He takes a step forward, rolling his sleeves to show off a wrist flashing with some kind of fancy-ass watch and to intimidate me. This I want to laugh at. The dude has zero muscle. She married this weasel? He tries to throw his shoulders back, but every ounce of his posture signals that he’s a pussy and not used to real violence.
Not like I am.
Not like I’ve lived it.
Breathed it.
Choked on it.
Dealt it.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, pal,” he says. “You’ll send my wife out, and we’ll part ways. No cops, no complications. Otherwise, I’ll kill every one of you club rats and drag her back by her hair. Understand?”
I give a little smirk. Hash and Silk are flanking me on each side.
Poor Boy cracks his knuckles next to Hash, his tattooed fingers itching for a fight. I glance at Phillip’s goons. Dumb fucks outfitted like private security, but not real muscle.
Not like ours.
Not born to scrap and bleed.
To defend.
To protect what’s ours.
To take out any motherfucker who threatens what’s mine.
What's ours.
And Lacey belongs to me.
More members of the club file out from the clubhouse, closing in on him and his men.
“What did you say about killing?” Blood questions, walking up and towering over him. “You’re outnumbered. Outgunned. Outmatched. I suggest you tuck that little dick between your legs and run home to daddy like the little bitch that you are.” Blood flinches at him and the weak-ass pussy nearly pisses his pants.
We all start laughing as he climbs back into his car, humiliated, but I know he’ll be back with more paid muscle. And we’ll be ready when he does.
Right now, I need to talk to Lacey.
I find her in the kitchen at the clubhouse with Tequila, Ashley, and Asher baking cookies.
Her hands are white with flour, and there’s a smudge high on her cheek. She looks like the kind of woman I want to see baking in my kitchen. A woman who belongs in my life. For one hotsecond, I see a future where this ends with her as my ol’ lady. I hate that I have to ruin her happiness and kill my fantasy.
Lacey sets her spatula down. There’s a jitter about her. A nervous one, but she’s not scared. At least not of me. She knows something is up, but I don’t want to spook her.
“Smells good. Almost as sweet as you.” I pull her in close, wanting to kiss her stupid, but we need to talk. “Need to talk to you. Alone.”
Ashley is polite enough to pretend not to hear as she scoops Asher from the counter, while trying to pry the raw cookie dough batter from between his tiny fists. “Let’s go wash up, little man.”
Tequila follows behind them.
Everything I know is burning holes through my head and my heart. But Lacey or Heather, whatever her name is, needs to know who she is. I don’t know if she made up her amnesia or if it was a psychotic break.
I don’t have all the answers.
I hope she wants to stay, but she deserves to make the choice. She wipes her hands on a dishtowel, and I rub the flour from her cheek.
“Take a walk with me.”
