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Then I left.
And it hurt.
A fucking lot.
But I walked, head held high, face dry, heart broken.
Not enough women got medals for doing that. And I knew they did it. Every day, women did it.
And they all deserved fucking medals.
Because no way a man would be strong enough to make that walk—and in heels, no less.
Luke
Age Twenty-Eight
He stood there for a long time after she left. A long fucking time.
He wasn’t sure if it was by choice or not.
But he did. Like a fucking coward. Didn’t do anything. Didn’t say anything. Just fucking stood there. Going over every single thing she’d said. Every single thing he should’ve said.
Fuck, her face when she turned and he asked for her keys. That would be something he’d have to answer for when he met his maker. Turning that beautiful hope into beautiful heartbreak. The most painful kind of beauty. The kind you appreciated, marveled at, but would kill the fucker who made such a creature have to deal with that pain.
It was him.
He was the fucker.
He wasn’t going to say shit about the keys. He’d intended on telling her that they weren’t a fantasy, that he was hers, that somehow, in this fucked-up world, she’d managed to make everything else less important.
But he didn’t.
Because he was a coward.
Not just because he was a cop.
And not for the reasons she believed. No, it had nothing to do with him and his opinion of where she came from. Where she came from made her who she was. He didn’t want to respect the club for turning her into that, but fuck if he did.
No, he’d closed his mouth for her. Because he knew that if he gave her what she wanted in that moment, he’d take away everything she’d need in the rest of them.
Her family.
The ones who would do anything for her.
Except accept him into that family.
That would be the price. The choice for her. He’d never put her in that position. Never hurt her like that.
His aim was to prevent hurt.
But he’d created it.
And he’d have to live with that.
Somehow.
Rosie
Present Day
Luckily, I always carried my passport—one of them, at least—on me at all times in case of emergency or boredom. That meant I could hop in my battered and almost falling apart Jeep and speed straight through the chaotic streets of Caracas, toward the airport.
Road rules were nonexistent here, apart from the singular one of don’t die. I didn’t have to worry about something as asinine as getting pulled over while I dialed my phone and put it to my ear.
I’d already tried Lucy.
Four times.
It barely rang before an immediately familiar fury greeted me. “Rosie, where the fuck—”
I swerved around a stationary taxi, the driver shouting at someone across the road, then shouting at me as I took out a side mirror. A honk from the car I was about to plow into on the other side had me swerving back into my lane.
“Save your swearing, shouting or synchronous series of caveman grunts for another time, bro,” I shouted above the traffic noise. “I need to know about Lucy. Tell me she’s okay.” It was more of a plead than anything else.
There was a pause. One that told me everything I needed to know and made sure I left my heart on the bottom of the road as I sped away toward the airport. I was so focused on making it through the streets that I forgot to guard against the memories, anxious to get their place in the spotlight once I’d opened the floodgates.
So, navigating through wild and dangerous streets, my mind wandered.
Not to my friend who could very well be dead. I couldn’t think of that. Self-preservation.
And there would be nothing of me left to preserve if my girl was dead.
Not that there was much right now.
“We’ve just landed in sunny Los Angeles. If this is your final destination, welcome home.” The pleasant voice on the intercom possessed none of the irritation it had when she’d been telling me that she would no longer serve me alcohol.
“I think you’ve had enough, ma’am.”
I scowled at her and her superior glance to my disheveled hair and dusty white tank. “I’m still sober,” I protested, without an inch of a slur. “That means I haven’t had near enough.”
She raised one perfectly manicured brow. “You’ve had twelve tequilas, ma’am. We are lawfully obliged to cut you off.”
I rolled my eyes. “One mustn’t break the twelve-tequila law,” I snapped. “They’ll most likely put you in jail where the only person to do your eyebrows would be a dyke who benched more than The Rock.”
Suffice to say I did not get my thirteenth tequila.
Because of the law.
The law. The big fat barrier, reinforced with steel, electrified and topped with barbed wire. The thing that sat between everything I wanted.
