Page 52 of The Fire We Crave

“Fuck,” I gasp, rubbing both hands over my face.

There’s a large glass of water next to the bed and some pain meds. I tip several into my hand, then toss them back before chasing them with the room-temperature water.

Flopping back into bed, I try to piece together the night.

Drinking like time wouldn’t wait.

Isla.

Quinn arriving, looking so fucking pretty in a cute sundress, so different to the club girls, and yet everything I wanted.

“Ah, fuck,” I mutter, placing my forearm over my eyes. I fought with Taco.

He touched her hair. That’s my first thought, and it inspires the same kind of reaction all over again today. I want to hit him.

Again.

They had some conversation about women without a property patch being fair game, and for a heartbeat, I saw her in a leather cut with aProperty of Smokepatch on the back.

And even with limp whisky dick, I formed a chub at the thought.

I groan when I remember arguing with Taco. Something about me fucking Isla. Something about Quinn being able to fuck whoever she wanted.

She hadn’t wanted to be part of our argument.

“Fuck!” Butcher got involved, and I squirm on the bed as I recall Butcher splitting us up and more fighting.

A pissing contest. Whose dick was biggest.

And then…

I don’t remember the rest clearly.

Except Butcher’s hand connecting with Quinn, knocking her to the ground, and me feeling utterly fucking wretched that my drinking had led to her fall.

Seems like that’s all I’m capable of: letting Moran women get hurt.

Then, I realize, Quinn is no longer here. There is no sign of her or any of her things. Did she sleep here? Did she leave alone? For a moment, I think of Taco, but somehow, I know she wouldn’t have gone to find him. And I find myself hoping she went back to my home.

I drag my ass to the edge of the bed and tentatively put my feet on the ground. The world spins.

My stomach roils. I got up at four to puke, so now it’s empty and I need something to settle it.

Tugging on some jeans is tough, pulling on my boots, tougher.

I amble to the kitchen, using the wall as a crutch. I run my fingers along the trim to help with my center of gravity.

“Well, if it isn’t my mouthy fucking road captain,” Butcher says. “How’s the head?”

“Morning to you too, Prez.”

I grab the coffee pot, pour a large mug, and then take a sip. It’s bitter and nasty.

What I wouldn’t give for some of Quinn’s coffee. Perhaps a couple of those lemon and blueberry scones. Ate two of them before I left yesterday, when she went to hide in her room.

Fucking tastiest thing I’ve eaten in a while.

“What got into you yesterday?” he asks.

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