“Whether she remembers is debatable.” Galen kicks his socked feet up on the couch when he realizes I’m too wound up to sit still.
Even after a lengthy run around the grounds, I’m still a mass of restless energy, and I won’t relax until I know Saint is okay. This edgy, anxious feeling is disconcerting and new. I don’t think the guys get it—this is as much about me, as it is about Saint.
Saint’s pain is my pain.
I share in his frustration and his rage. My heart hurts in sympathy, my soul is bruised, and my mind is clouded with disappointment and uncertainty. I’ve never loved any man—besides my dad, and that was a different kind of love—before I met my guys, so these reactions, these emotions, are different for me too, and I hate feeling so helpless, so powerless, to support him in his time of need.
“And I’m not defending her,” Galen continues. “I’m fucking pissed. At Sinner. At her. At my dad, because presumably he was there too, but she’s fucked in the head. Drugs have fried her brain. Most times, she talks gibberish, and I never know whether to believe what comes out of her mouth.”
“Or maybe she blocked it out because it was too painful,” I suggest.
I know I’ve buried shit rather than face up to it in the past. Before I realized that is how tormentors continue hurting their victims. The only way to take back power, to regain control over your life, is to face your demons head-on. Alisha has spent her life denying the things she’s been witness to and the things she’s done. She’s weak, and it’s no surprise she’s turned to alcohol and drugs to blot reality and fuel her addictions.
“Or she realized the truth would only hurt Saint more,” Theo suggests, setting his tablet down.
“In her own fucked-up way, she thought she was protecting him,” Caz adds, running with Theo’s train of thought.
“She doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” Galen roughly exhales. Resting his head back on the arm of the couch, he closes his eyes. I know this is hard for him too. It’s one thing for Alisha to hurt him. Quite another to hurt his cousin.
“It doesn’t matter now,” I say, because the time for talking is over. “We can’t change the past. But we can deal with the here and now, and I’m done waiting.” I snatch up the keys to my Lexus and head toward the door. “I’m getting my husband. You can come with or stay here, but I’m not twiddling my thumbs a second longer. Saint needs me. Needs us. Whether he knows it or not.”
Still wearing my yoga pants and running top, which is no protection from the elements, I snag a hoodie from the hooks by the door, sliding my arms inside the long sleeves. Saint’s scent swirls around me as I zip up his hoodie, rolling the sleeves up until my hands are poking out. The guys trail me as I step out into the icy-cold night air, and no words are spoken as we pile into the Lexus and hightail it out of there.
_______________
The bar is busy for a Monday night, packed to the rafters with bikers, laborers, and scantily clad women of all ages. Molly’s is located on the other side of Prestwick from the grungy biker bar Darrow favors, which is a blessing, because if I ran into my asshole ex tonight, in the mood I’m in, I’d probably slit his throat.
Disregarding the eyeballs glued to my body, I push my way through the people crowding the bar, searching for Saint’s head. My lips curl into a possessive snarl when I finally spot him sitting on a stool at the end of the bar with a bottle of JD and several empty glasses in front of him.
Two girls are vying for his attention, one on either side of him. Saint is ignoring them, shoving the brunette’s hand off his arm when she tries to latch on, keeping his head down, his fingers gripping his drink so tight it’s a miracle the glass doesn’t smash. The woman with the bright blue hair thrusts her tits in Saint’s face, smirking at her friend over his head, as if it’s a competition and he’s the prize.
Charging my way through the people in my path, I have singular focus. Anger rises like a tidal wave inside me as I watch the woman smush Saint’s face into her chest before he even realizes what’s happening. A snarl rips from my mouth, and I lunge for her.
Grabbing a fistful of blue hair, I yank the bitch away from my husband, slamming her face into the counter and pressing my arm across the back of her neck to keep her in place. She cries out, and it’s music to my ears. “You fucking dare to touch my husband without his permission?” I press down on her head when she attempts to straighten up. Blood flows from her nose, and tears leak from her eyes as she whimpers in pain.
Saint tips his head up, fixing me with a look loaded with dark intensity. Raw aggression exudes from his every pore, and his sexy ass radiates danger by the bucketload.
It’s no wonder these women were drawn to him, and I doubt they are the first ones to hit on him tonight.
None of them stood a chance, because he’s fucking mine, and he has zero interest in other women.
I trust Saint completely, and I’m secure in his love. I feel the same about Theo, Galen, and Caz too, and I’m one hundred percent loyal to them in the same way. I know Saint being here is about suffocating his anger until he’s too drunk to act on it and nothing else.
“We didn’t know he was taken,” the other woman protests in a pouty tone, attempting to come to her friend’s aid.
Saint’s lips kick up a little, and his eyes command me to handle her. Keeping my gaze on the woman, I lean down, licking along the seam of Saint’s mouth with my tongue. He grabs my ass, and his eyes burn with lust. Turning the full extent of my hatred on the brunette, I straighten up, gnashing my teeth, preparing to put her in her place. “Tip for future reference. If a man has a ring on his wedding finger, it means he’s taken.” I tip my chin up, piercing her with a dark glare. “No one touches what’s mine.”
“You can do better than her,” she tells Saint, eyeing me with disdain, and I’m done playing nice. Slamming the blue-haired bitch’s head into the counter one more time—because I’m fucking pissed now—I release her, stomping toward the brunette to deal with her next. Thrusting my fist out, I hit her square on the nose, leveling her with a couple of quick, successive punches. She stumbles on her skyscraper heels, squealing like a pig as she tumbles to the floor, clutching her nose, and it’s enormously satisfying.
A bunch of guys rises from a table close by, eyes narrowing on me as they make a beeline for us. Most guys get off on bitch fights, but these ugly fuckers clearly have a different agenda. Either they’ve some beef with my guys or these women mean something to them—a sister perhaps.
“Fuck.” Caz grabs me back as Saint slides off his stool.
Theo slams a couple hundred-dollar bills down on the counter.
“We want no trouble,” Galen tells the bartender when he produces a sawed-off shotgun, pointing it in our direction. “You know who we are, and the women were out of line. They disrespected our wife.”
The bartender glances at my rings and nods at Galen before hiding the gun back under the counter. “We want no beef with The Sainthood,” he says, shooting a warning look at the guys circling us. “But it’s best you were on your way.”
I slide my arm around Saint’s waist as his arm encircles my shoulders, and he leans into me. “We’re out of here.”