Here it is—another indication that he’s scared to tell me things. I want to set the record straight for him—for us—that I’m here and nothing he tells me can make me go away. Pulling a hair tie out of my jeans pocket, I lift my hair into a messy bun on top of my head and secure it as tightly as possible. I close the distance between us and place my hands on his chest. He turns his chin down toward me and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
“It doesn’t matter if I like it or not. You can’t hide things from me. You can’t only tell me what you think I can handle. Give me a little bit of credit here, will you? You think I’m stupid enough to believe that you earn a living changing oil and fixing flats? Please, this is my home. I know what the club does, and I know you’re part of every bit of it.”
He turns his face away and stares at the wall over my shoulder. His jaw ticks, and his touch loses that loving softness it had just a moment ago. He lets his arms drop to his sides. He’s noticeably unhappy about my response, but I don’t know why.
“Go ahead,” he says. Looking my way, his face is hard. He’s shutting down emotionally. “Tell me what you think of the club. Tell me we’re criminals, that we’re bastards. Tell me how it feels to fuck an asshole like me. Tell me you like slumming it.”
“Oh, stick a sock in it,” I say in frustration. My face heats, and I tense up all over. I can feel my temper about to rear its ugly head. “You want to know why I didn’t want the money? Because I’ve spent my entire life cutting corners and doing things the easy way.” My voice is louder than I intend for it to be. I’m basically screaming in his face now, but still, he doesn’t react. “My parents don’t approve, neither do Uncle Harry and Aunt Claire. Hell, even when Mindy had a fucking needle in her arm she worried about me making poor choices.”
“So I’m just another one of your poor choices, huh?” He leans in with cold eyes and warm breath. His words leave his tongue on a hiss as he says, “That’s what this is, isn’t it, Sweets? You like to rebel. You want to pretend to be wild for a while. You talk about marrying me and having my baby, but you’re going to get over this phase and you’ll want to go back to your cookie cutter life.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I grit out.
“But you did,” he says. He cradles my neck in his hand and with a hard grip, he forces me to give him my full attention. I pull away, but his grip only tightens as he jerks my face closer to his. My neck throbs, making me wince. His eyes flick, registering that he’s causing me pain. He’s going to lighten up, I think. But he doesn’t. “You think you know who I am, but if I told you the things I’ve done, you wouldn’t want me, and I can’t blame you for that.”
“Is that what you really think?” I whisper. “That I won’t love you if I know who you really are?”
“Yes,” he says. His chest heaves, and his eyes are so focused and steady. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was losing control. But I do know better. He’s never more in control than when he’s being mean. It’s like he’s in his element or something. I think of all the ways I can explain to him that he’s getting mad for no reason, but the irrational part of my brain that controls my mouth takes over and instead of telling him what’s in my heart, I snap.
“You’re an asshole,” I shout in his face. His grip on the back of my neck tightens in a painful vice. Tears pool in my eyes and I blow out a shaky breath, telling myself to suck it the fuck up. I will not cry. “But newsflash—I love you for and despite that fact.”
“You’re too good.” He lets go of me with such determination that I stumble backward and nearly fall on my ass. Everything has shifted between us. Just a few minutes ago, we were lost in one another and now we’re staring each other down and mad as hell about it.
“You should go,” he says. “And drop the marriage shit. I just want to enjoy you before you leave me, but if you keep it up, one day I’m going to say yes and that’s going to make shit real complicated when it’s time for you to bail.”
Everything I’ve done to help him and help his club comes rearing into the front of my mind. Everything moment I spent in that office with Mr. Beck today, where I blackmailed and threatened him. Every goddamn lie I told to the teller, spreading this disease of bullshit all in order to help a kid who I thought needed to feed his family. It’s so clear now, in hindsight. I should have seen it sooner, but I was just so focused on helping Grady. Incredible panic settles into my chest and drops to my gut. My belly aches from my growing nerves and my jaw shakes though I refuse to let a single tear fall. If I don’t figure out a way to make us better, I’m going to cave in on myself and then be done for.