He drags a hand through his hair. “I’m not trying to screw anything up for you, and I’m not trying to own you, but I can’t have an opinion about this shit?”
“I’m not going to stand here in the damn parking lot and argue with you about this.”
“Then I’ll follow you to your place.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t want to have this conversation tonight. I’ve got a migraine.”
“You’re pissed.”
“Yes. I am.”
“Fine.” He stalks to his motorcycle and throws his leg over.
“So, that’s it? Not even a goodnight, drive safe?”
“Goodnight, Heather. Drive safe,” he snaps.
I’m so over it; I yank my door open, get in, and slam it shut.
“Fine. Be that way,” I mutter to myself as I start my car—the car he fixed for me for free. I press my head against the steering wheel. I should be grateful, and I am. He’s just acting like any man would in this situation. I can’t blame him for hating this. Who wouldn’t hate it?
He revs his engine, and I glance over.
He’s sitting there, staring at me, and I realize he won’t leave me in the parking lot, no matter how mad he is.
Throwing the car into reverse, I back out and head to my apartment.
Cody follows.
When I park and get out, he idles nearby and watches until I’m safely inside, but he makes no move to join me.
Once inside, I look out the window and see him roar off the lot onto the street.
A part of me fills with sadness that he didn’t stay, no matter what I said. But I know leaving is for the best. I don’t want to argue with him, and I really don’t want one of us to say something we can’t take back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Cody—
Green pours himself a shot and sets the bottle on the church table.
Cole gives him the side-eye. “You done?”
Green tosses back his shot. “Yep.”
“Mind if I start the meeting now, asshole?” Cole snaps.
“Sure, prez. You want a shot first?”
“Shut the fuck up before I break that bottle over your head.”
“Yes, sir.” Green lets out a loud burp, and Red Dog shoves his head sideways.
“Moron.”
Cole slams the gavel down, calls roll and dispenses with some club business, then looks at our VP. “Fill ‘em in.”
Crash straightens in his chair and clears his throat. “We’ve got a problem.”
