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TWENTY
Her heart in her stomach, bile rising into her throat, she turned to look at Stephie across the table from her. Her friend had the grace to look guilty…but that wasn’t what made Cilla nearly vomit…it was the sound of bikes roaring up the driveway.
She didn’t need to ask to know it was Patriot.
He’s here.
For Jaime.
“Look at her face,” Jaime said, tittering. “She honestly thought that just because she opened her chunky thighs for him that he actually wanted her. What a fucking joke. He might have been fucking you, but he was thinking of me every time—and he was fucking me last night. I even saw the leather kutte; it was in a box in his closet, just waiting for tonight to give it to me.”
Sick, her heart hammering, her chest aching with the need to exhale, Cilla nearly fainted when Patriot strode around the corner of the house, his gaze landing immediately on her. Suddenly, she felt naked, like the too tight clothes weren’t there at all. What was she thinking, letting Stephie talk her into wearing clothes that must make her look like a gross fatty? Her rolls were obvious over the waistband of her jeans, her thighs were barely contained in the stretched to hell fabric, and her top did nothing to help support her boobs. Cilla didn’t need to catalog what Jaime was wearing to know that, compared to her, Cilla was a freaking joke. And Patriot was there to laugh at her.
“You said he wouldn’t be here,” Cilla muttered to Stephie, her voice a croak.
Stephie offered an apologetic smile. “No, I said he wasn’t here. As in not at the moment. You only assumed he wasn’t coming later.”
Cilla groaned, knowing she’d been manipulated by her best friend—but why? So she would feel the pain and humiliation of watching the man she loved claim another woman, a woman who’d made it her mission to hurt Cilla?
“Just wait, Cilla,” Stephie pleaded, reaching over the table, but Cilla yanked her hand away before Stephie could touch her. “Please, just wait. I promise it isn’t what you think.”
Bracing her hands on the edge of the table, Cilla made a move to stand, but suddenly a large hand was there on her shoulder, holding her down. Shocked, she turned her head quickly and gasped at the sight of a man she’d never seen before.
“Brandon?” Jaime blurted, her face draining of color, leaving her looking like a clown with all that makeup on. “W-what are you doing here?”
The man—Brandon—raised a brow at her. The man was tall, almost as tall as Horde, who was a monster of a man, and he was wide. Broad shoulders, massive arms, thick thighs—he looked like what “beat your ass” would look like in human form. His eyes were a familiar blue, his hair was sun-streaked blond, and his face was what one would consider handsome All-American. He could pass for Captain America…if Captain America had neck tattoos.
“Is that the way to welcome home your brother, little sister?” he drawled, his deep voice like the rumble of thunder in the distance. Around her, the club brothers and the women seemed to gather, their attention on whatever the hell was happening—with her in the middle.
Jaime’s mouth snapped shut, her nostrils flared, and her gaze flit to the space behind Cilla where she could only assume Patriot was standing. Patriot hadn’t said a word yet, but she could practically feel him vibrate with tension. Could feel his eyes burning into her, pouring emotion into her…as though he were pleading with her to look at him.
She refused. She wouldn’t give him or Jaime the satisfaction of a reaction—though she really wanted to weep, to thrash and kick and scream at the unfairness of it, at the agony of seeing the man she loved, and knowing he wasn’t there for her.
“I…I mean when did you get here? I wasn’t expecting you for another few weeks,” Jaime offered, poorly covering for her blunder. She hurried to her brother, throwing her arms around his neck. “Welcome back. I missed you.”
The man, who Cilla now knew was Patriot’s best friend and club brother, Stallion, wrapped Jaime in his arms. He patted her back, kissed her head, then pulled away. Taking a step back from her, he peered at Jaime, a smile on his face…but the smile did not reach his blue, blue eyes.
“As soon as Patriot told me about you two, I knew I had to come home for this party. Wouldn’t miss my best friend claiming his woman.”
Jaime gasped, her eyes going as big as saucers. She swung around to look at Patriot.
“For real?” she squealed, her grin as wide as it was bright. From the corner of her eye, Cilla noticed Tornado slide up behind Sasha, his body taut, his hands loose at his sides. And Cilla couldn’t miss the way Frost was watching closely, his striking hazel eyes missing nothing, but also giving nothing away. If he was bothered by the scene going down, he wasn’t showing it. Did that mean he was expecting it?
As if her heart couldn’t take more of a beating, his voice sounded from right behind her, and she could swear, she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck.
“Of course, Jaime,” Patriot nearly purred, the deep timbre sending shivers down her spine—and not from fear. Like a ghost apparated at her back, the feeling of a hand brushing along the small of her back made her breath catch. She stilled, the heat of need and desire pulsing out from her core, simply at the touch of the man who was standing much too close to her, considering what he just admitted to everyone at the party.
Patriot slid around Cilla to stand beside Stallion, his beautiful green-eyed gaze taking in Jaime.
And for the first time, Cilla noticed what was in his hand.
A kutte.
Jaime saw it, too, and when she turned to smirk evilly at Cilla, victory blazing across her face, Cilla flinched. She was telling Cilla that she hadn’t lied about being with Patriot last night, that she really had been in his bed, and she really had seen the kutte in his closet.
And in that moment, the last dregs of hope within her were swallowed by despair.
Unable to move, Cilla watched on, her body frozen, her blood thick and sluggish.
