“I am your man,” I say, taking her face in my hands and forcing her to keep her attention focused on me. Buckle up, she said and it’s like sitting in church and listening to her dad tell us to stop being pussies. Buckle up, he’d say, and we’d listen because Butch wasn’t one for casual chitchat. He spoke and we fucking listened. Which reminds me, I need to get word to Butch about me and Nic. I can’t visit him myself because of my record, and we don’t put club business down on paper, but as a brother, he’s got to know I’m making his daughter my Old Lady. It’s only right.
“No,” she says. “No man of mine hurts me that badly. No man of mine fucks a filthy whore like that when he knows I can see him. That does not happen. So no, you’re not my man.” Her words twist in my gut, making me feel like a fucking loser. I have to do better for her and by her. Short of fucking up club business, fucking up by not taking care of your woman is a big fucking problem. Rage, Jim’s dad and our previous charter president, had a zero tolerance policy for failing at being a man.
“I’m going to do better by you, going to take care of you,” I say, placing a kiss to her forehead.
“And for how long? When does this expire?”
The blow is small, but it feels like a shrapnel bomb that goes off, leaving tiny little splinters all over my flesh. Her once soft body turns rigid, and she pulls away. I don’t fight it, but let her stand and then cross the room. She’s like a cat—territorial and guarded. Resuming her place in front of the sink, she folds her arms over her chest. I stand from my seat and concede that we’re not going to get anywhere today. She doesn’t need bullshit apologies, she just needs me to be here and prove her wrong.
To my left is the refrigerator, which is near the gas range, and adjacent to the sink, where Nic’s standing. I stand and walk to the fridge where I open the door, expecting to find it a little light on groceries, but totally unprepared for what I find. There’s a mostly empty jar of pickle juice in the door and half a stick of margarine in the butter compartment. There are no eggs or bacon, or even sausages. In a package that expired a week ago, there’s a few tortillas and some mostly empty condiment containers. There’s no milk or soda and not a single fucking beer—which is just blasphemy. A few other items are strewn about in the fridge, but nothing that could create anything edible. The freezer isn’t much better. There are a few bags of frozen vegetables and a gelato carton that’s growing freezer burn on the container.
Shooting Nic a skeptical glance, I find that she’s not even looking my way. She hops lightly on one foot and then trades off, hopping on the other. Rifling through the cupboards doesn’t produce much more than the fridge or the freezer did. I’ve spent enough time watching her, and knowing her habits, to know that she doesn’t do blow, but she’s so fucking skinny she looks like she does lines for breakfast. Fuck. How bad is my girl hurting that she’s a goddamn twig and has no food in the house? Doesn’t matter that I ain’t been in this house in years—she deserves better, and I should have known she needed help. This shit isn’t just on my shoulders. The entire club’s failed my girl, and I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to get right with that. We take care of our own and we take the risks we do, doing the shit we do, to make sure we can do that. But this? None of us are good enough for Butch’s girl, and if he knew, he’d have every right to call an officer challenge if he had a vote right now.
“When’s the last time you went to the store?” I ask in a tone that comes across closer to judgment than I intend for it to.
“I’m going to pick up a few things later,” she says and huffs.
“Tell me you normally have more food in this house?”
“Yeah, but Jeremy eats everything in sight,” she says and shifts on her feet again. It’s a nervous habit she’s had since high school.
“So let’s go now,” I say and look over her bare legs and up to her face.
“I said I will later,” she snaps. Placing her hands on the counter behind her, the shirt lifts up, showing off the curve of her inner thigh.
“I don’t got Church until later. I got time,” I say. For some reason, I think this is going to rectify the problem. For some reason, I think she’s telling me we don’t have time. But she’s not. There’s something I’m missing here, and it’s upsetting her. Nic’s not a crier like Alex is. I swear, every time I turn around Princess is trying to stop herself from crying. Nic’s more like a proud, wounded bird. My eyes focus on the little robin on her wrist once again. She may be hurting, but she damn sure won’t let you see her sweat about it, much less cry.
“Well, I don’t and I’m not doing any shopping, so…” She trails off. I take a deep breath as the frustration builds. Trying not to snap at her and her steadfast refusal to go grocery shopping, which I know has not one fucking thing to do with not needing food in this house and everything to do with something else, I close my eyes for a second. Once I open them, I stomp forward and lean over her, placing my hands on the countertop on the sides of hers.
“You really don’t wanna go grocery shopping with me?” I ask. She steels herself then peers up at me, a fire blazing in her eyes.