He covered her hands with his and they sat that way for a few quiet moments, lost in thought. After a while, Copper’s brogue broke the silence. “He told me about that day,” he said inclining his head toward the very picture she’d been reminiscing over.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Said he’d been waiting months for you to finally admit you loved him.”
“He had,” she said with a laugh. “I made the poor guy wait over a year. Even though I knew I loved him less than two weeks in. But I had my reasons.”
“I believe the phrase he used was stubborn sadist.” Copper raised an eyebrow.
Cassie’s head fell back on her shoulders and she laughed out loud. “That sounds just like the man I fell in love with.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1983 - TENNESSEE
“The fuck are we doing here, Sarge?” Viper murmured across the booth as he murdered his friend with his eyes.
The urge to plow his fist through his friend’s face nearly had him lunging across the slightly sticky table. For the tenth time in as many seconds, his gaze shifted to the door of the women’s restroom. If Cassie didn’t emerge in the next thirty seconds, he was going in. “I brought my fucking woman, for fuck’s sake.” He slammed his palm on the table and counted it a victory for his usually well reined in temper. At least he hadn’t connected that hand with Sarge’s smug fucking face. “You fucking told me to bring her. Had I known—”
“Had you known, you wouldn’t have agreed to come. I fucking know that, V.” Sarge rested back against the torn vinyl of the booth, arms crossed, and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Why the hell do you think I didn’t tell you where we were going? Cass’ll be fine. You’re woman’s tough as shit. Untwist your panties, brother.”
Once again Viper flicked a glance at the closed entrance to the women’s bathroom. What the fuck was taking her so long?
“She’s fine, Jesus, you’re a goddammed mother hen.” Sarge waved off Viper’s concern. His faded Van Halen T-shirt had seen better days and his once clean-shaven face now sported a thick beard. With each passing day, his criticism of Viper’s monogamous status grew tenfold. If Sarge wasn’t trying to shove some skanky party girl in Viper’s face, he was lecturing him on the virtues of having new pussy each night. “You need to watch it, or you might never get your balls back.”
Fine by him. He had no problem admitting Cassie owned him as much, maybe more than the club did. The club…fuck. Had the prez even sanctioned this little…whatever Sarge had cooked up?
For the past year, he and Sarge had been prospecting with the Handlers club. Even living the shitty life of a prospect for the goddammed second time around, Viper fucking loved club life. Amazing how this MC could be so different than the one he’d come from, yet inspire the same loyalty and brotherhood in him. Probably even a stronger sense since he couldn’t imagine a situation that would cause him to turn his back on his newfound club.
Sarge, on the other hand, had been restless since day one. Whenever possible, he cut corners, skirted work, and bitched about being a prospect. It was a wonder none of the patched brothers had caught on to his shitty attitude, but he’d managed to fly under the radar for nearly twelve months.
There’d been more than one occasion recently, where Viper had nearly walked away rather than covering for Sarge’s lazy ass. The guy didn’t even ask anymore, just assumed Viper would jump in and clean his shit before anyone discovered whatever it’d been he’d forgotten, fucked up, or just plain didn’t give a shit about. But in the end, he’d hustled and busted his ass to get the work of two prospects done.
Why?
Well, if it weren’t for Sarge, Cassie wouldn’t be in his life. Neither would the Handlers. So he sucked up his growing misgivings and remained loyal to his friend. Even as his behavior grew more difficult to justify and his animosity toward Cassie strengthened. Since the day more than eleven months ago when Cassie had stood up to him for throwing her shit all over the motel room, he’d held some sort of ridiculous grudge against her.
As much as Viper loved the Handlers, like most clubs, their prospects lived a shit life, and for the past twelve months, he and Sarge had eaten it yet again. For the second time, patch-in loomed so close he could taste it, and the thought of doing something to fuck that up had his stomach churning.
And being in a bar owned by the most notorious weapons trafficker east of the Mississippi, an hour from home, and an hour from club backup had the potential to blow the fuck up. Also, there was no way in hell they were there to simply have a drink and enjoy the crappy ambiance. Sarge had a fucking plan he hadn’t bothered to clue Viper into.