“Fuck you,” I whispered, my voice cracking.
“Fuck me?” he questioned, his brow raising, surprised by the sudden outburst.
“Yeah. Fuck you,” I whispered, my voice trembling, my body too. “I get to say that because part of this fucked-up relationship we have is me having your back in there, but out here, being able to tell you this. I will distance myself like you asked, but I don’t give a fuck what you say. If she calls, I will run. Again. And fucking again. No matter whether it kills me or not. Because you know what? That’s what family does and how fucking dare you ask me to do anything less.”
Then I turned and ran out of the hospital.
And in pure Shotgun fashion, he followed me out, met me at his Harley, and took me home.
To the clubhouse.
To his bed.
Because I’m fucked.
So fucking fucked.
SHOTGUN
“She here?”
Bill looked up from behind the counter, the old man tugging on the edges of his mustache. “What’d you do?”
I’ll take that as a yes.
“And what makes you think—”
“Because ain’t no pretty girl like her show up here, on her own, looking for a weapon and shooting like the target at the end is some guy’s fucking balls if she’s loved up.” Old man was on point. Every fucking time. His mustache was long and hid a lot of his mouth, but the smile lines on his face told me just how fucking amused he was by the situation. “She’s outside. Number nine.”
I snapped a salute, turning to the corridor that led to the outdoor range.
“You ain’t taking a weapon?” Bill questioned, making me pause.
I turned back just for a second, shaking my head. “If I’ve fucked her off enough that she wants to unload a clip into me and be done, then I honestly probably deserve it.”
“Stupid motherfucker,” Bill muttered under his breath as I stomped away. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was fucking dumb for thinking of walking into this unarmed. President of the club or not, Avery was the woman scorned, and I’d heard less valid excuses used as reasoning in a court of law.
I stepped outside. The Arizona heat was extra thick out here in the desert, beads of sweat instantly forming on the back of my neck. The gun range was set up a few miles from Phoenix in a secluded area with hills surrounding it. A lot of the boys came out here once a week, and some of the girls had taken to it as well. We met Bill through the Exiled Eight MC. Not only was their president Meyah’s dad and Shake’s father-in-law, but technically, they owned a half share of Empire and Dynasty—our nightclubs. So, they had become family.
Just with different patches.
Old Bill didn’t ride but served time in the military with Exiled Eight MC president, Huntsman. Bill had never admitted it, but I was pretty sure the two men met in the Navy SEALs and while Bill looked like an old geezer who had no sense—if shit went down, I’d take him on my team any fucking day.
I stepped outside. The sound of echoing gunshots was loud as fucking hell, a constant attack on my eardrums. The place was busy. Busier than you’d imagine it would be mid-morning in the middle of the fucking week.
Walking up to bay number nine, I had to pause.
The booty shorts did it first, the subtle curve of her ass showing just beneath them, made my hand itch. I stopped behind her, standing a few feet back as she leveled her gun at the rough person-shaped outline. It was the hottest thing I think I could even fucking imagine any woman doing, especially one of mine.
She’s not yours.
She belongs to the club.
She was mine.
And maybe someday soon, I’d get her to fucking realize it, but until then, this was all I had, so I made it fucking work.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
She pulled the clip, placing the gun on the ledge in front of her before hitting the recall button. She tugged at her earmuffs, placing them next to the weapon while the paper from the other end of the range came flying back toward her.
“Your aim is a little to the left today,” I commented when she ripped the paper down.
Her fingers scrunched it tighter, and I caught a little peek back at me over her shoulder. “Right now, I’m wishing I went way left.” She scoffed and narrowed her eyes on me before turning back to the weapon.
“Ouch, baby,” I mocked and pressed my hand to my heart, knowing just a glimpse of sarcasm coming from me would have her smiling. It wasn’t a side she got often. Or a side anyone else got ever.
I knew things were bad when she threw her arms up. “What do you want?”
“I want you to listen—”
“I’m pretty sure I heard you loud and clear last night,” she threw back, her fist clenching at her sides as she took a breath and swallowed hard. “I follow the rules… or get the fuck out. Anything else to add?”
“I ever tell you I killed my dad when I was seventeen?” The words tumbled out, one after another like a chorus line. They knew their place. They knew their impact. And when she spun on her heel to face me with her eyes sparkling and her lips parting, just slightly in a sexy but silent oh my fucking God kind of way, I knew she was one of the few fucking people who I would allow to hear the rest. “I ever tell you my mom was a drug addict? That I was so worthless to her, I was born addicted to methamphetamine and spent the first six weeks of my pathetic little life going through withdrawals.”
Her eyes became cloudier, her shoulders slumping, but she kept her distance. She was apprehensive. Scared to reach out and let me pull her further into my world than most people had ever stepped.
I knew I was a fucking asshole.
But what I wanted was for her to understand why.
“I need you to hear me out.”
“Why?” she croaked, her fingers fiddling with a loose thread on the hem of her jeans.
“Because I don’t give explanations often,” I rasped finally, holding my hand out to her. Asking her to take it, so I could help her understand just why I was the way I was. “But I feel like you deserve one.”
“You should get out now, Marcus.” His voice shook, and he rubbed his hands together. “They’ll be at the clubhouse in less than ten minutes. You have time to run.”
My aim shook, but I refused to let it falter.
“What the fuck have you done?” I demanded, my finger squeezing at the trigger when my father’s rattling laughter came as a response. “What have you done?” I screamed, this rush of heat hitting me, rising through my body. It was like a surge of panic, like a fight-or-flight response my body was creating by making it feel like I was standing in the fire pits of fucking hell.
“I did what I had to do!” he yelled back, shoving his body out of the old rocking chair he practically lived in these days.
“You handed over the fucking club?”
I’d already heard the conversation.
Walked in on him talking to the cops in our goddamn living room, telling them where the club kept their stash, making himself a deal because he’d been caught with possession. And suddenly, the problems the club had been facing the past few months were starting to make sense. Numbers not adding up, measurements wrong—all things that had almost caused wars with other clubs and criminals.