Page 44 of The Biker and the Loner
He scratches his jaw as he observes the contents of the breakfast bar. “There’smore?”
“Just the eggs, spinach quiche, and ham slices.” I fetch the rest of the food from the oven. “Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee. Cream, no sugar.”
As he picks up an empty plate and begins loading it with food, I make him a cup of coffee.
“How did you sleep after…you know?” he asks once we’re settled.
Picking at a piece of croissant, I say, “Better than I did before.”
“See you’ve covered up the marks with make-up…” He swallows thickly. “I-I’m so sorry I did that to you.”
I don’t bother trying to convince him I’m fine. These marks are a reminder, and as long as they’re on me, he’s going to beat himself up about it.
While I’ve forgiven him for almost killing me last night, the bruises I woke up to this morning were a horrible sight. I knew immediately that I would be calling in sick. Though I’ve done my best with my make-up concealer, anyone who looked closely enough would be able to tell.
“What time do you have to get to work?” he asks after a while.
“Oh, I don’t have a shift today.” If I tell him I’m skipping work because of the marks, it’ll only make him feel worse. Better if he believes it’s my day off. “The couch set is being delivered at noon, so I’ll stick around for the delivery then head home.”
He won’t be here for the delivery. I’d overheard him on the phone making plans in code last night with the club. I’m familiar with the term “road drop” at this point, so I know it means they’ll be going on a mini road trip to “drop” either drugs or guns.
“Thisis your home now,” he says, looking me square in the eyes. “What aren’t you getting about that?”
Sighing, I hop off the stool and pick up my empty mug and plate. “Don’t start with this again, Scratch. Let it go.”
He doesn’t respond but instead continues to eat, and I begin cleaning up. Andholy cowthe man can eat. He’s putting food away like it’s nobody’s business. Where does he find the space to fit it all?
I’m packing the leftovers into containers when he drains the last of his coffee, gets up and rounds the island to come up behind me. He plants both his hands on the counter, caging me between them. “You’re not living in that house with her anymore.”
Seems like he didn’t let it go after all. Nope, he’d just decided to fill his gut first. “You can’t tell me what to do, Scratch. You don’t call the shots.”
His jaw tightens, teeth grinding. “No. Apparently,shedoes.”
“It’s not—”
“When was the last time it happened?” When seconds pass and I don’t answer, he demands, “Answer me, Ley.”
“A few months,” I lie, glad he can’t see my face.
His mouth dips to my ear. “You’relying.” He clasps my hips and propels me around to face him. “When?”
Regret in my voice, I shake my head as I say, “I should’ve never told you.”
“Tough shit. You did,” he grounds out. “Tell me when.”
“Scratch…” I try to meet his eyes but I can’t, so I settle for the small raised scar at the base of his throat instead. “This was a bad idea. We’re not going to work. I shouldn’t be here. I’m gonna…I’m gonna go.”
As I make to leave, he blocks me and points an angry finger at me, fury in his eyes. “You—” He breaks off, visibly holding back, then turns and stalks out of the kitchen. Seconds later, I hear his feet stomping up the stairs.
My duffle and handbag are upstairs, but hell if I’m going up there while he’s angry at me. My car keys and cellphone are down here, the other stuff I can do without.
After packing the leftovers in the fridge—because I’m a sucker—I snatch up my phone and keys and start for the front door.
“DO YOU WANT ME TO KILL THAT BITCH?”
At the boom of his voice, I glance over my shoulder to see him barreling down the stairs in just his red boxers as if he’d gone upstairs to try taking a shower to cool off and failed.
