I sat at a table in the corner of the clubhouse bar alone that night, waiting for King’s call. The mood in the bar was sombre. We all knew what hinged on the meeting with Silver Hell, although no one besides Devil knew of King’s orders for what was to go down if he was unsuccessful. That shit had fucked with my mind since he’d issued the directive. I was a so
ldier, not a fucking leader. I’d been indoctrinated in the art of war from a young age and had always known my place as a soldier. I served. I carried out orders. I got shit done. What I didn’t do was command, so that call from King needed to come.
Tatum entered the bar with Evie and took a table on the other side of the room. My presence remained unknown so I was able to observe her freely. She’d stayed out of my way all day. In fact, I hadn’t seen her since she’d slapped me that morning. That didn’t mean she was far from my mind. On the contrary, she’d fucking filled it nearly all day.
I couldn’t get the night she’d slept in my arms out of my head. Or pretty much anything since that night. Tatum was broken and I found myself wondering who did that to her. I knew a lot about her, yet I knew nothing important. Someone somewhere had shattered her, and she’d built walls of steel around her heart. Her mood altered so often I struggled to keep up. The fact I tried to keep up pissed me off.
“Nitro, you need to come and sort Dustin out.”
Renee stared down at me. She’d had a hard few days at the clubhouse, hating the confinement. Most of her time had been spent in my room working on school assignments. Standing, I said, “What’s he done?”
A tired sigh escaped her lips. “What do you think he’s done? The usual.”
“Jesus,” I muttered.
“It’s okay, he hasn’t taken it too far yet, but I can tell the woman has had enough of him. I came to you before it got out of hand.” Thank fuck. The last thing I needed to be dealing with was another of Dustin’s screw-ups.
I followed Renee, stealing one last glance at Tatum. Up closer, I could see that her lips were pressed together in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She watched Evie talk, but I wasn’t convinced she heard her.
I caught her attention as we moved past her. Our gazes locked. She didn’t smile, but she did sit up straight in her seat and turn her head to track my movements. She bit her bottom lip and her chest rose as she took a deep breath.
My phone rang at that moment. I held her eyes while I answered it, distracted as fuck. “Yeah?”
“Nitro.”
King.
I snapped to attention, letting Tatum out of my sight. “You’re done?”
A pause. And then, “It’s done.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding for hours.
Thank fuck.
20
Tatum
“To Be Loved” by Curtis Stigers
Three Weeks Later
“You look like shit,” Monroe said as she poured me a drink. Sliding it across the kitchen counter, she added, “Is Billy working you too hard?”
“It has been busy, but nothing more than usual.” I drank some of the rum and Coke she gave me. Friday afternoon drinks had been a thing for us for a year, ever since the day I was disbarred. We usually frequented a pub near her work, but for the last three weeks we’d chosen to have drinks at my house instead.
Her eyes narrowed at me. “So what gives then?”
It wasn’t a question I hadn’t asked myself. What the fuck was wrong with me? I leaned my elbows on the table and rested my chin in my hands. “I honestly don’t know, Roe. I thought I’d feel better after that Silver Hell biker was dead, but I don’t. I feel worse. Or, maybe not worse, just something different, but still bad. Ugh, I can’t even describe how I feel.” Tears pricked at my eyes and I sighed. Pointing at my eyes, I muttered, “And look! I fucking cry for no reason these days. Ridiculous.” I shoved my drink away. “And I don’t want rum. I want Milo.”
The room turned silent while we stared at each other, me through tears, Monroe through surprised eyes. And then she did what Monroe does—she moved into action and tried to fix me.
She picked up the glass of rum and emptied the liquid into the sink. Then, she pulled the fridge open and grabbed out the milk. Next, she reached into the pantry for the tin of Milo I always had on hand and made me the drink I craved.
Placing the mug of Milo in front of me, she said, “Drink that and let’s work this shit out because no fucking way can I have Friday drinks in your house anymore. And I certainly can’t do fucking Milo on a Friday afternoon. Milo!”
My mouth curled into the first smile I’d smiled all week. Placing both hands around the mug, I drank my drink and waited for her to continue.