Page 32 of Secret Betrayals
He sees right through it. His eyes hold concern.
“You gonna get in here or what?” he smirks, baiting me. He knows exactly what that smirk will get him.
“Boy, you want everyone to see you get taken down by your mamma?”
My smile grows when his brother steps beside him, leaning on the ropes, both grinning like they’re ready to show out.
I nod slowly, rolling my shoulders back.
“Well, alrighty then.”
Let the show begin.
And a show isexactlywhat we put on.
Nine
How many times does one need to count to ten before losing their shit?
Storming out of the clubhouse away from her, I make a straight shot for my bike because I'm seconds from detonating. My boots slam against the pavement like thunderclaps, louder than the chaos inside my head. Every step is a warning. A threat. A damn declaration. I clock the looks. Raised brows. Curious eyes. A couple of my brothers open their mouths to ask questions, until they catch the fire behind mine. That’s all it takes. They back off. Scatter like cockroaches under a kitchen light.
Good.
Let them stay the hell out of my way.
I don’t want their concern, their advice, or their brotherly bullshit. Not now. Not while I’m unraveling like a live wire wrapped in gasoline. Even the ol’ ladies go quiet, all wide eyesand whispers like I’m deaf. Like I don’t know, I’m bleeding fury out of every goddamn pore.
Let them whisper. Let them flinch. Let them stare like I’m a bomb about to go off.
They don’t know what’s clawing at me from the inside out. What it feels like to have seventeen years carved out of your chest in one blow.
I’m spiraling. If I’d stayed in that clubhouse one second longer, I’d have flipped one of the weight benches through the damn drywall. I know I should’ve stayed—faced it like a man, talked it out, kept my shit together. But fuck that.
I needed out. Air. Distance. Sanity.
And right now? I’ve got none of that.
The second I break into the open, I can almost breathe. Almost. Not enough to stop the shaking in my hands. Not enough to silence the war in my head. My control’s hanging by a thread, soaked in gasoline. One spark and I’ll burn everything in my path to the ground.
I know the drill. I know what’s expected. Stand tall. Own your shit. Handle it. But I couldn’t do it. Not with every damn person in that room looking at me like I was a ghost of the man I’m supposed to be. I could feel their judgment. Their pity. The weight of everything I’ve failed to be presses down on my chest.
My jaw’s locked so tight I can feel the pop in the hinge. My fists are clenched, knuckles white, veins bulging like they’re trying to escape my skin. I’m right on the edge—one push from tearing something apart.
I glance back.
Just for a second.
The clubhouse is still buzzing, full of noise, stares, and people who don’t get it. My brothers are watching me like I’m some wounded animal they can’t decide whether to help or put down.
I slap my helmet on like it owes me something, throw a leg over the bike, and fire it up. I don’t say a word. Just peel out, tires screaming like the inside of my head. I don’t have a destination. Don’t want one. I need the road, the speed, the wind tearing at me like it can rip the pain off my skin.
Because fuck me sideways…
I’ve got sons.
Two of them.
Two seventeen-year-old boys who looked at me today like I was the devil himself. Strangers. With my eyes.
