Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Most of the shit that’s happened to me has nothing to do with my actions and everything with me picking the shortest straw.
The silence on the other side stretches for a moment, but I don’t mind as long as I hear his breath. Finally, Clyde speaks.
“I like that my sheets still smell of you.”
Is he trying to… cheer me up? Even though he was the one calling to yell shit at me?
And what do I have other than the scent of soap, which will be gone when I take my evening shower? His mugshot that hangs in our clubhouse to throw darts at? “When do I see you again?”
“I don’t know. The next few days are out of the question. I’ll be on call all the time. Our other chapter might be summoned, so… we’ll have to play it by ear.”
He’s telling me more than he should, and we both know it, which means he must trust me enough. It doesn’t make hearing it any less painful. I don’t want to see him next time with a gun in my hand. Even though our meetings were sparse, their certainty gave me something to look forward to. Now? Everything feels scattered.
“What about calls?” I try, refusing to go and help with the unloading, because fuck that. I am already working for my own doom, and I’m not gonna do anything that speeds up the inevitable.
“Only pre-arranged. I can’t always have this phone on me. But I wanna hear from you. I wanna hear… you. We’ll make it work.”
Just carve me open and slice my heart into pieces while you’re at it.
What did I get myself into? I was never like this with anyone I was sleeping with. Possessive, greedy, and out of control. Is it just because he’s a man, or—
“I’ll try not to shoot you if we run into each other with others present.”
Clyde chuckles and the sound gives me a semblance of peace. “I’ll only stab you where it won’t kill you.”
Too late. He’s already stabbed me in the heart.
Chapter 23
Clyde
It’s eating me from the inside.
Maybe the preacher who I recently saw in the parking lot of a strip club wasn’t wrong when he claimed lust is like a beast that only grows when fed? That it eventually consumes a man so much, only a hollow shell is left?
But if so, then why do I feel empty only when I’m away from Road? Why does his touch make everything hurt less? I cling to the memories of the last time he stroked my nape, right before he left my home and everything went to shit.
It’s been two weeks. Two agonizing weeks that feel like fucking forever. We talk on the phone, yes, but with people coming over to mine without announcing themselves, I can’t invite him over, or allow myself time off to meet him in the woods. Most days I don’t even take my second phone with me, but I’ve been increasingly slipping on that, my greed for him outwitting my paranoia.
The lack of plans hurts especially bad today, because it’s his birthday. A big one too, thirty. I’d assume he’s celebrating with his buddies if he hadn’t told me it wasn’t a thing for him. I want to make it a thing. Something special just for us.
Which is so fucking sappy I want to punch someone to make sure I haven’t gone soft.
But here I am. At our bar, not allowed to leave, because our Bend chapter is coming over after endless negotiations. When they arrive, the war that’s so far only been a fat powder keg might finally be lit and go off in a way I dread to imagine.
I’m no stranger to violence, and I’ve invited it often. This time though, my thing with Road is on the line. His safety is on the line, and that’s causing an anxious itch buried too deep to scratch. We joked around about not killing each other, but the humor masks a deep anxiety about a future in which he’s hurt and I can’t do anything about it.
What if one of my brothers kills him? What if I pretend to join the fight and then find him with a bullet hole in his forehead? Those worries are a virus spreading through my body until every sound makes my hair bristle, until my favorite beer tastes sour, and the people I’ve been true to all my life feel like enemies.
What the fuck have I done? I should have let things go. I should have never met Road alone and let him get so deep under my skin. But it’s too late now. He’s already there, etching his way through every bit of me. No longer the enemy.
My gaze is stuck to the grime clinging to the faded carpet. I don’t remember who thought it was a good idea to have the floor covered wall-to-wall with fabric. But they didn’t take into account that we all have dirt on our boots, or that the booze and other fluids spilling to our feet at every party will not let the color stay very long. The guys have their old ladies clean it on a regular basis, but at this point both the stains and the reek of beer are never going away.