She blinked back the sting in her eyes.
She had already cried enough tears to last a lifetime. She wasn’t going to cry over this man, or any other man, ever again.
She stared at his parted lips as he challenged her, “Try to kiss me again, Stella. You know you wanna.”
No. No. No. Don’t fall down that fucking rabbit hole.
“I don’t want anything to do with you.”
His eyelids got heavy and those lips of his, the ones she couldn’t pull her gaze from, curled at the corners.
He knew she was lying.
Because even though she would be leaping into that bottomless pit, she wanted nothing more than to feel those lips on hers. What the little girl inside her wanted back then and was denied. What the woman who she was today dreamed about after the other day in the barn.
That little girl had thought the sun rose and set in that boy.
Now she was too jaded to think that.
She’d been dead inside for over a year. When she wasn’t angry or sad, she was numb.
But sex with Trip might make her feel alive once more.
Might.
And that right there was too much of a risk. Because with sex, there were always complications.
She worried Trip would think he owned her afterward. Women were no more than property to bikers. She’d seen it. Even with her mother. With the rest of the original ol’ ladies, too.
And he might use that as a way to get his hands on her bar.
Her bar.
No longer Pete’s.
Not the club’s.
Not Trip’s.
This was her fucking bar, and no one was taking it from her. No one was ever taking away what was hers again.
And one night with Trip wasn’t worth the risk of losing it. No matter how alive it would make her feel. No matter how much it would remind her that the world hadn’t stopped that day. At least for everyone else.
Even so, she was the captain of her own destiny now and if she went down with the ship... Then so be it.
“Fuck you,” she forced out.
“Yeah, you wanna do that, too.”
“You are so fucking full of yourself.”
“Yeah.”
Yeah. The arrogant asshole didn’t even bother to deny it. “Let me get your change so you can get the fuck out of my bar.”
“Keep the fuckin’ change. You need it more than me.”
That blade sliced deep. “I don’t need your fucking charity.”
He shook his head, regret in his eyes and his tone. “We all used to be family once.”
Stella’s blood ran cold. “Family doesn’t hurt family.” But she knew that was a complete lie. The pain family could inflict was always the worst and sometimes the deepest.
“You need to fuckin’ let that go.”
“Which part? Where you hurt me? What your father did? What Razor did? What happened to Ox and all the rest of our so-called family?”
“I’m only responsible for the first one. The rest I had nothin’ to do with, Stella. You fuckin’ know that. I’m done apologizin’ for what I did. You can’t forgive me, then...” He shrugged. “Then fuck you, don’t forgive me. Don’t give a shit, let that eat at you just like the rest of the past. Me? I’m movin’ forward, makin’ amends, makin’ somethin’ outta my life. You wanna sit alone in this dingy fuckin’ bar feelin’ sorry for yourself? Do it while listenin’ to a few Joan Jett songs, then get the fuck over it and move the fuck on. Now, I’m done askin’ and I’m just takin’.”
What the fuck did that mean?
He let her wrist go, but still kept his hand firmly around the back of her neck and her pinned to the counter with his body as he reached into his cut and pulled out a worn, folded piece of lined notebook paper. He shoved it against her chest and her fingers automatically grabbed at it, but he didn’t let go. He held onto it as he kept talking.
“The Fury is mine. That means half of this bar is mine. If you don’t believe me, that’s the agreement Pete signed with Buck thirty years ago. The club financed the whole fuckin’ bar, Stella. The whole goddamn thing. The agreement was Pete and the club split the profits fifty-fifty. And for the last twenty fuckin’ years, Pete kept all of the fuckin’ profits. You don’t want me collectin’ that debt, Stella. Swear to fuck, you don’t. So the best thing for you to do is to put my fuckin’ name on the deed next to yours and... let... me... fuckin’... help... you.”
The last was said only inches away from her face, which she was sure was as white as a ghost, since all the blood had drained from it.
She wondered if what Trip said was true, whether the paper in his hand was legally-binding. She was afraid to look at it. Afraid to think about what all he just said meant.