“Thank fuck we put the drain in. Let him sweat it out a little longer, then we’ll go down there and show him what happens when you fuck with the Kings.” Ace cups Fist’s shoulder. “I need a drink first.”
I hope if the prospect makes it out alive that he evaluates his life choices, ‘cause being an outlaw is not for the weak.
Fist heads to the door, and Ace faces Deuce, jerking his thumb in my direction. “I’ll be at the bar. Let me know what you want me to do with her.”
Ace’s casual tone belies his deadly threat. My heart slams hard against my ribs, and for the first time, I fear for my life, but I don’t try to defend myself. I don’t tell him my having sex with Deuce had nothing to do with any diversion. I don’t bother because the dead, cold look in Deuce’s eyes tells me all I need to know.
Fist and Ace leave, and it’s just Deuce and me.
He finally meets my eyes. Hard. Closed-off. Not the man who broke down doors for me, held me in his arms, and made me feel whole for the first time since my mother died.
This is the man who survived prison, stared down thugs and outlaws bigger and badder than him.
I long to reach for him and make him remember, but this isn’t the same man.
I try one more time. “No matter what choice I made, someone would’ve gotten hurt.”
Deuce stares at me for a long minute, then rasps, “This isn’t about what you did. It’s about what you didn’t do.”
He turns away without another word and leaves the room. I hear the door latch click and lock, and all I feel is relief. Not fear for my future, or what might happen to me, just an overwhelming relief that the lies and worrying are over.
I can’t save the prospect. He made his choice when he signed on with the Dogs. I can’t save myself either, and whatever Deuce felt for me is gone. If he’d ever felt anything at all.
He made his feelings plain in the hall with Ace this morning. Wow, this morning. How my life fell to shit in just twelve shorthours. Shouldn’t be a surprise—my life has fallen to shit almost since the day I was born.
It’s not self-pity, more like self-awareness and finally accepting what life has in store for me. I’m done trying to do better, be better ‘cause, in the end, it’s all a pile of shit that psychiatrists, therapists and even my romance novels try to sell desperate people with nowhere to turn.
I slump over in the chair, cross my arms on the plywood table, and lower my head. I close my eyes and force myself to unwind until the thumping music, laughter and voices from the bar mesh together as one, drifting me to another place.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
DEUCE
I enter the room, and Sammie startles, then lifts her head, her expression blank, her body limp like she’s drained of every ounce of strength.
“Let’s go,” I order.
She slowly pushes herself out of the chair and stands facing me with dead eyes and a blank expression. Her lack of emotion is unsettling. Normally, she’s full of attitude, heat and fire.
I jerk my head toward the door, and she follows me out of the room. I pause in the hall and put her in front of me then point to the back stairs.
We hit the landing, and she turns to me. “All this keeping me captive is unnecessary, or did you forget,” she motions to her ankle, “I’m already a prisoner.”
Her resigned tone hits me square in the gut. No sass, no sarcasm, none of her usual spice, just dull and uncaring.
She stops at her door, and when I nudge her forward, she gazes up at me. “You don’t have to keep an eye on me. There’s no need for all the espionage. I can’t leave the building, and even if I could, I’ve got nowhere to go.”
“Keep moving.” I jerk my chin toward my door.
She huffs out a sigh as I unlock my door and crowd behind her. She enters and stands in the middle of the room on point and ready to bolt, like she’s waiting for an explosion or an earthquake—or both.
“Sit.” I motion to the couch, then take the opposite chair.
“I’m starting to feel like a trained dog.”
“Bad fuckin’ choice of words.”
“Hmmm, true, but these one-word commands are demeaning.”
