Griffin (Ruthless MC 3)

His gaze is so tender. His expression is more vulnerable than I ever seen it.

Which is what makes what I say next so hard.

“No.” I let out a shuddering breath. “No, I won’t marry you.”

CHAPTER 39

BERNICE

It’s a quiet walk to the parking garage where Griff has two sport cars, two trucks, two luxury SUVs, and three motorcycles parked all in a row. I take my time looking them over even though I know it’s either the Cadillac or Lexus SUV. Did I do the right thing?

No! Red practically wails.

Yes, yes, of course you did, Bernice says at the same time.

Bernice is right. We couldn’t even go two weeks without a blow-up. What makes me think we could last a lifetime? I need to sign the custody agreement and return to my boring life.

“I think you should take the Escalade,” he tells me, his voice gruff and quiet. “It matches the new hair.”

I’d almost forgotten about my new extensions, the ones that were supposed to merge Red and Bernice.

“Of course, it’s your choice,” he adds, looking away. “You can find something online and I’ll have it dropped off to you. Anything. Just tell me what you want.”

It doesn’t feel like we’re talking about cars.

“Griff…” I say. Then I give up. What can I say?

“I know you’re scared,” he tells me when I can’t go on. “I get it. I was scared too. This thing we’ve got is so intense, I couldn’t really talk with you about it. I love you, but I couldn’t even say it until you cornered me.”

I wait for the “but” and realize that’s it. He’s just validating my fears—letting me know I’m not the only one.

“I…” I want to tell him the truth. That I love him too. But that would make things more complicated than they already are.

“Have fun on your trip with the Reapers,” I say instead. “We’ll talk about custody and everything when you get back. Meanwhile….”

I take off the gorgeous engagement ring and hold it out to him.

He averts his eyes to a spot over my shoulder. Like he doesn’t see the expensive item I’m trying to return. “That’s yours. Hock it if you want.”

His voice is flat. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed or resolved. Either way, I’m left to put the ring in the pocket of my jeans.

We stand there awkwardly. Am I doing the right thing?

The question hovers as the silence stretches. But this time no one answers. My heart just vibrates heavy and sad in my aching chest.

And eventually, I’m the one who has to break the silence. “I’ll take the Escalade.”

I love Griff, and Griff loves me.

But we’re not going to make it work. The almost-six-year-old engagement ring feels like a heavy stone in my pocket when I walk in the door of the house about a half an hour later.

I pull my phone out of my cross-body bag as soon as I walk toward the kitchen. I’m hungry as all get-out after eating explanations and tears for dinner instead of food. But I should coordinate O2’s drop-off with Carol before I rummage around the fridge for something to eat.

However, I stop in the middle of the kitchen and furrow my brow when I see the wall of texts and missed call notifications on my front screen. They’re all from Griff, saying some variation of “call me.”

And as I’m trying to make sense of all the messages, a new one pops up.

GRIFF: FUCK! CALL ME BACK. CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS. DON’T GO HOME.

Don’t go home?

I have no idea what this is all about, but I find out in an instant that I trust Griff more than I thought. Heart sprinting, I turn on my heel and head back toward the door leading out to the garage.

“Not so fast, bitch,” a voice calls out, stopping me in my tracks.

Rowdy…

Rowdy’s standing in the darkened foyer. Just like on that New Year’s Eve, he stands between me and the door I need to reach.

But unlike on that New Year’s Eve, he has a gun in his hand. One that he raises to point at me as he says, “Hey, Red, you can’t leave yet. You just got here!”

CHAPTER 40

BERNICE

“Rowdy…Rowdy don’t.”

My heart clogs with fear as I look at the man…the nightmare that’s haunted me for nearly six years.

Waylon was sober as a judge when he opened the door for me earlier, but Rowdy, not so much.

I can tell he’s partied too hard over the years since I saw him last. His skinny frame has given way to beer bloat, and his eyes are red-rimmed and bleary.

He looks wasted, and I try to figure out if that’s good or bad for my chances of survival as I say, “Rowdy, you don’t want to do this.”

“Do you know how much money I lost on that bet?” he asks me, like we’re picking up a conversation from six minutes ago—not almost six years later. “A lot. And then Rockstar stopped touring and moved to Vegas. And Waylon banned me from deals after I messed up an order—even though it wasn’t my fault it came in a little light.”