Page 7 of The Price of Love

“Do you wanna talk about church?”

“Nope.” She pulls her cut from the back of the door.

I frown. “Nope? That’s it?”

“Yep.” She doesn’t put on her cut but lays it out on her bed.

“For fuck’s sake, you don’t always have to act like you have it all figured out.”

She turns and runs her fingers across the crease in my forehead. “Remember, you’re Dimples, not Wrinkles.”

It’s her favorite line whenever I let worry overtake me, which is frequent.

I stab my finger against my forehead. “You’re the reason for most of them. If you don’t knock your shit off, they’re gonna become permanent. Then I will kick your ass. How can I attract a woman if I have deep chasms in my forehead?”

Storm steps back and pretends to look me up and down. It’s all an act. We decided long ago that we’d never jeopardize our friendship for a roll in the hay. Neither of us has been lucky in love, and club life ain’t built for stable relationships.

“With a body like yours,” Storm waves her hand like a game show hostess showing off a prize. “Six feet of leanness with legs that go on for days. Long blond hair and bright blue eyes. And those fucking dimples. There ain’t nobody going to notice a few wrinkles on your forehead.”

I roll my eyes. I’m not six foot, and Storm knows it. I’m only five-ten, but I still tower over her. She’s got the grit of a six-five linebacker, but her genetics betrayed her.

“Fucking Viking,” she says, referencing my Nordic ancestry. “You get all that.” She motions to my body again. “And all I get is this wiry-ass hair.”

I smile and touch her hair again. “The chicks love your hair. And don’t let your mamma hear you knocking the Italians, or there will be hell to pay.”

It’s another of our favorite schticks when we’re avoiding what we need to talk about. Storm is proud of her Italian heritage, and we both know it.

With a sigh, Storm plops onto her bed.

I consider asking why she’s still wearing all her gear, but I don’t since I already know. It’s her armor. She thinks it’ll keep her safe, but we both know it’s an illusion.

“Do you think the responsibility is too much for me?” Storm asks.

It catches me off guard, so I give it some thought before I reply. “No. I don’t.” My voice is full of conviction. A conviction I hold with every fiber of my being. Storm is the fairest, most honorable person I know. And beneath her dark, brooding exterior, she’s one of the kindest, too. “You take your duty seriously. I’d think it was too much for you if you didn’t.”

She narrows her eyes. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Frost wanted the position because she loves power. That’s all she craves. You hate the power, but you tolerate it for the girls.”

Storm nods and closes her eyes. “But what if I’m leading them down the wrong road?”

I give her my best smile, hoping my dimples will bring her out of her funk. “I’m the one leading them down the road. You’re not planning to take over my captain job, are you?”

She grins. “I know what you’re doing. Always the happy-go-lucky one. Quick with a smile for everyone. That smile hides a lot, doesn’t it?”

That stings. It’s not like Storm to say snarky shit to me. She might be sarcastic with others but never me. At least, she never takes a swipe at my sensitive spots.

Storm startles me when she jumps to her feet. She grabs my arm and looks me in the eye. “Sorry. That was a jerk move. You’re the last person I want to take my shit out on.”

She knows my past. Knows everything. She’s the only one. I know she’s hurting to have said what she did. Storm knows why I smile and what it would cost me to stop.

I push aside my own feelings. “What’s going on, Storm? Talk to me.”

I’d give anything to erase the pain from her eyes, but I stand like a statue, knowing that she doesn’t want my comfort. She’d view needing it as weakness.

“What if Aces was wrong? What if she backed the wrong horse?”

“Oh, you did not just question Aces.” I shake my head, mouth dropping open in mock horror. “If she heard you, she’d rise out of her grave and shake some sense into you.”