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…disgusted….
…annoyed….
She’d been heartbroken and confused—how had she not seen how Patriot truly felt?
And now…she was more confused than ever.
She hadn’t done anything to expect club justice or whatever, so why was Patriot making avoiding him so much more difficult than it needed to be?
When he came to the diner Monday morning, he made sure to catch her gaze, stare her down, and then go sit in her section. She made sure to reassign her table to Dana, who was in helping her with the workday rush because their other waitress, Hanna, was sick, and Dana was more than happy to “serve” Patriot. When he sent Dana back, demanding that Cilla be his waitress, Cilla decided in that moment to take her break. And she stayed on break until he was gone—which made Barney, Millie, the owner’s, husband, a little miffed. Needless to say, she couldn’t pull that a second time.
The next two times he came to the diner, she couldn’t get out of serving him, so she did, but she took his order and didn’t stick around like she usually did. She spoke to him as she would any customer—with formal professionalism—and she stared at the table rather than making eye contact. She did everything she could to picture him as anyone else, someone other than the man she loved. The man she yearned for. On those mornings, she made sure there was plenty of busy work to do so that when she wasn’t at his table, serving his food, she was elsewhere—and not available for chit chatting.
She could feel the burn of his eyes in her back or on her face, but she refused to give in, to look at him, because she knew it meant nothing to him. She meant nothing to him. So she wouldn’t waste her time.
…waiting to claim Jaime….
Damn, those words from the night of the party picked at her, like a raven intent on pecking away at her flesh to get to the worms crawling under her skin.
Now, after a grueling day of ignoring Patriot, always looking over her shoulder, and dealing with life in general, she was exhausted. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she grunted. It was nine o’clock. She’d worked the morning shift, and then she’d run errands, so her body was ready to crap out…but her mind was still throbbing with all the thoughts she’s been wrestling with since that night.
The night that snatched her self-confidence and threw it backward four years, to the height of her worst year.
…disgusted….
All her life, she’d been bullied, fat shamed, humiliated. But senior year was the worst, because she’d comfort eaten all the summer before, and had gained twenty pounds. She knew that year would be terrible, but she hadn’t been prepared for how bad it had gotten. The nasty words, the physical attacks, the sexual harassment…. She’d barely survived intact, and when she’d finally graduated, she’d begun the arduous task of rebuilding all that had been destroyed through years of degradation, hatred, and mental, emotional, and sometimes physical abuse.
And now that she’d taken another hit to her pride, she just needed to forget about it. She needed to put Patriot and the Unchained MC out of her mind, and get on with her life.
Easier said than done, with Stephie being with Horde, and Patriot popping up all over the place. For a guy who was disgusted and annoyed with her, he seemed to come around a lot.
And what was with the frustrated expression every time she saw him? What did he have to be frustrated about? She gave him his space; he didn’t need to put forth the effort to be nice or hide his disgust from her. He was free from having to deal with her embarrassing and obvious crush. So why was he still coming to the diner and sitting in her her section? Wasn’t he tired of her awkwardness and clumsy attentions?
Maybe Stephie had said something to Horde, who said something to Patriot about how upset she’d been on Saturday. After Patriot had come and gone that morning, Stephie had called, asking about how her evening went after Stephie had taken off to spend the night alone with her man. Cilla and Stephie were close, having gone to school together from seventh to graduation. Cilla had been the fat nerd with no social skills, and Stephie had been the badass, take-no-shit brat from the trailer park who’d succeeded on her own merit, going to trade school, and graduating first in her class as a paralegal. She never gave a shit what people thought of her, and she latched herself on to Cilla in junior high, and clung to her.
Cilla would be forever grateful for Stephie’s persistent friendship.
They were basically inseparable, which was how Stephie got Cilla to the clubhouse that first time, when she’d first met Patriot. Stephie had begged, and Cilla and capitulated.
Well, after her horrible night in the club bathroom, Stephie called, and Cilla had unloaded. By the time Cilla was done, Stephie was fit to be tied—determined to go to the clubhouse and beat the shit out of the Slutketeers. Thankfully, Cilla was able to calm her down enough to extract a promise that Stephie wouldn’t tell anyone what Cilla had told her.
Stephie agreed, grudgingly, but only because Cilla promised to bake her a strawberry rhubarb pie—one of Cilla’s better recipes. She’d made one on a whim one day, years ago, and it turned out okay. To Stephie, though, it was the best thing she ever tasted, and she begged Cilla to make it for her all the time. Cilla, knowing it could be used as a bribe, was a skinflint with the precious pie, only making it when she needed to appease Stephie…or keep her from doing something stupid.
Now, sitting alone in her house, Cilla felt…wrung out. She had the next two days off, and she planned to remain seated, comfy, and with snacks and sugary drinks within reach at all times.
But the universe wasn’t done toying with her.
Like a replay of the morning after That Night, someone pounded on the door.
She didn’t even need to get up and check the peephole.
“Cilla, I know you’re in there. Open the door.”
She froze, every muscle in her body locking up. She didn’t dare move. Maybe he could be fooled a second time. She had no idea how he hadn’t figured out she’d been home last time he’d come, but she figured that what worked then should work now. So, she remained still…silent….
He pounded on the door again, the force vibrating the wall on each side of the doorframe.
“You won’t get away with playing possum this time around, Cilla.”
