I tiptoe into the living room, unsure why I’m being so quiet. I search the small apartment, but can’t find my daughter anywhere. Shit. Did I oversleep? I check the clock; it’s nine o’clock. Thank God I packed her bag yesterday. With a sigh, I walk back to the bedroom.
Suddenly, there’s a loud banging on the door. “Layne, you awake?” A deep male voice rings through the door, but it’s not Kyler’s. That’s one thing I know for sure. Then again, who is it?
“Yes?” I answer hesitantly. I stare at the black door as if it’ll suddenly become see through and I can see who’s behind it.
“Can I come in?”
Good question. Though surely the person wouldn’t ask if it was an intruder? The voice triggers a vague sense of recognition in the back of my mind. I simply cannot associate the sound with a face. Like you want to say something and it’s on the tip of your tongue, but it doesn’t come out.
“Yeah, sure,” I finally say and grab a knife from the block on the countertop.
The door creaks open and Ballistic’s dark-blond hair emerges.
“Hey, it’s me, Brooks.” He lifts one corner of his mouth into something that should resemble a smile. It makes him a little more boyish.
“Eh, hey,” I mutter and let go of the knife. My stomach twists into a knot as he opens the door further. “Kyler’s not here,” I blurt out.
“I know.” He steps inside and closes the door behind him. With a few paces, he’s in the kitchen and sits down at the small breakfast bar. With a frown, he points at the stool next to him. “Do you have coffee?”
My gaze moves from the stool to the kitchen counter and lingers on the Keurig. “No, but I can make it?”
“Could use some, I guess.” Ballistic shrugs quietly and puts his fist under his chin.
Silently, I get to work and say, “I need to change.”
In the bedroom, I put on my black jeans and a gray top. I quickly brush my hair and go back to the kitchen barefoot. The coffee maker has finished brewing, and I clear my throat. “Something in your coffee?”
The only response is a head shake. I pour some milk into my mug and then slide his mug over.
“I thought you might like to know what happened to that asshole yesterday.” He takes a sip of his coffee and looks at me over the rim of the mug.
With a tilt of my head, I say, “Kyler said you guys let him go. Though I expected more from you.”
His eyebrows go up. “From me?”
Silently, I nod and blow into my cup. “Your reputation precedes you, Ballistic.” I add a wink to give him the impression that I’m totally at ease.
His fingers stroke my trembling hands. Busted. “Laylay, how long have you known me?”
I close my eyes when I hear that nickname and am thrown back to easier times. At least, for me. The image of that blond teen, in his ragged jeans and threadbare shirt, flashes before my eyes.
“I haven’t seen you for a decade, Brooks,” I finally blurt out, croaking as I open my eyes again. “Who knows what the club has turned you into?”
His intense, icy blue eyes almost burn a hole into my forehead, and a deafening silence hangs between us. After a few minutes, he tilts his head and says, “What happened to you?”
I swallow. “What, nothing. Except what you already know. Why?”
A frown appears on his forehead. “When your father was—”
“Seriously? You’re going to talk about my father?”
He ignores my words. “You’ve never said that shit about the club or its members when your father was alive, Laylay.” With a sigh, he continues. “Your father…” He pauses.
“My father missed my mother so much that he drank himself to death and drove his motorcycle into a truck. At a hundred and fifty miles an hour.” I say it as if it doesn’t matter to me, but the thought alone shatters my heart all over again.
“Where does this hatred for the club come from, Layne?” He looks at me with a concerned look in those eyes of his.
I close mine to escape his. “No idea. Maybe it’s because you make your money illegally, at the expense of others.”
