I nod, already knowing I won’t like his answer, but he’s the only one here right now that I can talk to about this. Bullet may not have died, but he was injured. There was an explosion that almost wiped out the bakery outside of town that we use to launder some of our money through. It was a clusterfuck, and I made a choice to fire at the man who was set on killing us all before we were able to escape.
“No. They won’t. But they get easier to bear. The guilt will fade. Your mind will learn to accept it to survive,” Karma continues. This time, he takes the bottle from me and pours a shot’s worth into his mouth before handing it back to me.
I can feel myself accepting it already, and that's part of the problem. I’ve done some shady things in the past when I lived with my family. I knew being part of the club meant I would be putting myself in line to do more shady work. I’ve dealt with our arms deals and helped track down some of the worst scum of the underworld in order to hand them over. Whether that's to their buyer, who wanted justice, or to be tortured. I see this club as more vigilante than criminal, but still, our hands aren’t clean by any means. I’m used to that. I accepted that. Just like I know when this isn’t so fresh and new, I’ll accept that I killed a man to protect my brothers. I just don’t know if Winnie will accept it. She saves lives for a living, and I just ended someone’s.
“Don’t tell her,” Karma replies with a shrug. I scoff, realizing I’m speaking out loud again. “Yeah, you are. Think it's time to pass out for you.”
Karma reaches over the table and hauls me to my feet. My legs are shaky from the adrenaline of the night and the half bottle of booze, but I somehow manage to walk with him, recognizing the door he leads me to.
“Bullet’s in the hospital. Use his room tonight to sleep it off. Tomorrow, if you feel better, then go face your girl.”
I mumble something, and the man laughs before stalking off. Somehow, I manage to get into the room and lock the door before falling face-first onto the bed. My mind swims and my gut rolls while I try to breathe deep, in and out, shutting off the panic in my mind. My eyes close. My last thought is of Winnie’s smile and wondering if she’ll ever forgive me for becoming the man I never thought I’d turn into.
The bass is loud in the clubhouse tonight; the main room is packed, and everyone is celebrating. It's been two weeks since the night of the raid on the bakery. Since the night I made my first kill in order to protect my family. I’ve become numb to what happened. I pushed it into the back of my brain, learned to compartmentalize it, and come to grips with the truth. I’d do itagain. I would kill again if it meant walking out alive. If it meant my brothers were uninjured. If it meant saving my girl, nothing would be off-limits.
I still haven’t told Winnie about what happened. I’ve been a jackass, avoiding her, just so I don’t have to have the conversation. Bullet encouraged me to keep it to myself, stating she didn’t need to know if it would hurt her. The guilt of keeping it secret is twisting me up inside, but the fear of her rejection is enough to keep my mouth shut. Avoiding her is the only way to make sure I don’t spill my guts to her. Not that it's been difficult, as she’s rarely at the apartment; her clinicals require her to be at the hospital or a clinic, and if she’s not doing that, she’s holed up in the library. I’m proud of her, I am, but sometimes I feel like even if I wanted it, she wouldn’t be there to support me anyway. Our lives barely intertwine these days, and a large part of that is my fault. Because of club business, I’m rarely at the apartment either. I also know that lately Winnie doesn’t like coming to the clubhouse. I understand that some of the club whores were bitches to her, and she shouldn't have to put up with them. But I want her to be close to the wives and girlfriends. It seems like, since I got patched in, Winnie has been pulling away from the club rather than leaning into it. I try to include her when her schedule allows it. When she is here, she looks nervous, to the point that I don’t think she’s having any fun. I feel stuck between wanting to make things better for her and my responsibilities to the brotherhood. It's just another layer of shit that keeps piling up on me.
Running my hands through my hair, I glance one more time at my phone and the phone call I missed from her three hours ago. Was it a dickhead move to ignore it? Yes. I know it is, and I know the only way to make it better would be to go to our home and see if she’s there.
