Trying to lighten the mood and to move past this awkward place we’re in, I force out a small laugh and nod my head. “Yeah, Ryan eats like he’ll never be fed again.”
She—my mother—lets out a laugh and shakes her head, saying, “Sex will do that to a man.”
I freeze and keep my eyes trained on the countertop. She’d told me before we even got to California that Ryan was off-limits. Jim told me—and Ryan—more than once that we were to stay away from one another. Going against her wishes isn’t the best way to build a relationship with her. Perhaps I can blame my age for my poor judgment. But no, that won’t do. I think I can be good for Ryan, and apologizing for being with him goes against what I’m trying to accomplish.
“I’m not mad. Please look at me,” she says, setting her knife down and wiping her hands clean on a nearby dish rag. Finding the will, I look her in the eye and wince.
“It’s that obvious?” Shame creeps up my spine and washes over me. My father would have smacked me around a good bit if I’d had sex under his roof—if he knew I’d ever had sex at all. There was never, ever such a thing as equality in that house.
“No,” she says with a smile. “But I suspected. Why do you think I’ve been watching my programs at such a high volume?” I blush under her knowing eye.
“I’m sorry. You asked me to stay away from him, and I should have respected your wishes,” I say.
“I don’t blame you. That boy has his father’s looks and attitude. You didn’t stand a chance. Besides, Jim knows nothing. He’s been staked out at the barn.”
“He really doesn’t know?” I ask, nervously.
“I think this is one of those don’t ask, don’t tell situations. At least that’s how I’m treating it until I can knock some sense into the club.” She huffs out a deep breath and taps her long fingernail on the countertop.
“Will Ryan really lose his patch over me?” I ask. I hate having this conversation about Ryan, especially when there’s so much history I wish I could bring myself to ask her about. But right now, I need to know she’s okay with me and Ryan being together. I need to know what I might cost him and if I’ll have to let him go.
“No,” she scoffs. “Men, they’re all a bunch of blowhards. This will pass, you just wait.”
“Is there anything I can do to show them I won’t hurt the club?”
“Loyalty and time, baby. They’ll see. You just take care of him and don’t let him push you around. Sooner or later they’ll see,” she says.
MY HEAD THROBS and my eyes can’t focus. I think I can hear Michael’s voice at a distance, but I’m not sure. It’s a deep bravado that escalates into angry shouts. Footsteps slap against concrete, growing louder, getting closer. Rusty hinges squeak, bathing me in florescent light. It’s only now that I realize I’m sitting up. My frame is held secure to the chair by rough rope, binding my legs, feet, waist, wrists, and torso. My mouth is dry, but when I try to open it and let out a dry cough, I find it’s bound by tape.
I would be afraid right now, if I could bring myself to focus long enough to understand what’s going on.
“Alex!” Michael shouts. His deep, familiar voice doesn’t fill me with the warm fuzzies it once did. Cold fear washes over me. Michael’s here, and that means my father’s men are here. Michael’s one of his men now, I guess. His soft hand lifts my chin, shaking it a little. The room comes into view. Concrete walls, concrete floor, no windows that I can see, and one dull bulb swinging from a string overhead.
“Where are they, Alex?” he asks, viciously ripping the tape off my mouth. It stings, but takes away from the pain in my head, so I don’t curse him for it. His voice sounds nearly as cold as my father’s right now. He’s so distant, and emotionally removed from the situation. The only thing that gives him away is his hands—they’re smooth.
“Who?” I ask, confused.
“The club,” he says, tightening his grip on my chin. “I need to find them.” I can’t figure out in my head what he wants with the club. He has me. Isn’t that what he came for, to kill me? Or does he want to make them watch?
“The house,” I say. It’s something he already knows, but if he’s asking, that must mean they’ve left the house. Tegan. She tried to protect me and one of my father’s soldatos killed her—a knife to her throat. A painful cry escapes me at the memory. I tried to stop them, to lunge in front of her, but she was faster, and he cut her then knocked me out for my trouble.