Wolf (Evil Dead MC 4)

“Sit the fuck down, Wolf.”

He sat.

“I take it this is what’s been eating at you since we got back from Vegas.”

Wolf nodded.

“And how’d that end?”

Wolf ran a hand through his hair. “Not good.”

“What happened?”

“She dropped one bomb after another on me. I didn’t handle it well.” Wolf shook his head, staring off at the horizon. “Hell, I lost it.”

Crash nodded, waiting for Wolf to continue, when he didn’t, Crash finally prompted, “Do you want to try to make a go of it with her?”

Wolf shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what I want.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Means I’m trying to do what she wants.”

“And what’s that?”

“She told me if I cared anything for her, I’d let her go.”

Crash nodded solemnly. “Is that what you plan to do, then?”

“I have to. I have to think about what’s best for her.”

“And what about you? You gonna survive this?”

“Gonna have to try.”

They sat there a long moment before Crash finally stood up, and Wolf stood with him. Crash pulled him into an embrace and slapped his back. “Then you’ll do what you have to do. And we’re all here for you, Brother.”

They broke apart. “Yeah.”

Then they moved toward the door, but Wolf stopped him before Crash could open it. “This stays between us, Crash. No one else needs to know. I shouldn’t have told you, but hell, I needed someone to talk to.”

Crash nodded. “I won’t say a word.”

“And Shannon?”

Crash’s brows rose and a slight grin pulled at his mouth. “Yeah, that might be a bigger problem.”

“Crash,” Wolf warned.

“I got it, don’t worry. She won’t say a word.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jameson studied Crystal. Ever since she’d come back from Vegas two weeks ago, she’d been quiet, subdued. She’d reverted back to the Crystal that had walked into his shop that first day, all those months ago, broken and whipped. Beaten down by life, barely hanging on.

Jameson would never forget that day. The day she’d walked in looking for a job…

He was bent over the arm of a client, twisting and leaning to get to a difficult area of shoulder when the bell over the front door tinkled, drawing his eyes up for one brief glance. He saw the back of someone’s coat as they turned to close the door. The shop was short a receptionist since his last crazy bitch had walked out on him, calling him every name in the book and blaming his tyrannical behavior (he preferred to think of it as artistic drive) and his hot Irish temper on why he couldn’t keep a girl in the reception chair longer than a month. That one had only lasted three days. But he’d known from almost day one that she wasn’t going to work out. So, he hadn’t even bothered to pull the ad he’d posted.