“Take your sister to your room.” I wipe my face free of baby drool and hand Piper to her brother. Zander expertly takes her with one arm and walks away without argument. I have to work to wipe the shock from my face. Zander normally argues about everything, so to say I’m suspect would be an understatement. I don’t have time for that, though.
My feet carry me across the room quickly as I rush to the front door and peer out. Dad’s house is a little ramshackle ranch on a couple of acres just outside Fort Bragg. His closest neighbors are far enough away that I’ve never actually met them and don’t even know what they look like. I doubt he does either. Even if I didn’t know the sound of Wyatt’s Harley, I’d know it was Forsaken approaching. Nobody else comes out here—especially not on a bike.
With a steely resolve, I walk out of the house and shut the door firmly behind me. The house is shielded by tall redwoods that blanket the surrounding land in a shadow that the sun rarely breaks through. Through the dotted landscape, I can just make out the shiny chrome on its approach. The closer it gets, the better I can see the rider. Wyatt’s massive frame straddles his Harley. He rides through the last few trees that were hiding his approach and comes fully into view. His tall, hulking frame is perched on a shiny black bike with sparkling chrome pipes that growl as he flies down the dirt road. His hair is longer than it’s ever been, down past his shoulders now. It blows in the wind, slapping at his cheeks and getting caught on the black sunglasses he wears beneath his half helmet. My stomach knots. Suddenly I feel like I did back in Michigan when I was sixteen and waiting for Wyatt to pick me up. Mishy and I lived in this house with Dad when we came out here, but I was only here for a few weeks before I officially moved in with Wyatt.
Dad’s napping right now, probably sleeping off a fifth of tequila, but he’s heard the bike no doubt. At least, that’s how my luck’s gone lately. I just hope he stays inside if he’s conscious. As far as I know, he and Wyatt haven’t seen each other in years, and for now at least, I’d like to keep it that way. The green plastic sandbox in the shape of a turtle that Dad bought Piper catches my attention, reminding me that there’s more important things to talk to Wyatt about than his and Dad’s beef.
He pulls up, cuts the engine, props her up, and pulls off his helmet. A ball forms in my throat as I watch him move. He’s been riding since he was fifteen—much to #mom# chagrin—and it shows. He handles the large Harley as if it weighs nothing. The taut muscles in his arms are on full display in the black wifebeater he wears under his cut, showing off the tattoos that cover most of his flesh. I mentally note that he’s changed from what he was wearing earlier—well, his shirt at least.
“Ran out on me,” he says. His voice makes it sound like he’s thirsty, so gravely and rough. “Last time I remember you running out on me, you were eight months pregnant with our fuckin’ son. Don’t like seeing you leave me.”
“We need to talk,” I say quickly before he can reach me.
“You need to quit fucking leaving me.”
“Quit giving me reason to!” That’s not totally fair. It’s not exactly his fault the Italian guys showed up when they did. It’s not one hundred percent his fault that Rig targeted Zander. But it doesn’t exactly matter either. Ever since Rig, I’ve been on edge and my moods are fluctuating like crazy. I don’t like these feelings. Adding Wyatt to the mix turns my crazy into straight-up insanity.
Wyatt storms toward me, grabs me around the waist and pulls me against him. He tips my face up toward his. And all his gentle turns into something else entirely in the blink of an eye.
“Knock it the fuck off!” He screams in my face, so loud, but I barely hear the words.
The ball in my throat hardens, and I’m forced to swallow it. My hands shake with an anger that I don’t expect. I don’t know why I’m so mad right now, but I am. Nervous, sure. Anxious, yeah. But mad? That one confuses me. I don’t dwell on it, though, because the frustration becomes too much to swallow. I push him off me, angry and annoyed. I suck in an unsteady breath as we stare each other down. He huffs. My eyes fall to his lips and stay there. It’s magnetic, the pull his lips have over me. Every time I look at them, I’m either desperate to touch them, or I remember every vile word he’s ever said to me. If I’m being honest with myself, even then, in those moments of remembrance, I still want his mouth on me. Nothing ever changes that. I hate admitting that, even to myself, though.
I pull my gaze from his lips to find his eyes are on my mouth. His tongue pokes out, drags over his rough lips. I could fall into this. I could let this happen so easily, but then we’ll end up right back where we started.