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Fuck! Jaime had never been so forward before, and he could chalk it up to her wanting to push the “boyfriend” act just in case the asshole who was stalking her was watching, but Cilla didn’t know anything about that, since he’d only told her that he was “playing nice”, so she’d see Jaime’s actions as exactly what they looked like—a woman getting physical with a man she felt she had a right to.
Jaime pouted then winked at Patriot, which made Cilla fidget in her seat. He could practically feel her need to run.
Of course, seeing her man get eye fucked by the waitress, then having Jaime act a little too comfortable with him would anger her. He’d be angry if the situation was reversed.
But there was nothing he could do about it until he could claim her.
If she’d still have him once all this bullshit was done.
Patriot nearly doubled over at the sudden twisting in his guts—the thought of losing Cilla was goddamn unacceptable. But the dread roiling in the depths of his ink dark soul told him that Fate didn’t give a shit about what was acceptable or not. But he couldn’t put Cilla in harm’s way, couldn’t give even the slightest hint that he felt anything for her.
He just hoped that, for once, the something good he reached for, wouldn’t slip through his grasp.
FOURTEEN
Cilla ground her back teeth together, which was better than crying. And, man, did she want to cry.
Not since that night at the clubhouse where the Slutketeers eviscerated her in the bathroom had she felt so damn helpless.
Four hours had passed since she and Stephie walked through the doors of Cool Hands, and the thrum of excitement she felt when she saw Patriot’s massive frame saunter through those same doors immediately deflated when Jaime slunk her blonde bimbo self right up to their table and made herself at home. On Patriot’s lap. Sure, he’d removed her pretty quickly, but he hadn’t done or said anything beyond that, like: “I’m taken, keep your bony ass to yourself,” or “Stop being a slut, Jaime, I belong to Cilla.”
And she, in turn, couldn’t announce, “Everyone, shut the hell up and listen. You see that sexy as sin, bad ass biker, hunk of a man right here? Yeah? He’s mine, keep your hands off!”
He couldn’t tell Jaime to keep her wandering hands and her lascivious eyes off of him because she’d ask why, then he’d have to tell her. And Cilla couldn’t pout or look angry—though she was freaking livid and heartsick—because then she’d make Stephie suspicious, because Stephie knew Cilla, and she’d want to know what made her bestie so upset.
So, Cilla was stuck playing like she was having the time of her life at a table with her best friend, her best friend’s boyfriend, her nemesis, and the man she loved but couldn’t claim publicly. And it was killing her. Quickly and agonizingly.
She didn’t know how much longer she could hold out before she broke.
As if sensing the gazelle was flagging, the cheetah pounced.
“Cici, I’m surprised to see you here,” Jaime cooed as she leaned across Patriot, making sure her tits rubbed against his chest, a menacing gleam in her eye. “How did you even get in? Aren’t you still in high school?”
“I’m twenty-two,” she grumbled. “And my name is Cilla.”
Jaime huffed, waving off Cilla’s correction. “Twenty-two? So, just barely old enough to not have a curfew, which must be nice for you with how often you follow Stephie to the clubhouse. I was always so worried you’d get in trouble for staying out late.” Jaime snickered, like she hadn’t just been a condescending bitch. “Still, I’m surprised you even come around the clubhouse or this place. Seems a little…edgy for you. You may be old enough to get through the door, but you’re still a little vanilla to be spending time in a place like this. I mean, shouldn’t you be at home baking cookies or sewing booties for your pet pigs, or something?”
“Enough, Jaime. Leave Cilla alone, she’s allowed to go wherever the fuck she wants,” Patriot growled, pinning the woman with a glare that even Cilla felt, though the glare slipped from his face quickly, replaced immediately by a casualness Cilla had only seen when Patriot was at the club. But it didn’t matter that he was finally speaking up after an hour of Jaime picking and pecking and posturing, the damage had already been done. Sure, Jaime was really good at hiding her snide remarks and insults in finely wrapped conversation, but it seemed like the more she drank, the less she cared about hiding how much she hated Cilla.
The feeling was mutual, but at least Cilla knew to keep her mouth shut. Because, while Jaime had a band of bitches, willing to slash tires and light things on fire to avenge any slights to their friend, Cilla had Stephie who, while she could slash and set things alight with the best of them, still had a reputation to uphold. So, Cilla had to keep her mouth shut, lest she end up the target of a group of vengeful club women, looking to put Cilla in her place.
Your place is beside Patriot….
Was it? She risked a glance at Patriot’s face and wasn’t surprised to see his expression blank. The man was ex-mil and a biker club VP, he knew resting “indifference” face better than anyone. If he didn’t want anyone to know he was mad or annoyed or even in pain, no one would know, not even her. She liked to think that, given enough time with him, she’d learn all the facets of him and his expressions, but they were new. So very new. And, honestly, after his request, she wasn’t quite convinced that they’d be together long enough for that newness to wear off. He was right there, sitting next to her, close enough for her to touch and taste, but still so far away…. Because he was mixed up in whatever problem Jaime dragged him and the club into, so Cilla was stuck, unable to show affection to her boyfriend because no one knew they were together. She hated being a secret, holding back a part of herself at a table full of people who were allowed to be themselves. She glanced across the table at Stephie and Horde, who didn’t seem to notice anyone else existed in the world. They were staring into one another’s eyes, their expression intense with longing and…lust so freaking hot Cilla could feel it in her core.
And she couldn’t even meet Patriot’s eyes for fear of giving them away.
God, I have to get out of here.
Jaime, ever the opportunist, leaned in and rubbed her tits on Patriot’s arm as she whispered something in his ear, her mouth far too close to Patriot’s neck, the neck she’d licked and sucked and nibbled just three days ago. Cilla waited, her breath stuck in her chest, for Patriot to do something, say anything to stop Jaime from getting so close, for being in personal space that belonged to Cilla and only Cilla.
Unless it really belongs to Jaime…just like the Slutketeers said….
No—she mentally shook her head—Patriot wouldn’t lie about wanting to be with her.
Her gaze latched onto the nearly R-rated scene going on next to her, and she couldn’t stomach the look Jaime sent her from under her lashes, a look that Patriot didn’t see because he was staring across the table at a glowering Horde. Jaime’s expression was a look of victory…of possessive claiming. Jaime, with just a look, told Cilla that Patriot was hers, and that Cilla was a pathetic idiot for even thinking she could have a man like Patriot as her own.
Cilla swallowed thickly, tears and bile collecting at the back of her throat.
