“Not in public.” He draws back a fraction, colder now, loud for all to hear. “You ain’t my business.”
The words sting like a slap.
I step back like he shoved me.
His eyes flicker, not regret.
Restraint.
I stand there with my chest tight and my eyes burning and my pride cracking down the middle.
Then I do the only thing I can.
I turn away.
I walk out of Slice with my shoulders stiff and my throat tight and my hands shaking so bad I almost drop my keys.
Behind me I hear Elijah call my name.
I don’t turn back.
I get in my car and slam the door.
My breath comes fast. My eyes sting. I blink hard, furious at myself for letting a biker’s silence hurt me like this.
As I pull out, I glance in the rearview.
Oaks is still at the counter.
He’s watching my car leave.
His face is stone.
But his hand is clenched so tight around that coffee cup I swear he could crush it.
And the worst part is, even through the anger, even through the humiliation, one thought slides in and settles like a brand.
He didn’t ignore me because he doesn’t care.
He ignored me because he does.
In Hell, Kentucky, that might be the most dangerous thing a man can admit.
I drive home with my jaw clenched and my heart pounding, telling myself I’m done. Telling myself I don’t need him. Telling myself I’ll choose the safe boy with the clean shirt and the gentle hands.
But as the sun drops and the road turns dark, I catch headlights behind me.
Not close.
Not far.
Just steady.
Following.
My stomach drops because I don’t know if it’s Oaks making sure I get home.
Or someone else.
