Page 7 of Enemy
“Just the squirrel that burrows in my roof. Unless I manage to convince it to move,” he says and joins me on the steps with his own sandwich.
“Tough nut, that one,” I say with a straight face, and he shoves my shoulder so hard I almost drop my food.
“Anyway, I was thinking about that rally we were meant to go to next week—”
Anticipation warms my chest, and I stuff the remainder of my breakfast into my mouth. “What ‘bout it?”
“Apparently the Butchers are going. Two different chapters. Clyde is supposed to be there, show off that he’s all healed up and on the hog, and… I don’t think we should go. We’re barely digging ourselves out of the hole, and the truce will only last so long. I know how you’ll be when you see him, and we don’t need that right now. We’re voting on it tonight, and I want you on my side about this.”
Prophet is serious, worried, yet all I can think of in an instant is that Clyde Turner will be there. At a party that is supposed to be neutral ground. He and the ass that looks so good in jeans.
I haven’t seen him for months, since that day in the hospital, when he came into my room and slapped me with a crutch. One of the most erotic experiences of my life to date.
Yes, I am exaggerating. But not completely. I was too banged-up to doanythingat the time, but loved seeing his ass when he shuffled out.
That guy will be at the rally, where I can stumble upon himby accident. Does he think about me as intensely as I do about him? Does he want me on top of him? Does he want meinsidehim? It’s not like I can DM him and ask...
Prophet snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Road. This isn’t the time to fantasize about revenge.”
“I’m not,” I say, waving his hand away as if it were a pesky fly. When my friend lifts his brows in a universal expression of disbelief, I pray he never finds out what I’mreallythinking. If he did, he’d have me thrown into the lake, along with all my stuff, and I’d never be welcome again.
But Prophet, or my other friends, won’t despise me for things they know nothing about, and since Clyde’s in the same boat as me... maybe a mutual destruction agreementcould be on the table? I don’t need tolikehim to fuck him. I just have to meet him in person and ask.
“So what, you think we should run with our tails between our legs and show everyone we’re scared of the Butchers?” I ask, challenging Prophet with my gaze.
My motives may be wrong, but my reasoning isn’t.
Prophet groans and pushes back his hair. “We’re not scared, it would just be better to lay low a little longer.” He doesn’t believe it himself. He knows it would seem weak if we didn’t go. I need to twist that knife in harder.
“Let’s stop policing whether they cross our land too. Why prod the big bad Hell’s Butchers when we can just stay hidden in the woods? Maybe we should ask them for a fishing permit too? Just in case they have an objection.”
Prophet glares at me, but the message hits home. We can’t back down. Especially not when Clyde is up and running. And willing… potentially.
“Fine. I see how you’ll be voting. Better bring your steel-capped boots then.”
My prez isn’t happy, but fuck it. All I can think of is how Clyde’s pale blue eyes bore into me right before the roof caved in on us. Hesawme, and thought to himselfI would. That alone makes me so horny I can’t think straight, and I’m glad I’m in sweatpants. I don’t care that he broke my finger, spat at me, or set a damn bomb in our warehouse. I want him.
It can be our secret. I need to make him see that.
“Road! Prophet!” Rooster is yelling as he runs toward my cabin, his ginger mohawk flapping from side to side. “Molly’s giving birth!”
And just like that, we both get up to go and provide his sister with whatever she might need.
Chapter 4
Clyde
“Andhestabbedyouhere?” A warm, slender hand dives under my T-shirt. I try not to stiffen, because this is the pretty girl Uncle Grizzly wanted me to meet, and I don’t want to offend him. Her touch is featherlight, fingers smooth, bony, and decorated with long red talons that now tickle the scar Roadkill left on me the night I can’t forget no matter how much booze I pour down my gullet.
It’s healed well, and while the flesh remains uneven to the touch, it’s the kind of injury I would have long forgotten if it wasn’t for who left it on me, and in what circumstances. I have dreams about the moment Road shoved his knife deep into my side, and in the reality conjured by my fucked-up mind, the smoke surrounding us is fragrant rather than choking. He’s watching me, wide-eyed, as the blade penetrates me over and over, sending electric sensations into my phantom body. It all ends in a gush of blood, and then I wake up in sweaty sheets, my cock hard as if I got off on the idea of this mongrel killing me.
I’m fucked up and no one can know this. I don’t even know if I’m gay, or faulty like a bike with missing parts. But if I’m broken somehow, I don’t know how to fix myself.
A warm breeze carrying the scent of the nearby woods weaves itself into my hair. The rally’s being held in a pasture owned by a relative of one of the men present. The people are mingling a bit, but each club generally keeps to its own bonfire. It’s unfortunate how often my gaze strays, seeking the hateful faces of the Vultures, because I should be paying attention to the touch ghosting over my skin.
The girl running her fingers over my abs is pretty, I can see that. My logical mind can go there. It’s not like I’m repulsed by her. But I don’t want her in the way all the men around me do, and trying to deny that would be useless.
For many years, I was able to drift, detached from myself thanks to my good friend Johnnie Walker and keeping busy with the club. And then that motherfucker pulls that long-buried lust out of me with his bare hands, eviscerates me, stabs his claws into me, and doesn’t even have the decency to end me.
