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Yeah, she wouldn’t worry about him showing up. She had no idea what his reasoning was for continuing to insert himself in her life but, eventually, he’d get tired of playing with her. Once he finally claimed Jaime, he’d focus on her as his ol’ lady. And he’d never bother with Cilla again.
Suddenly, her skin was too tight, and her chest throbbed beneath her skin, like her heart was in its death throes. She rubbed at it, gritting her teeth. God, the idea of Patriot never coming around again, of never seeing him again, or worse, seeing him with Jaime—kissing her, touching her, giving her everything Cilla had yearned for, it was like someone was sticking bamboo needles under her fingernails.
Cilla blinked back tears, angry that she’d allowed herself to fall so far, so fast for a man who saw nothing wrong with toying with her while he waited for the chance to make things official with the woman he really wanted to be with.
That annoying voice in her head told her she was wrong, that Patriot wasn’t the type of man to mess with a woman’s feelings, that he was a man of honor.
But Cilla couldn’t think about anything else right then. It took up too much energy to try to wrangle her stampeding, wayward thoughts.
Stallion, Jaime’s brother, couldn’t get home fast enough. Once he was there, Patriot would claim Jaime, and Cilla could move on.
Until then…she’d endure.
Hearing Dana call for her, Cilla tossed her phone back in her locker, and hurried to answer the sharp summons.
Maybe the next two hours wouldn’t suck.
Three hours later, Cilla was aching all over. Her feet, her legs, her back…and her heart.
Nothing beat a person down quite like a full day of serving tables…and a heaping helping of mean girls with vicious tongues. From 7 AM to two hours closing at 5 PM—because Dana had taken off early, leaving Cilla to do all the closing chores alone—she’d schlepped and pasted on a smile, and now she was ready to do absolutely nothing until her alarm went off tomorrow morning.
As she trudged up the stairs to her front door, she couldn’t stop the memories from pummeling her.
“…God, she looks like a fucking pig in that outfit. I bet people tip her with food scraps,” Sasha declared loud enough to be heard across the restaurant. Which meant Cilla heard it, but so did the people at the table she was serving. She forced a smile, ignoring the looks of pity from the patrons.
“I heard that she threw herself at Cluster and he had to push her off him—and that man’ll fuck anyone,” Sasha said, snickering, once again uncaring about who heard her.
And so it went, for the eighty minutes the women were there. They’d only ordered diet sodas and salads, but they’d stayed longer than necessary just to continue watching her, throwing barbs, and laughing when they landed.
During their nearly hour and a half long bitch session, Dana got more and more frustrated—with Cilla—blaming her for the fact the women were still there, taking up a table during a meal rush. And it got exponentially worse once the women left…and “forgot” to tip Dana. The woman had been livid, demanding Cilla pay her the 22% the club women hadn’t for her services.
Exhausted and not in the mood to deal with Dana’s bullshit, Cilla had given the woman her “due”, which left her with only $100 of the $150 she’d earned that day in tips.
But losing the money, dealing with customers who’d stiffed her—not a rare occurrence, and taking hit after hit from Tasha, Sasha, and Marci hadn’t been the straw that broke her back. It had been what Jaime had said right before the quad squad had strolled out the door.
“Patriot ordered my property kutte, and he’s coming by tonight to give it to me. He says he doesn’t want to wait for Stallion to get home, that he can’t wait to make me his….”
Cilla wasn’t a fool; she knew Jaime had meant for her to hear that. Obviously, she knew about Cilla’s feelings for Patriot—all the club women knew. And they’d gloried in their merciless teasing.
Unlocking her front door, Cilla came through the door and let it swing shut behind her. Her body felt like it weighed a ton…and her heart felt like it weighed a million pounds. It hurt. She hurt—everywhere.
Closing her eyes, she sucked in a deep breath and stilled.
Oak…sage…and motor oil?
Only one thing in the world smelled like that.
Her eyes popped open, and she gasped.
Patriot was there, lounging on her couch, his arms crossed behind his head, one ankle rested on his knee as he stared at her. He looked the picture of relaxed…except for the tension rolling from his large frame, and the look of frustration pinching his handsome features.
Cilla shook her head, desperate to clear it, because she couldn’t be seeing what she was seeing.
Patriot was here. In her house. With her.
But what about Jaime? The woman had taken great pleasure in telling her that Patriot would be with her tonight.
So why was he in her house, on her couch, looking like he had no plans to go anywhere?
