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The warmth he needed when all the blood within him ran cold.
But she could never be his.
After her welcome, she’d stuck by him, chatting with him about what he’d missed at the diner over the last three days. It was innocuous stuff, nothing important, but it meant everything to him just to hear her speaking, just to see her animated, lively, and smiling.
Cilla was brightness. Goodness. Innocence embodied.
At twenty-two, she was also almost fifteen years younger than him, barely old enough to drink, and still had a life of experiences ahead of her.
What would she want with an old, worn out, ex-soldier who had more whiskey in his veins than blood…and who had more black marks on his eternal record than he could count?
Sighing once more, he glanced at the back hallway, remembering she’d said she had to go to the bathroom. But it had been more than twenty minutes now.
He furrowed his brow, checking his watch.
Maybe she was chatting it up with Tasha, Sasha, Kiki, and Marci who’d headed toward the bathrooms right after her.
That group of women were trouble, but he figured Cilla could handle herself with that bunch. At least he hoped she could. They were brash and definitely biker chicks, but they were mostly harmless. All talk and big tits, but they burst into tears when they chipped a nail.
A hand slapping his shoulder drew his attention, and he turned to see Cluster grinning at him drunkenly.
“What’s up, Fuck?” Patriot drawled, calling the man by the less liked part of his full road name, Clusterfuck, a moniker he earned as a prospect because he seemed to get himself into the stupidest shit. Like the time he ended up buck ass naked in a hen house, getting his balls pecked at by an angry rooster. That taught him not to get drunk and take bets from brothers who’re also drunk as fuck.
Cluster sneered, his booze-red face contorting into a scowl.
“No need to get mean, Patriot,” he slurred, “Just comin’ to t-tell you that J-Jaime is lookin’ for ya.”
Jaime?
He fought the urge to roll his eyes.
What did she want?
Jaime Green was the little sister of his long-time friend and club brother, Stallion, whose real name was Brandon Green. He and Stallion had been stationed in some pretty sketchy places together while in the service, so when they’d both been discharged, they’d come home to Wilkes-Barre together, and together they prospected with the Unchained. Now, five years later, Patriot was VP, and Stallion, who was still battling his demons, had gone nomad, unable to stay in one place too long. When Stallion had headed for the freedom of the road, he’d left his little sister in Patriot’s care, making him promise to watch over her.
And Patriot had.
Unfortunately, he’d also gotten drunk, fucked Jaime, and then proceeded to compound his sin by never telling Stallion what he’d done. That was three years ago, and he was still feeling the guilt. It didn’t help that Jaime had made herself right at home in the Unchained clubhouse. She was at every party, hanging with the women, hanging on the brothers, getting drunk and disorderly. Because he’d promised her brother he’d watch out for her, he often had to drag her out of the parties and let her sleep it off in his room. He wasn’t an idiot—he knew how it looked to take her upstairs for the night, but he and Jaime knew the truth. There was nothing going on between them.
Much to her frustration. If she had her way, she’d be wifed up, pushing out his babies, and wearing his property patch.
That would never happen, and not just because she was Stallion’s sister. He’d fucked her, yeah, but he’d been drunk as hell. Sober, there wasn’t a damn thing about Jaime that appealed to him. Sure, she was pretty—in a made up, trying way too damn hard way, but there wasn’t an attraction there, and certainly not anything he’d risk his friendship with Stallion over. It was bad enough he’d fucked her once and hadn’t told her brother. He’d be damned if he made things worse. As it was, the guilt ate at him daily, especially when Stallion texted to check in on him and Jaime.
Stallion had trusted Patriot with his sister, knowing that Patriot would never go there—at least sober. So for Jaime to think that there could be more between them? Yeah, that was fucked as hell.
Patriot didn’t want an ol’ lady.
Immediately, a flash of striking green and hazel eyes hit him. He blinked the vision away, shaking his head. No. He’d never claim anyone.
Stallion had no fucking idea that Patriot and Jaime had broken the BroCode, and Patriot wasn’t all that keen to tell him, though he knew he would have to one day, especially since Jaime was making a nuisance of herself.
He hadn’t graced her bed in over three years, and she was showing signs of a woman scorned—though why she thought she had any claim on him or his dick was a wonder to him. He’d never laid claim to her, never spoke about anything permanent between them, never gave her any whispered words about a future together. When they were together, they greeted each other, talking mundane shit, and then parted ways. End of. That was all. So where she got the balls to start hinting that she was going to tell her brother about their “relationship”—he had no fucking idea.
But she was something he had to deal with.
Soon.
“Where is she?” Patriot asked, slamming the beer bottle on the bar top and turning his body toward Cluster, who was slumped over the bar.
