No. Way.
“She also told me you were her brother’s best friend.”
Great.
“That you served together, and he died overseas.”
Fuck.
“And that he said if she ever needed anything and he wasn’t around, she could turn to you, and you’d help her. You’d do it because you loved him like a brother.” Her voice softened. “I imagine you’d have expected the same from him if your sister needed help.”
Well, motherfucking fuck. The woman didn’t play fair. Chloe’s face drifted before his field of vision. Yeah, he’d have wanted Deke to help her if the tables were turned. And Deke would’ve done it too. Without a second thought.
JT came by and poured more whisky into his shot glass. He glanced between him and Brooke before backing away with wide eyes.
Scott turned his head to find Brooke wearing a wide, victorious grin. She knew she had him by the balls. His ingrained sense of honor and duty to his fallen friend wouldn’t let him refuse her.
He stared at the full shot glass in his hand. His stomach roiled with a mix of guilt, shame, and agony. Olivia would be there every day for who knew how the hell long. Every morning he’d leave his apartment knowing Deke’s sister slept behind one thin wall. The woman who’d never get to fully know her brother because Scott hadn’t saved him. Had her heart broken when she’d learned of his death? Had he broken her heart with his weakness and inability to keep Deke alive?
He’d joined the MC hoping a new brotherhood would give him a sense of purpose and something to think about besides how he failed his best friend. But his past caught up with him, and now he’d entered hell.
After tossing the shot back, he stood. “Just keep her the hell away from me.”
Without another word, he stormed through the clubhouse to a back room that had been converted into a bunk room for guests. As of now, the only people who’d used it were visiting club members from their mother charter in Tennessee. The bunks didn’t have sheets or blankets currently. Brooke probably knew where he could find some, but then he’d have to face her again.
With a growl, he pitched face-first onto a bed and prayed for the quiet peace of oblivion to take over.
He could escape Olivia in his dreams but not Deke.
Deke haunted him day and night.
CHAPTER FIVE
“YOU’RE SERIOUS, AREN’T you?” Brooke asked. She stopped walking and grabbed Olivia’s arm. Her ponytail hung over her shoulder where it landed after she’d whipped her head around violently. “You’ve never been to a Target?”
With a shrug, Olivia shook her head. “Nope. Not once.”
The other woman’s mouth made a perfect O shape. “Oh, my God, how have you survived this long? What are you, twenty-three?”
Chuckling, Olivia began walking toward the store with the giant red bullseye again. “Twenty-five. And apparently, I’ve been missing out.”
“Well, maybe not. I get the sneaking suspicion Target is below your budget. Based on your outfits, I’d guess you don’t shop at many big-box stores.”
She glanced down at her outfit with a frown. She’d paired a cream sleeveless silk blouse with a flouncy pink miniskirt and her favorite Jimmy Choo sandals. Nothing about today’s clothes screamed fancy or over-the-top. She’d thought it was the perfect choice for a low-key shopping trip. “What’s wrong with my outfit? You said to dress casually.”
“Nothing,” Brooke was quick to say with a soft smile. “Nothing is wrong with it. Your clothes are gorgeous. Beyond gorgeous. Just not what we’re used to around the club,” she said, gesturing to her cutoff shorts, fitted cotton tank, and thin flip-flops. “Day-to-day, we’re a little more accustomed to comfort than luxury. The guys' idea of high-end fashion is a T-shirt without holes and fifteen-year-old jeans.” She gave a wry smile. “I’m not too different myself.”
“Oh. Well, I hope this is okay.” She never, never left the house without a coordinated outfit and styled hair. Hell, she never left her bathroom in the morning without a fully made-up face. Lance had only ever seen her barefaced in the dark. And you wouldn’t catch her in a pair of sweatpants unless they were designer, and even then, sightings were rare. Looking put-together and polished gave her a sense of confidence she couldn’t imagine having with a naked face or wearing scrubby clothes. Not that Brooke looked like a scrub. She pulled off the shorts and tank well, looking comfortable and gorgeous in the hot Florida sun.
“Of course, it’s okay! You do you. Wear whatever the hell you want.” Brooke nudged her with her elbow. “I can’t promise the guys won’t stare. They’re a bunch of degenerates, but no one really cares.”
They laughed together as they reached the store. “They do seem a little, uh, rough around the edges.” Then again, she didn’t know a person outside her social circle who didn’t own a Porsche, let alone who rode a motorcycle and wore chains. And that one guy with the mohawk? Well, he also had a pierced lip, septum, ear gauges, and she’d probably missed a few other holes. It’d been near impossible to keep from staring at him. Not because she objected to his look but because it fascinated her like a unique animal at the zoo would capture her attention—unfamiliar and intriguing.