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My mind goes blank. Heat spreads through my torso and burns up my throat as I stare at him in disbelief. Kai’s eyes are two black pools, and I can’t read anything from him. Orion is just as tight-lipped and virtually expressionless, the two of them staring at me, not even breathing.
The world itself comes crashing down around me. I don’t understand what I did wrong and why I’m getting the boot when I’ve been nothing but prompt, efficient, hard-working, and devoted to the club, despite my father’s persistence to leave this job and work for him.
“I’ve been here for almost four months,” I say, shaking from every single joint. Nausea works its way up into a bitter ball on the back of my tongue. I think I’m going to puke. “What do you mean you’re letting me go?”
Drake shakes his head. “It’s not going to work out in the long run,” he says. “So, it’s best to end it here, now. You’re better off, Nadia, trust me. Quicksilver already has a good position waiting for you in his company.”
“Are you fucking serious?” I blurt out, rage getting the better of me.
“You’ll thank us someday,” Drake insists.
This is beyond awkward. It’s embarrassing, and it’s only made worse by Travis’ hand on my shoulder. The poor guy is trying to be sympathetic, but it just makes me angrier. I see red, my heart breaking in a thousand pieces as I realize that this isn’t simply the end of my job here. It was the end of whatever this wonderful thing was that I’d been building with Kai, Orion, and Drake.
They’re not just letting a bartender go.
They’re breaking up with me.
My pride won’t let me go down in flames, though. It rears its pretty head as I bring my chin up and take a deep breath. I grab my phone and bag from the counter, car keys jingling somewhere in the front pocket, while every single man in the room watches me.
I walk out with stern steps and push through the clubhouse doors, leaving them all behind.
11
Nadia
Weeks go by in a painful fog.
I don’t register when the night ends and the sunrise begins. I barely notice the sunset melting into the western horizon as I spend most of my time in bed or in front of the TV, crying my heart out and eating cookie dough ice cream.
Dad understands that I’m not in the best of moods, and I’m sure he knows why—he must’ve talked to the guys at the club about me—but at least he’s keeping his distance. He’s letting me sulk in my misery and likely waiting for it to pass before he comes to me with a job offer.
My sleep is rough. I wake up often, tossing and turning and checking my phone. They haven’t sent me a single text. I messaged Paddy a couple of times to check up on him and the clubhouse, but his replies have been polite, at best, if not a bit dismissive.
They’re actively shutting me out, and I’ve come to realize it’s got nothing to do with me. It has to be about Colton Harrow and his aggressive moves across Orange County. They probably want me out of harm’s way. Given the stories I’ve heard about other clubhouses, perhaps I should be more understanding.
Except I can’t be. Not when there’s a pregnancy test in my nightstand drawer, its plus sign viciously staring at me whenever I open it. I’m pregnant. I'm not far along, but definitely pregnant. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. We weren’t careful, not one bit.
What the hell am I going to do? Go to my dad for advice?
“Hey, Dad, so I’ve been screwing three of your biker buddies at the same time, and now I’ve got a baby on the way, but don’t ask me who the daddy is because I don’t have a clue.”
Yeah, that sounds insane.
I don’t have anyone to talk to about this, either. Most of my friends went off to college or they’re working prestigious jobs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. I was supposed to join them, but I carved myself a different path despite their expectations.
I chose to finish college and jump right into the clubhouse bar, only to end up broken-hearted and pregnant.
“Nadia, are you home?” Dad calls out from downstairs.
I check the time on my phone, once again dismayed that the guys haven’t even reached out to see if I’m okay after the way they dismissed me. “Yeah,” I reply, then climb out of bed and have a look at myself in the mirror.
It’ll be a while before my pregnancy starts to show, but anyone who knows me can tell I’m not all right. There are dark circles under my eyes; the blue in them is faded, and they’re puffy from so much crying. I pull my blonde hair into a messy bun and put on a pair of jeans to go with an oversized t-shirt, then head downstairs.
I find my father in his study, going over some papers on his desk. He looks just as torn up as I feel, though I highly doubt he’s dealing with anything close to my kind of troubles. “What’s up?” I ask, suddenly worried he might know about what’s cooking in my oven. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, I’m okay, honey. I’m more worried about you,” Dad says, giving me a curious look. I know it pains him to see me like this, but he’s giving me the room I need to recover. I have to give this man credit where credit is due. “How’ve you been?”
“I’m fine. Trying to pull myself together. But I’m fine.”
