Duke climbs onto his bike and I follow. From the front door, Ryan and Jim storm out and head for their bikes. We get comfortable, affix our helmets to our heads, and Duke starts her up. I wrap my arms around Duke’s waist and hold on tight as he peels off down the driveway and then onto Sherwood Road. I wait until we make it to the clubhouse and I’m climbing off the bike to ask why we left early.
“Club vote about Chief. Sorry, baby,” he says. I nod and take a deep breath before removing my helmet.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Like it when you ask questions,” he says. He’s smiling so wide that I think his cheeks have got to be hurting, and his eyes have a slight twinkle to them. He looks happy. He climbs off the bike and wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into him. And as we stand here, in the Forsaken clubhouse’s parking lot, I feel happy. If even for a moment, this feels good and right. And I want to believe beyond all doubts that I won’t lose this. I know Duke wants me, but would he want us?
Things are going so well between us. Just looking at his face with that big, stupid grin, I think there’s hope for us yet. We do a lot of eating and some cooking—on his part, not mine—and there’s some TV watching. There’s even a lot of fighting over the sink in the morning to brush our teeth, and there’s wall sex, and even kitchen sex. That’s what we mostly do. We bitch at each other and then have sex. We fight and then we have sex. Duke eats and then we have sex. There’s even a good bit of crawling into bed together, there’s spooning, and there’s waking up together. Even the mornings he has to wake up before me, there’s morning sex. And the mornings he gets to sleep in, but I have to work, there’s usually shower sex before he crawls back into bed wet and tired to sleep awhile longer. But that’s when he’s home, which he hasn’t been a whole lot of lately. And we’re good and solid. No spinning. This could work. It could.
“We should talk,” I say, because if I don’t talk to him about this I’m going to burst. I’m trying so hard to stay normal and keep a level head, but it’s almost impossible. I refuse to let myself feel excited over this, especially because I have no idea why I’d be excited over this—it was unplanned and we’re so unprepared. I might never be prepared.
“Can’t,” he says. “Nothing good comes from those words. Only bad shit happens when a chick wants to talk, and I got club shit to deal with. I got mob shit to deal with. I got your difficult ass to deal with. I got your fucking brother to deal with—kind of hate that kid, babe—and I can’t deal with anything else. So no, we do not got to talk.”
“You’re swamped, I get it. But we still need to talk,” I hiss. It’s bad timing, and I get that. But I’d rather tell him before he figures it out on his own, and I don’t even know how long I have until that happens.
“We ain’t talkin’,” he says.
“You’ll fuck me, just not talk to me,” I snap. I’m being argumentative and I know it. Begging for him to listen to me about something I’d rather not have to talk to him about anyway is setting me off. Everything is always on his terms, never on mine. And the times I think it’s on my terms are only because he doesn’t give a crap about it and therefore lets it be on my terms.
“Time to shut your mouth, Nicole,” he grits out and folds his arms over his chest as he eyes his brothers, who are pulling up on their bikes. I roll my eyes and shake my head.
“I don’t know who you think you are, telling me when I need to shut my mouth,” I yell back and turn to walk into the clubhouse for some peace and quiet in his room while he takes care of his business. I barely make it two feet before he’s grabs my arm and spins me around to face him. His right hand clutches at the back of my neck, and tilts it back, forcing me to face him. His left holds me tight against his muscular frame. He’s such a prick in front of the club. When we’re alone he’s all sweet and kind. But here, he’s a total asshole.
“You know who I am, baby,” he hisses just inches from my face. His overgrown beard tickles at my neck, and his breath—a mix of orange juice and maple syrup—washes over my face. He’s got a major sweet tooth, which has allowed him and Jeremy to bond over morning pancakes. Despite his assertion that he hates my brother, they’ve been getting closer as the weeks progress.
Leaning in, he blocks my view of everything that isn’t him. “I’m your man, and you’re my woman. And you need to get this and get it now because I won’t be repeating myself—here at the clubhouse, you’re to be seen and not heard. You need to learn to chill and not be in my face like you like.”