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Instead of speaking up and defending Cilla, claiming her as he’d wanted to, he’d let Jaime and her cackle of whores tear her apart. Why? Because he was so fucking wrapped up in his own guilt and his own fears to do what was right. But he was protecting Cilla from an unknown threat, right? If he’d claimed her in front of everyone at the bar, there was no telling what sort of danger he would bring down on her head. The bar was public; he couldn’t be sure that whoever was following Jaime wasn’t there tonight, watching, waiting, planning. And if Patriot had said or done anything out of character—like putting his hands around Jaime’s throat and squeezing until her head popped like a grape, then the asshole threatening him and the club would immediately wonder at the cause—the cause being Cilla.
He kept telling himself that he just needed more time to figure out who the hell was threatening Jaime, him, and the club, but…if he were being honest with himself, the threat wasn’t the only thing that kept him seated at the table.
There were still those ghosts…those phantoms of war…those demons of darkness that slithered through his mind, his memories, his heart and soul, telling him that Cilla was better off without him, without his taint and evil….
That voice, that raspy, gravelly voice at the back of his head, the voice that sounded like the death of all of his dreams, was there, whispering in his ear that Cilla walking away was the best thing for her, that he had no business trying to have a happy life, a good life, when his sins were far too deep and abiding for atonement.
But Cilla…she was his redemption…his chance at salvation. His light in the darkness.
And he’d just let her walk away.
Fuck.
He needed to get to her before she had the chance to cut him out of her life completely. He would cut out his own heart and hand it to her if it meant she’d give him a chance to explain, to finally come clean about all the shit he’d been keeping from her. About his “boyfriend” duties with Jaime, and about the stalker. Yeah, he’d told her just enough about his helping Jaime to keep her from asking too many questions, using “club business” as the catch all for why he was being a secretive shit. He had a duty to the club, a duty to Stallion, a duty to Jaime—and a duty to Cilla. And Cilla had been the one person he’d failed. The woman he’d give everything for left the bar feeling like she meant nothing to him. But he’d done it to protect her—that was a lousy fucking excuse if he ever heard one, but it was the truth. He’d slit his own throat if that creep fucker hurt Cilla because of his involvement with Jaime. She’d understand, right? She was hurt by what happened tonight, feeling betrayed, and he couldn’t take any of that back, but he could at least grovel until his knees bled and his voice was gone.
“Good riddance,” Jaime slurred, stumbling into Sasha, who then stumbled into Tasha. Tasha, apparently not as drunk as her sister or Jaime, nearly toppled but was able to remain upright. She glared at Jaime who didn’t notice because she was too intent on the nearly empty margarita glass in front of her. “She doesn’t belong here—I belong here. Patriot is my man,” she announced to the room, raising her arms over her head to wave them like she was swatting at an invisible fly. “Ain’t that right, baby?” she slurred once again, batting her glued-on eyelashes at him in a way he assumed she meant to be enticing. Instead, she looked fucking ridiculous. She leaned in, her lips pursed, no doubt to press a kiss against his mouth.
That wasn’t going to fucking happen.
Growling, Patriot pushed to his feet, already over the night and deadly serious about getting to his woman and making things right.
How he was going to do that, he had no goddamn idea.
Across the table, Horde stood, then helped Stephie to her feet. She was drunk but there was still that look of concern for Cilla on her face.
“I should call Cilla,” she muttered, reaching for her purse, but Horde stopped her with a hand to her forearm.
“Let’s get you home and in bed. You can call her in the morning when you aren’t drunk as shit,” Horde commanded, ignoring the glare from his woman and the snickers from Sasha and Marci. Damn, those women really needed to get the fuck gone.
Peering over his shoulder, he signaled Cluster who was standing there, arms crossed, watching the whole debacle. Cluster lifted his chin, pulled his cell from his kutte, and texted someone. More than likely, he just called for reinforcements.
Materializing from the crowd, Tornado stepped up behind Sasha who turned to blink up at him as he glowered down at her. Patriot had no idea what the man was doing still fucking Sasha who wasn’t ol’ lady material in the least. But Sasha had her hooks in the brother, and he looked miserable as fuck most of the time. Whatever it was that kept the two together, from the look on Tornado’s face in that moment, it wouldn’t be keeping them together much longer.
“Let’s go,” be demanded, grabbing Sasha’s arm. Sasha snagged Tasha’s hand, and dragged her behind Tornado who was making a beeline to the door and the parking lot beyond. There was probably a prospect in a cage waiting to take the women home. The women whined and stumbled their way out of the bar, leaving aggravated patrons in their wake.
Jaime, however, was still a problem. His problem. She was obviously drunk as hell, could barely keep her eyes open, and was mumbling to herself in between maniacal giggles.
Patriot rolled his eyes and cursed, knowing that his night wasn’t even close to being over with.
Horde, keeping a suddenly boneless Stephie upright, looked over her head to pin Patriot with a look.
“You got this?” he asked. Patriot jerked a nod, knowing exactly what Horde was asking: “You gonna deal with this bullshit and make things right with your woman?”
Yeah, he was, but first he had to get Jaime home, which meant a fucking Uber, because there was no way he was putting Jaime—sober or drunk—on the back of his bike. Once he dealt with Jaime, then he’d go to Cilla’s, break down her fucking door if he had to, then he’d make her listen as he opened up his chest and told her every fucking thing. He refused to lose her over this shit, over his shit—his fears, his turmoil, his guilt, and feelings of inferiority—not when he finally had her. Not when his chance at a life of goodness and happiness was within his reach. Cilla was his reward, his dose of medicine to combat his affliction, the slow-moving disease that had infected him in that godforsaken desert. He had a new affliction, obsession, desperate need—to have Cilla. She was both the addiction and remedy. The fixation and the satiation.
And he’d fucking let her walk out of the bar without explaining what was going on.
Heaving a sigh, he dropped a couple of twenties on the table, then lead a stumbling, giggling Jaime out of the bar. Checking his cell, he saw the Uber he’d ordered was just down the block. Jaime curled up against him, the scent of her heavy perfume making his head ache. The night was chilly, raising goosebumps along his bare arms. Beside him, Jaime shivered.
“Hold me, baby,” she cooed, wrapping her arms around his waist, and planting her face in his chest. “I’m cold…and I know just the way to warm up.” She giggled, then leaned up on her tip toes, once again attempting to kiss him. He pulled his head back, just barely missing her invasive lips.
Thank fuck the Uber pulled up in that moment. Sure, he could just toss her in, and be done with her, but he couldn’t do that. Jaime was a pain in the ass, but she was still family to him, family to Stallion. Opening the door, then checking the driver against the pic in the app, Patriot slid into the backseat beside Jaime, who was suddenly all hands. The driver did his best to ignore the shit show that was Jaime trying to unbutton his jeans and get her hands on his dick, but the scowl on his face in the rearview mirror told Patriot the man was less than pleased by their PDA—unwanted or not.
Finally, fucking finally, the car pulled up to Jaime’s bungalow, and Patriot helped Jaime out of the car, up her walkway, and to her front door. The Uber driver took off, but Patriot didn’t give a shit. He’d have one of the prospects come and get him and take him back to the bar for his bike. It took her several tries to get her keys in the door and the door unlocked, and by then Patriot was fucking over it.
“Come on, Jaime, get the fuck in the house. Sleep it off,” Patriot rasped, fighting back the urge to pull his hair out. With a click, the door swung open, and Jaime tripped across the threshold, stumbling right out of her four-inch heels.
Patriot grabbed her before she could hit the floor, angry at Jaime for getting that drunk and at himself for being a fucking gentleman.
