So free.
So right.
Like I’d just come into who I was supposed to be.
Vitality pumping in my blood, I stepped into the back room, eyes taking in the space. A couple tables were set up in the middle, and there was a bar in the back.
The excitement I was drunk on only dipped for a single beat when I took in the men filling the space.
A couple faces I recognized.
Most that I didn’t.
All of them rough like Keeton. Worn at the edges. Aggression and intimidation written in their bones. Didn’t take a lot to surmise they did bad, bad things.
All those questions I’d had about my stepdad for the last couple years suddenly made perfect sense.
Every single one of them was looking at me.
Like they’d been waiting on my arrival.
Coming up to stand beside me, Keeton squeezed my shoulder. “Someone get this kid a drink. It’s his birthday.”
One of the guys behind the bar poured a tumbler full of golden liquid.
He slid it my way.
I glanced back at Keeton.
Again, wondering if I was bein’ punked.
Set up.
Because this just wasn’t right. Keeton nearly knocked out my teeth the one night he’d caught me stealing beers for me and a couple of my friends.
“Go on.”
My brow lifted.
He chuckled a rough, commanding sound. “Grab your drink. Then sit down and listen.”* * *My job was easy. There wasn’t a whole lot I had to do. Sit in the front of the shop. Make it all look legit. Book appointments. Make sure the mechanics actually did their damned jobs so Keeton could do his.
Sit back and reap the benefits.
Money.
More cash than I could fucking count.
Not to mention damned near any girl I wanted would gladly take a seat on my dick.
It made me feel like some kind of god.
Flush with power.
All I had to do was ride my bike up the street, and the seas parted. Fear and respect synonymous with the name.
Pride of Petrus.
Except today.
Today it was different.
A layer of fear I hadn’t felt in a long time palpitated under the surface of my skin.
I fought it. Lifted my chin. Got off my bike. Strode into the back of the club like I owned it.
Heavy metal screamed from the speakers. Place dank and dark.
Seedy as fuck.
There were piles of coke on the table. Half-naked chicks running amok. Arrogant pricks leaning against the walls drinking beers like they were someone to be seen.
Every single one of them took notice of me.
I pushed into the back office.
Didn’t even knock.
Did the deal.
And I strode back out feeling like a motherfucking king.TwelveMiaWhat was I doing?
My gaze followed the dark figure who moved toward the guest house on the opposite side of the yard.
A shadow.
A wraith.
Both soothing and terrifying.
Which made me question more why I couldn’t stay away.
Why I was so intrigued.
Or maybe he had it right. Maybe the only thing I knew how to do was look for the pain.
Lately it felt like I didn’t know anything else.
At the doorway to the guest house, he paused and shifted to stare back in my direction. From this distance in the muted lights, I doubted he could make me out through the windows. But still, he was gazing back at me like he could see me.
Like he got me.
Understood me.
Or maybe like he wished that he could.
Finally, he gave a harsh shake of his head, turned, and disappeared into the guest house.
It cut off the connection, jolting me back into reality.
I shook my head like I could shake myself from the trance. Rid myself of the attraction.
I really was looking for trouble, wasn’t I?
Begging for it.
The man felt irresistible, which was kind of funny considering he was the one who was refusing to give himself to me.
One second, I was telling him to leave me alone, that I had no interest, and the next I was practically begging him to strip me of my clothes and put me out of my misery.
I got the horrible sense that he might be the only one who could do it. The only one who might be able to hold me tight enough that he could keep the ghosts at bay.
No, I had no illusions that he wouldn’t crush me in the process.
But sometimes experiencing the pain was better than feeling nothing at all.
I looked back at the black streak I’d painted in a crooked slash across the canvas.
Feeling a flicker.
A spark.
Beauty.
I squeezed my eyes shut in a bid to cling to it, to claim it, but I felt it falter and fade.
Snuffed.
Blowing out a heavy sigh, I set the paintbrush aside and moved back through the shadows of the house. I tiptoed my way back into the suite, edging open the door that was left open a smidge and moving directly for the room on the left.
Where my children slept.
This was where the numbness abated. Where emotion rushed.