Rocket gave them all his best fuck you glare, which did nothing to stem the heckling.
“First comes fucking, then comes more fucking, third comes a baby in a baby carriage,” Mav sing-songed.
Flipping him off, Rocket said, “First of all, you should be singing that to Jig. He’s the one who’s woman is knocked the fuck up. And second, fuck you all.”
Of course, that did nothing to stop the singing. In fact, the whole damn lot of them busted out in Maverick’s jingle. By the time they finished the second round, they were all howling like a bunch of fucking buffoons. “Jesus,” Zach said as he wiped his eyes. “He’s even using full sentences. Must be getting damn serious.”
Copper was the first to get control of himself. No surprise there. “Hey, for real, brother, you thinking about making this official?”
Christ, had he known he’d be walking back into tenth grade, he’d have brought a trapper keeper and letterman jacket. They all stared at him, practically slobbering for his answer. God, how he hated being under the microscope.
“Hey, brother,” Zach broke in. “We all fucking love that woman. In case that means anything to you.”
As he scanned the room and the curious expressions on his brother’s faces, he actually relaxed somewhat. Sure, they may tease the fuck outta him, but every single man in the room cared about him as though he was a blood brother. And he felt the same for them. He’d take a bullet for any of these fuckers without thought.
He had to admit it was a damn nice feeling.
“Making her my ol’ lady.”
Mav whistled and slapped his palm on the table while the rest of the guys broke out in applause. “Another one bites the dust, baby,” Mav shouted.
Rocket rolled his eyes and started for the door, but he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. Good thing his back was to the table full of jokers. Last thing they needed was more ammo.
As he stepped out into the sun-warmed air, his phone rang from his pocket. Without looking, he palmed it and brought it to his ear. Now that he was done with DarkOps, he didn’t so much care about vetting each call. “Rocket,” he barked into the phone.
The greeting was met with hitched gasps. Pulling the phone away, he glanced at the screen. His stomach took a dive.
“Clo?” Rocket said into the phone as he picked up his pace.
“L-logan?” The terror in her voice had him flat out running toward his bike. “I need you. Now.”
“Baby, you hurt? Tell me what’s wrong.” His heart raced in time with his pounding footfalls.
Her next words rendered him momentarily immobile before he flung a leg over his bike, hit the throttle, and peeled out of the parking lot at breakneck speed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
IF SOMEONE HAD told her in only a matter of weeks her house would no longer feel like her home, Chloe would have laughed in their face. Two years ago, when she’d purchased the little ranch style, she’d been elated and so damn proud of herself. Her first major display of independence. At the time, she’d imagined a man moving in with her one day. The little three-room abode would be their starter home. Maybe the place they’d have their first child. Start a little family. Make memories and traditions.
Now?
Now she couldn’t pack fast enough, dying to return to the tranquility and safety of Logan’s house. His place had become so much more than her boyfriend’s—or whatever he officially was—house. His custom-built cabin had become her safe haven, her comfort zone, her…home.
Hopefully she wasn’t a total fool for thinking along those lines.
Chloe rummaged through her top desk drawer, searching for a specific flash drive. The one with her biggest client’s tax records—ah, there it was. After slipping it into her purse, she made her way through her small kitchen to the opposite end of the house where the other two bedrooms were located.
Clothes were the next necessity to be packed. At the rate she was moving belongings to Logan’s, it wouldn’t be long before she had more stuff at his place than she did at her own. She sighed as she dropped her purse on the kitchen counter. Perhaps it was time to have the dreaded discussion. The where-was-this-going talk. Ugh, that was bound to be awkward as hell with a biker who wasn’t big on conversation.
Or, maybe she could just enjoy Logan being home and stop trying to organize her entire future. There was an idea.
Chuckling to herself, she stepped into her bedroom, and let out a blood-curdling scream. The room swirled, nausea swamped her, and her knees nearly buckled. A loud voice inside her head screamed at her to run, but her feet were rooted to the floor as though superglued in place.
“Hey, Chloe. Been awhile.” Lefty stood at her dresser, a pair of her silky panties dangling from his finger. “These are nice.” He stroked the soft material down his face, pausing to inhale, and Chloe almost vomited. “Too bad you weren’t wearing them when we—”