Draining my beer, I stand from the stool and set the empty glass on the bar. Aria, Prez’s oldest daughter, smiles at me and swipes it up. I make my way through the crowd, saying my goodbyes to the brothers who are paying attention. Right before I get to the door, a tall, slender woman with magenta hair, barely wearing a stitch of clothes, steps into my path. I stop in my tracks and sigh, not needing this extra drama right now.
“Dodger,” Dove practically purrs while reaching for me, her fingers clutching at my cut.
My hands instantly cover hers, pulling her grip off me before letting her go. “Not in the mood for your shit, Dove.”
She rolls her eyes and reaches out again. This time, I bat her hand away, and she gasps. “I’m just trying to make you feel better, Dodger. You’ve been through a lot the past few weeks. Let me give you a massage, and then maybe you won’t look like you’ve got a stick up your ass.”
I scoff and shake my head, knowing exactly what she thinks a massage will lead to. Bullet didn’t lie when he said the club whores would become hungry patch chasers once I became a full member. Having Winnie doesn’t even deter them. In fact, they seem to be more determined to prove something. I’ve never given any of them even the slightest bit of attention, except by being respectful when they’re in my presence. Dove, though, is on my last nerve. She’s been the most handsy, trying to touch me, and always seems to be around when I’m at the club. Which is a lot recently, and I only have myself to blame for that.
“I don’t need anything from you,” I tell her, not willing to sugarcoat hurting her feelings.
She laughs and pops her hip with her hand on it. I notice, once again, how much bare skin she has on display tonight; yet, most of the club whores do on party nights. They’re always hoping to coax any willing brother into their beds. “You sureabout that, baby? You look stressed. Is your charity case no longer taking care of your needs now that she graduated?”
Anger pumps through my veins that one of the girls would talk about Winnie that way. She’s been nothing but nice to them since she came here; hell, she even split chores with them. I did notice their relationships changing over the last year and a half when we moved into our apartment. Just like I noticed changes in Winnie. She spent less time on her makeup and no longer wore the skirts and dresses the girls did when she had lived here. Now I’m starting to piece it together that my girl has been iced out by the patch chasers. I’m about to go off on Dove when I replay her words again.
“What are you talking about? She graduated?”
Dove smirks and rolls her shoulders. “Shouldn’t her boyfriend know that his precious girlfriend graduated this afternoon?” She pulls her cell phone out of her bra and opens Instagram. Sure enough, Winnie’s profile shows a picture of her at her graduation. The time and date stamp is this afternoon. And I wasn’t there.
“Oh, and looky. She’s even celebrating without you.” Dove swipes to the next image, which is a picture of Winnie and a group of girls in front of the bar downtown. Three hours ago.
“Fuck.” I brush past her and sprint for the door. I can hear Dove yelling after me, but I ignore her. All that matters is getting to Winnie and apologizing. All week, I’ve tuned her out, so lost in my own head over what happened that I didn’t even remember her telling me about her graduation. How often did I simply nod or give one-word answers to her without really thinking about what she was asking or saying? I can’t believe I missed one of the most important days of her life.
Getting on my bike, I race downtown to the bar and park. The bouncer at the door eyes my patch, and with a weary chin nod, he lets me in without paying the cover charge. Inside thebar is packed, and a live band plays in the back by the dance floor. My gaze rakes over the entire crowd until I spot a familiar group of girls that I recognize from the picture. All of them are still wearing the same summer dresses and heels. I make my way through the crowd, doubling my efforts when I notice a group of frat-looking college boys advance on them. One of the girls glances up, and her eyes widen when she sees me prowling over.
“Where’s Winnie?” I ask her, but she’s entranced by the patch on my chest. Another girl next to her sighs and elbows her friend.
“She left about twenty minutes ago.”
“Did she say where she was going?” I ask, needing to know how much time it’s been since she left a bar after drinking and went by herself. I should have been there to bring her home.
The girl shrugs her shoulders. “Home, I think.”
“You think, or you know?” I practically growl at the poor girl, and her eyes widen with a slight flare of panic.
“Why do you care? Are you her brother or something?”
My brow arches. “I’m her boyfriend.”
