Not that long ago I sat in this very seat across from Jimmy Gold with a needle full of heroin and threw my sobriety to the gutter, yet it seemed like it was a lifetime ago. I twirl the glass watching as the alcohol dances over the rim and drips onto my hand. Placing the glass down, I swipe my hand along the front of my shirt before leaning against the back of the chair.
Pieces of a puzzle taunt my mind. Charlie’s face, the Corrupt Bastards, Ronan, fucking Brantley, they are all part of this thing I’m trying to put together. I’ve been beating myself up for days but no matter how much I rack my brain to figure the common thread, I come up empty.
The last time we flew blind all hell broke loose.
I got hooked on the shit, turned into the devil himself and along with hurting myself I hurt Lacey.
Reina got kidnapped and Jack lost his fucking mind.
It all spiraled out of control, with no end in sight. Even with Jimmy rotting in jail, our club was still hurting with a threat we didn’t foresee. We lost Bones, Riggs watched his girl nearly die and his kid fight for life, all while knowing we were burying his brother.
I won’t let that shit happen to us again.
I’ve got too much to lose, a precious life to protect—I’ve got Lace.
For the first time we all have something to lose, something that means more than the reaper on our backs, and that scares the fuck out of me.
I didn’t hear the door open, but I knew I was no longer alone. The scent of Lacey cut through my senses like a razor, pulling me out of my head and the devilish whiskey I was staring at. I turn my head, listening as her boots tap against the floor.
Always saving me, girl.
Her leather boots come into my line of vision and slowly I let my eyes sweep over her. First, I see the knee-high boots, my favorite thing she owned. Then I take in the pants painted onto her legs, pausing at the piercing that dangles from her belly button before allowing my gaze to linger over the Rolling Stones tank she wore knotted under her tits.
Goddamn girl.
Whiskey doesn’t compare to the high that sinking into Lace takes me to.
Nothing compares to her.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she says, taking a step closer, then another. Three until she has me pushing back my chair and climbing onto my lap.
My hand closes over her knee, sliding up her thigh as I peer at her through the hair hanging over my eyes. Her dark eyes, full of life and light find mine as she threads her fingers through my hair and away from my face.
I silently vow to keep that light in those eyes.
I won’t let anyone dull her shine.
No threat, no enemy and sure as hell not me and my addictions.
She averts her gaze toward the glass sitting offensively on the table, threatening to ruin our rewrite.
“Plot twist?” She questions softly.
I wrap both my arms around her small frame, joining her as she stares at the glass and the watermark forming around the bottom of it.
“I wouldn’t have drunk it,” I admit.
“Then why pour it?”
She unravels my arms from her waist, reaching for the glass. She stands up and walks to the bar, emptying the glass into the sink. I draw in a ragged breath, my emotions a jumbled mess. I don’t need her babysitting me, worrying I’m going to fuck up and tear this thing we got to shreds. I poured the drink hoping if I stared at it long enough, hard enough, I’d remember the pain she’s made me forget. I need to remind myself of what it feels like to be at the end of my rope so I can keep climbing it, fitting the pieces of the puzzle with each inch I climb.
I hoped the pain would scare me into discovering the link I was missing, the tiny detail that ties this shit together in a neat little package before it falls, without warning, on our doorstep.
She disappears under the bar, popping her head up a moment later holding two bottles of that non-alcoholic beer Reina keeps stocked in the fridge and makes her way back.
“Keys,” she demands, standing in front of me, leaning her ass against the table as she places one bottle on the table and holds out her hand. Lifting my hips, I tug the chain from my belt and hand her the bottle opener attached to it. She pops off the top of the beer she’s holding and hands it to me before opening the other for herself.
“Here’s to you,” I say huskily, touching the neck of my bottle to hers.
“Blackie,” she breathes as her hand pauses before the bottle touches her lips. “Do you need to go to a meeting? Why don’t you call your sobriety coach?”
I take a gulp of the bitter drink, curling my lip in disgust as it works its way down my throat before placing the bottle on the table beside her. My hands take hold of her hips, my fingers drum across her midriff as I rest my head against her chest.
“Girl, you have no idea, do you?” I mutter against her, pressing my lips against the knot of her shirt and jerk my head back to stare into her confused eyes. “You don’t have to worry about me, or my choices, because there is only one choice for me and that’s you. Drugs or you—it’s you. Booze or you—it’s still you. Name any lethal temptation and the answer will be you. Your life or mine—always yours. I choose you, Lace.”