I turned away. The painful lump in my throat made it impossible to speak – not without crying, anyway.
“Don't do this, Missy,” he growled, throwing one strong hand on my shoulder. “I need you to either keep it together or let me know what the fuck's going on so I can fix it. If you're upset about Serial, I'll break his fucking nose next time I see him. Brother or no, I'm not gonna let that psycho fuckwit shit all over my old –“
“Don't say it!” I snapped.
He tried to hold on, but I was too quick and his grip too tentative. I ripped myself away, climbing off the bike, throwing my hands into my pockets for the apartment's keys.
He knew better than to follow me inside when I was this upset. Jackie was locked in her room, refusing to respond every time I knocked. I left her a thick sandwich I threw together and a tall water bottle outside her door.
Then I cleaned up and turned in. The stink of cleaner and old smoke came off easy enough, but the putrid reek of bad luck didn't. Practically scrubbed my skin raw, wishing I could wipe away every trace of evil.
But it wasn't all on the outside, was it? Of course not, because that would be too convenient.
The real problem was the corruption inside me, the way Brass had gotten underneath my skin. I had my chance to kill him for Jackie's sake, and I knew there'd be more. Maybe there'd be a dozen chances, and I'd pass them all up, wouldn't I?
All because I didn't have a clue how to relate to this asshole who should've disgusted me just as much as Serial.
It was fucking sick. And so was I. My * betrayed me every time I got close to him, tingling while my nipples hardened, begging to be fucked by King Asshole.
Unfortunately, this asshole saved us. He'd delayed our doom while he continued to drag me back to his sick brothers every fucking day. He was the last little thread that held me together, kept me from lashing out, doing something stupid and getting us all killed.
I shouldn't care. Much less about him. Nothing should've mattered except freeing my sister, even if it cost me my own life.
And I shouldn't have the kinda thoughts I did while riding this bike, imagining what it would be like to run my hands on his stomach without leather and denim between his skin and mine. I shouldn't sweat and shake when his green eyes bathed me in his teal fire, wondering what his glare would look like only inches apart, watching me as I lost my mind on his cock.
Stockholm Syndrome. Wasn't that what they called it when a woman starts admiring her captor? What the hell did they call it when she was way past admiring, aching to run her tongue down his chest, and then even lower?
I wasn't sure, but I sank a little more into its one-way grasp every minute I was around him, and that scared the shit out of me.
God, I had a better idea how to handle my slave work with the Grizzlies and the dead eyed killers milling around the clubhouse. Serial's evil words hurt, but they didn't leave me confused, wrecked, disembodied. The hatred between us was a clear wall, keeping him away from my world, and me out of his as long as I watched my step.
I didn't have that luxury in my own fucking home, if I wanted to call this apartment that. I didn't have anything – much less my sanity – while I was forced to live here with him.
No protection. No safety. Not even the comfort black and white hate provided.
I never heard him come home, as usual. Whenever he finally dragged himself in and crashed on the sofa, I was already long asleep, my red eyes spinning in their nightmares after crying me to sleep.
IV: Cruel Charade (Brass)
I ripped circles through Redding half the fucking night on my bike, feeling the spots on my stomach where her nails almost tore through my clothes.
Why couldn't anything be easy with this girl? Why the fuck couldn't I catch a goddamned break just one time?
I thought my ship was sliding into happy harbor that morning, when she'd settled the hell down, agreeing to work on the one and only path that might set us all free. Then Serial had to stick his fucked up nose into it.
Shit! I should've rode straight to the clubhouse, kicked down the door, and pummeled his ugly face 'til it shattered. Too bad the asshole was the best shot this club had, and the Prez made it crystal fucking clear we'd need a good sniper on the roof if the cartel ever got the balls to attack our clubhouse.
Didn't stop me from wanting to beat him raw. It'd be satisfying for the first sixty seconds, before all the brothers descended on me, beating my ass to death before they dragged the girls away to the warehouse to be slaughtered like animals.
I hadn't been so frustrated since sitting through sis' wedding reception, surrounded by Prairie Pussies. I'd kept it together in Reno without taking a hit. But fuck, my whole body ached for one right now.