“Even if it didn’t take months to get a dinner reservation at that place, you’d be missing the point.” Jonathan runs a hand over his face like he’s the one who just got off an overnight shift. “Your brother is an issue…on top of the other major issue we have; the one we were supposed to solve on my birthday”—he lowers his voice to whisper—“in bed.”
My cheeks heat with even more embarrassment than when he asked me about my brother. “I’m sorry about that. But we can try again. Just let me...”
I search for a promise I could give him—one that would assure him that I’d overcome my epically bad bedroom skills and give him the night of bedroom loving he deserves. All I can come up with is a weak, “I’ll figure it out.”
Jonathan looks away like he’s embarrassed for both himself and me—but mostly me.
“Let’s just take this break,” he says. “Then we’ll revisit whether we want to continue on with this relationship after a few weeks apart. Okay?”
I hate the okay he tacks on to the end of that statement. Like it’s a suggestion, not a decision he’s already made for the both of us.
I’ve done so much to control the anger. To keep it tamped down deep inside of me where it belongs. But it rises up like a beast who was only pretending to sleep.
Jonathan’s the dream. Everything I worked so hard to improve myself for—but I hate him at this moment. I hate him for judging me like the kids at school. For giving me pitying looks like my teachers. For dismissing how hard I worked to become what he wanted. For not understanding me—for not even trying.
I stand up from the table just like I did that night at The Spotless Dove. But this time, it’s so I don’t give in to the urge to punch him in the throat.
Heaving with resentment, I throw a twenty on the table for my pitiful meal. Way above the menu price, but I don’t want Jonathan paying for my meal—like the nice faux girls at my school who sometimes said, “Aw….” straight to my face and offered to pay for my lunch.
“Amira…” Jonathan says behind me when I leave without another word.
Not too loudly, of course. We wouldn’t want our co-workers to know that we were two humans capable of getting into a fight.
I don’t turn around. I need to get out of here before I explode.
But tears don’t come as I leave the diner and head toward the bus stop. All sorts of “Should’ve known better” recriminations rush in before they can even think about falling.
You should’ve known he’d find out.
You should’ve known he’d stop admiring everything you rose above the moment your past stepped into his tidy little reality.
You should have known a perfect guy like him could never stay with a scuzzy girl like you.
You should’ve known better than to fantasize about a husband and kids in a cute yellow house.
You should’ve known better than to dream.
My apartment in Greenville is within walking distance of the hospital, and all I want to do is go home and sleep for a thousand years. But I get on the bus headed for Hillside anyway.
I’ve got proverbial wounds to lick at home but real ones to attend to at Ant’s row house. Even getting dumped doesn’t stop me from being a good nurse.
Which is why I’m shocked to find Ant and O-Blood leading my patient down the row house’s front steps when I arrive.
What the….
The MC is supposed to be resting, but Ant shoves him toward a black van.
“Ant? Ant? What are you doing?”
Ant flashes me a look of warning, but I rush forward anyway to intercede with whatever’s happening here.
The biker’s on his feet again and back in his Ruthless Reapers motorcycle jacket. He’s also wearing a pair of baggy gray sweatpants. I’d say that someone from the Reyes was nice enough to loan them to him if not for the zombie-like state of him. Dark circles shadow the bottom of his eyes, and his hair hangs in his face, lank with sweat—most likely from the exertion it took to get dressed and lurch all the way out to the street.
He’s standing without help from anyone, but he sways dangerously. As if he could topple over at any moment.
“Why is he out of bed?” I demand. “He shouldn’t be moving for at least another day or two.”
O-Blood freezes and looks to Ant, who says, “Sorry, sis, but Son of Anarchy’s gotta go.”
CHAPTER 6
“Sorry, sis, but Son of Anarchy’s gotta go.”
I’ve never seen the Sons of Anarchy show my brother’s referring to, so I really don’t understand. “Why are you kicking him out? Look at him.”
“It’s alright,” the biker insists—right before he presses a hand into the side of the van in a bid to remain standing. “I’ll handle this.”