Page 68 of Making Choices

Gut wrenching.

Heart shattering.

Powered on equal terms by my hatred for the dead man who stole my baby and my anger at myself for not fighting harder. I hate Alex. I loathe myself more. Always a touch too weak. Too reckless. Too caught up in my need to protect everyone else…

I failed the person who needed me most.

Bebe tries to calm me down. She hugs me. Pats my back. Smooths down my sweat-streaked hair. Lost in my grief, I don’t notice her efforts until she slides away from me and sneaks out of the bedroom door.

Alone with my thoughts, I finally quieten.

On jelly legs, I stumble from the bed to the bathroom. Every part of my body aches. My head spins. Blood runs down my thighs. It trails down my calves and drips on the tiles. I pay it no mind. The shower door is hard to open, but I manage after the third tug. The tap is the next hurdle. I jerk the water on, and without waiting for it to heat, I step under the spray.

Once I’m wet from head to toe, I drop to my backside and pull my thighs to my chest. Rocking back and forth, I hug my knees and hum to block out the screaming that bounces around my skull.

It doesn’t work.

As my mind rages, the front door slams shut and the distinctive sound of a Harley engine reverberates through Slash’s house. I’m not sure why I register this change with such clarity, but hearing the familiar rumble makes my chest tighten. For as long as it takes for the noise to fade into the distance, I hold my breath.

As soon as it’s gone, desolation invades me.

It leaves me empty.

Bereft.

Devoid.

Broken.

17

SLASH

“Did Venom leave?”

Bebe’s softly spoken question rips me out of my stupor. I offer the front door that I slammed in Venom’s face one last look, then redirect my attention to the woman who’s snuck up behind me. Her face is streaked with smudged makeup. Her hair has fallen out of the classy up-do she arrived with. The no doubt expensive dress she’s wearing is splattered with blood.

“Tell me what you need?” she requests with a haughty lift of her chin. “I know this look. I’ve seen it on my father, my brother, my…” Trailing off, Bebe steps closer and fists my shirt in one hand. “You need to fight or fuck. Which will it be, Slash? ’Cause I’m game for both.”

In her gaze, I see the same look Cherub gets when she’s trying to stop me from making an irreversible mistake. The sight of it stabs me straight in the heart. Hands curled into fists, I push past the short redhead, and weave my way toward the living room.

I collapse into the closest armchair.

Bebe follows me. Hands on her hips, she pushes the point. “You’ve got Anna crying in the guest room. Venom’s just taken off on his motorbike. You’re left holding the bag… so once again, I’m going to ask you, Slash. Do you want to fuck or fight? Because breaking isn’t an option right now.”

The colour sitting high on her cheeks tells me her preference.

My fingers relax and with a perverse sense of timing my cock hardens.

Somehow Bebe detects the change in me.

She closes the distance between us and straddles my lap as well as she can. With her knees jammed between the outside of my thighs and the arm of the chair, she drapes her arms around my neck and pulls my mouth to hers. When I resist, Bebe grumbles under her breath.

Once again, she’s giving me whiplash.

Her comment when she arrived at the safe house about me being the man she needs was swiftly followed by her rejection when I tried to kiss her cheek before she drove off with Cherub. I’ve touched her a couple times since we arrived at my house, mainly to make sure she’s coping with the situation, and she’s barely spared me a second glance. Now, as I teeter on the cusp of a breakdown, she throws down the gauntlet.

Fuck or fight?

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