Ugh, he is really doing this.
I want to scream as loud and long as my lungs will allow. I want to throw myself on the floor, kicking and screaming like a two-year-old having a tantrum. That’show I feel on the inside. However, on the outside, I plaster my usual stone mask onto my face and ask in the most courteous tone I can manage, “Ryder, could you please pay?”
The cashier, obviously very uncomfortable with our little spiel, looks away like she is trying to ignore us.
After what seems like an eternity, he strolls over and slides his card. Before he types in the pin, he glances at me again. “What do you say?”
Please, someone, kill me now.
“Thank you,” I say. Somehow, I do it without shouting it in his face. He punches in his four-digit code and waits until he is handed the receipt by the poor young girl behind the register.
He gets in the driver’s seat as soon as he unlocks the truck, leaving me to load the groceries and return the buggy. When I get back in the car to buckle up, he snickers. “That was fun.”
Yes… so much fun.
Chapter 6
Ryder
A few days pass,and we fall into some kind of routine. Penny stays at the house, never even asking to leave. She cleans, does my laundry, and has dinner ready when I get home. When I ask for sex, she seems all too eager to oblige.
I have lost track of how many times we’ve had sex and how much money she’s worked off. Hopefully, she still owes a lot. I don’t want her to leave.
Shaking that thought away, I concentrate on the now and the fact that I’ll get my bike back today.
It’s been two long weeks of waiting for my bike to be fixed. So, when Maddox tells me he is going to pick me up to get it, I feel like a little kid on Christmas morning.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” I tell Penny before heading out the door just as Maddox pulls up in his SUV. It’s weird not seeing him on his Harley, but I’m glad he came in a car, because there is no way in fucking hell I would ever ride shotgun on a bike.
As soon as I get into the vehicle, I can tell something isn’t right. Maddox is even grumpier than his normal broody self. His frown more prominent, the glint in his eyes a little unhinged, and the grip on the steering wheel a little too tight.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask after we’ve been driving for a few minutes.
“I think someone is skimming money off the top,” he blurts out. “Numbers are low even though business has stayed the same. Someone is fucking with us, and I don’t think it’s one of the people we deal with.”
“What are you saying? That one of our own guys is doing it?”
“I don’t know, Ryder, but I’m going to find out, and I hope you have my back on this.”
I almost snort. “Is that even a question? You know I have your back. Always.” Ican’t believe he’s even asking. Maddox and I have been best friends for years. I would do anything for him, and I trust him with my life.
“I know you do, but this is different. We’ve never had to take care of our own. We might have to kill one of our brothers, and even though everybody knows the rules, someone might not agree with it. At the very least, they are going to resent us for doing it, and that brings up a whole other set of problems.”
“Then we deal with them too. We’ll kill whoever needs killing. Like you said, everybody knows the rules, knows what happens if you steal from the club. I don’t give a fuck who gets butthurt about killing one of our own if he broke club law. Besides that, you’re the Prez. You make the decisions, and I’ll be standing by your side no matter what.”
“I figured you’d say something like that, but I needed to make sure before I actually investigate. We’ll find out who’s been stuffing their pockets, and then we’ll cut off his balls.”
“Now, you’re talking.” I grin. My enjoyment of violence has always been unusual. It has gotten me into trouble more times than I can count. This is why I’m the VP of an MC and not a pencil pusher in an office.
When I get back to the house, a plethora of savory smells greets me at the door. She made some kind of chicken with a herb and lemon sauce. I don’t know the name of it, but I don’t really care. All I know is that it’s delicious.
“How did you learn how to cook?” I remember cooking was not her mom’s best attribute, so she must have learned it elsewhere. At my question, her face scrunches up like the memory triggers pain.
This is becoming less fun and more depressing. I like seeing her in pain, but only when I’m the one causing it. Also, I don’t want her so broken that she doesn’t push back at all. I want some kind of reaction out of her other than crying. I keep waiting for her to slip up. Get so mad that she fires back at me with a witty remark or a good insult. I was sure that she was going to break at the grocery store, but I don’t think we even put a crack in that wall of hers.
I wanted her to be mad and yell at me. Instead, she did exactly what I told her to. She didn’t just swallow her pride; somewhere along the past five years, she chewed it up and spat it out.
For a moment, I think she will not answer at all, but then she says, “I used to spend all my time inside our house. He didn’t want me to go anywhere, so I ordered a bunch of cookbooks and learned how to cook.” Her voice is flat and monotone, as if she was rattling off a shopping list and not talking about a memory.
