She gets off the table and goes to walk away. “See, I told you. I was just being dramatic.” She’s waving me off like she’s embarrassed. I step in front of her, but she just stares at my chest. I tilt her chin up with a finger and find her eyes are glassy.
“Sweetheart, you know damn well you’re gorgeous. You don’t need those weak-ass Alphas who dropped you off thinking so. The fact is, they know they could never have an Omega like you. Nothing’s more fragile than a weak man’s ego.”
“You think so?” she asks, her big brown eyes pleading for confirmation, and I shouldn’t like it. I shouldn’t want to wrap this small Omega up and show her just how precious she is. She’s off limits, too young, and I don’t even know if I’m staying.
“I know so. It has nothing to do with you being pretty or smelling like a tropical fucking paradise. It has everything to do with them trying to hide their own rejection. Motherfuckers didn’t even walk you to the door. Doubt they’d even know what to do with you if they were lucky enough to have a chance.”
She finally looks like she’s calmed down, and I wonder why she doesn’t have a pack already. It’s clear she’s close to her heat. I try to tamper my concern.It’s none of my fucking business.
“You’re right,” she sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “I hate feeling like this, though.”
“It will get better once you have a pack,” I tell her.
“How do you know?” she asks. She’s not trying to question me, but I think she wants to know if I’m just someone telling her what she wants to hear or if I actually have a fucking clue what she’s going through.
“Obviously, I don’t know what you’re going through, but my little sister is an Omega. She had a lot of really big emotionsbefore her first heat. Things changed for her once she bonded,” I explain.
“Is she happy?” she asks.
I don’t have the fucking heart to tell her the truth, so I lie through my teeth. “Yeah, she’s happy.”
That makes her smile. I shouldn’t like putting a smile on her face, but I do.
“Let’s get you home,” I tell her. She doesn’t fight me as we walk side by side in the night to the main house.
“Are you living in the clubhouse?” she asks.
“Yeah, for now.”
“You don’t want to stay?” she questions.
Fuck, how does she read me so well?
“I haven’t decided one way or another, yet.”
She nods as she walks up the two steps of the front porch, making us the same height. “Goodnight, Lily,” I say, making her smile again.
“Goodnight,” she replies, and I go to walk away when she calls my name. “Cash?”
“Yeah?”
“If there’s anything I can do to help make you stay, let me know,” she offers, and I can’t help but feel like she’s flirting with me and that I like it more than I should. I just give her a nod before I sulk back to the body shop.
I’mknee-deep in paperwork at the body shop, my mind half on a dark-haired Omega I shouldn’t be thinking about and the other half is wondering where some of this money is coming from.
You can’t expect people who do illegal business to hold a paper trail or have any information about their illegal activities, but in general, there’s some way to write about what’s coming in and what’s going out.
And the numbers aren’t adding up.
Unless there’s something I’m missing, there seems to be a lot more money coming in than what’s being spent. I mean, it’s not the worst problem to be having, but it’s still odd. When this Calvin guy was around, he wrote everything down on paper, green highlighter was weed money—how original—yellow was guns, and pink was the proper businesses the club has like the body shop and the stores.
It could be tossed quickly in a pinch, but gave the club enough information on how much money was liquid, and what was coming in and out. When I look back at his files from about five years ago, there are numbers listed, but they aren’t highlighted.Where is this money coming from?
A clang and the smell of smoke breaks my focus and Tate rolls into the body shop, looking like he’s had more than his fair share of a few beers. He plops down on the worn, black leather sofa next to the desk and inhales his cigarette like it’s a lifeline.
We’re silent for a long while, me looking through the old files trying to find a connection and who knows what’s rolling through Tate’s head.
“I think I’m stayin’,” he declares. I’m not sure if he’s saying it out loud for himself or for my benefit.
