“June.” Journey growls, his voice laced with pain, stripping me down to nothing. “Please, baby. Don’t do this.”
A sob catches in my throat, and I have to look away because if I keep looking at the storm brewing in his eyes, I’ll break.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, sliding off the back of the ambulance. My legs feel like jelly as I step past him. Brooklyn catches my arm, steadying me.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Brooklyn murmurs, wrapping her arm around my shoulders.
I nod, letting her guide me toward her car that’s parked at the curb behind the cruisers.
We’re almost there when something pulls at me. A thread. A tug deep in my chest that I couldn’t ignore even if I wanted to.
I look over my shoulder.
Hands clenched into fists as his sides, Journey’s pleading eyes are glued to my retreat.
Our eyes connect, and all the noise and chaos around us fade into nothingness. It’s just him and me and the gaping wound between us.
I’m sorry.
Breaking both our hearts, I turn around, climb into Brooklyn’s car, and close the door.
Chapter Fourteen
Journey
Pulling into the parking lot of Pretty Kitties, the strip club we own, I cut the engine and stare ahead at the neon sign flickering the wordGIRLSoverhead.
This place used to be my go-to for a good time. Now, it’s the only place open this late where I can get a drink and hopefully not have to answer twenty questions about where June is.
Heaving a sigh, I climb off my bike and head inside.
Bash glances up when the door opens, and his brows pull together. “What are you doing here?”
“No questions.”
He eyes me for a second, then nods as he pulls down a bottle of Maker’s Mark and fills two glasses.
I drop onto the barstool across from him. “Leave the bottle.”
“That bad?” he asks, pulling out his phone.
“You have no fucking clue, dude.” He fires off a text, and in no time, the door swings open again and in strolls Bane and Gator.
We migrate to a booth in the corner, none of us saying a word until Gator finally breaks the silence. “This about your girl?”
“She’s not my girl anymore,” I mutter. Fuck. Why does saying the words out loud feel like swallowing broken glass?
“Bullshit,” Bane says flatly, pouring himself a generous shot from the bottle Bash brought over. “What happened?”
I take a breath and run through the condensed version. Coming out of church to find June gone. Riding to her apartment. Walking in on Amy holding a gun to the woman I love. That bitch pulling the trigger and almost snuffing out June’s life. Then, the aftermath of June sitting in the back of an ambulance, her blue eyes scared and sad as she told me she couldn’t do this anymore.
“I told her June didn’t mean anything to me,” I say, my voice flat as I stare into my glass.
“What?” I glance up at Gator’s confused tone.
“Amy. I told her that June was nobody. Right in front of June’s face, just trying to get the gun away from Amy.”
Bane’s brow furrows. “And June heard that.”
