, and my speech at the safe house seemed to open up a wave of small secrets that had been kept from me since my release. One being that the second I took the fall for the underground dealings, the club sold off every single asset that was connected to anything that would remind me of Pete’s death.
The old building we fought in was cleared out and auctioned off to try to repay some debt. Who to, I had no fucking idea. The moment Jedd had pulled me to one side and explained that there was no going back to that old life, I’d lifted my hand to his shoulder, squeezed him tight and closed my eyes in acceptance. They’d been right to make the call. No matter how many dreams I knew Pete had had before his death, it was time to face the facts and acknowledge that it was the root of those dreams that had led us to fighting. There was no way to make it completely legitimately in our world. When you lived on the outskirts of society, you had no choice but to accept that. There was no way we would get the licensing we needed. I’d held my hands up to both Jedd and Harry and told them I trusted their call. Whatever they’d needed to do to survive and keep the club alive, they'd done. There was no need for me to know any more about it.
It was time for new beginnings now. For them, anyway. All I could do was hope that I survived long enough to catch a glimpse of my family in more comfortable, carefree times.
Staring down at some of the account’s papers in front of me, my pen hovered over the page while one hand rested on the top of my head, the tips of my finger's grazing over my scalp as I tried to concentrate on anything other than the amount of blood we’d shed since the night they tried to kill Ayda and Tate.
Whether skin to skin or hand to weapons, I was now responsible for six dead Emps. So far, the Navarro Rifles hadn’t gotten wind of anyone trying to imitate them, or at least not that we’d heard, and the likes of Chester Cortez had apparently gone so deep underground, not even the rats knew where they were living anymore. The boys and I had done a few rides out of Babylon since we sent the girl back from the forest with nothing more than a few raspy breaths of air in her lungs, the clothes on her back, and a lifetime of scars printed on the backs of her eyelids, but we’d seen nothing and nobody on our travels. The Emps' club and bar were now locked up, abandoned as though they didn’t exist. But we all knew that they were out there forging alliances as we spoke, trying desperately to figure out why the Navs would side with us over them after everything that had gone down with Pete all those years ago.
All my hopes were pinned on one thing I was certain to be true. Deep down, Cortez was a coward, and he was about as likely to contact the Navs directly as I was to fly to the motherfucking moon, tomorrow, at dawn. The Rifles’ charters spanned across the whole of North and South America, as well as Canada, with a few smaller charters spattered across thefour corners of the world. To start a war with them would be dire.
To imitate them and wear their sign upon your non-Rifle-approved skin would be suicide.
I was just hoping that my balls would prove bigger than Cortez's and his stupidity would eventually dig his own grave. He would seek revenge for his dead brothers. He would seek revenge for the girl. He would eventually find a way to poke the bellies of the beasts who were the Navs and if all went to plan, he would eventually die.
My hounds and I just had to survive one day at a time and hope against all hope that whichever god was looking down on us was feeling generous and amused by our plan. I figured we had to at least get bonus points for bravery. Or idiocy.
The rows of numbers on the paper stared back at me, looking more confusing than ever. I felt like they were moving, one jumping over the other, switching places whenever I blinked so that when my frown grew deeper and deeper with confusion, those fuckers got some kind of laugh out of it.
Dropping the pen on the page, I pinched the bridge of my nose and pressed my eyes shut tight together. The noise as we tore that Emp apart started ringing in my ears louder than ever. The sweat of my brothers seemed to fall at my feet under the desk to try to drown me in shame. My morning high was quickly turning into a slump as I listened to it all as though it was playing out right in front of me—the girl’s whimpers, the dark night, the endless sky and the dirt mixed with blood on our hands.
I could smell it.
I could fucking taste it.
I was thinking too much.
My head snapped up quickly at the tap on the office door before it was pushed open and in walked Slater.
“Drew?” he said quietly, his heavy boots falling hard against the carpet.
“Yes, bro?” I croaked, glancing back down and clearing my throat quickly.
“You okay?”
“Champion.”
“I’m not buying it.”
“Fuck off.”
