Page 88 of Enemy
What the hell is he talking about?
I narrow my eyes, trying to make sense of his words and lean in, resting my head against his chest. His heartbeat is so familiar at this point, I don’t even remember when I realized I couldn’t live without it. “I’m not promising that. I can keep you safe.”
His sigh is as deep as if he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. “It’s bad enough that your club might have heard something aboutmebringing you here by now. You can’t protect me. Your club hates my guts.”
“So? You saved my life. I’m not letting you go now. Do you have any fucking idea how hard it was to wait for a response from you? I’m not letting you disappear again,” I say, and despite feeling faint, I tug Clyde’s hands to my lips. They’re salty and smell of stress, but I still pry one open and kiss the soft skin.
Fuck, I’ve missed him so much, and I’ll end up dead in a ditch before I let him go again. He is my goal now, my end game, and fuck anyone who stands in my way.
He’s about to say something when the door swings open without a knock and Prophet stomps in with his face flushed, and his dark hair in a wild tangle.
Clyde tries to pull away, but I’m done letting this secret be a wedge in my life. I chose him. I hunted him down, and now he’s mine. The silence following the delayed click of the lock is full of withheld anger, but I fight off a bout of nausea and glance at my prez.
His gaze is like two shards of green glass, but this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve cut myself doing something I shouldn’t have. It was always worth it. “Didn’t expect you so soon.”
Clyde sits on the bed in silence, his head lowered like a scolded dog’s, but he lets me hold his hand.
Prophet takes a deep breath, running his fingers through his hair. “Blondie. Of course,” he says with understanding passing over his face.
Clyde looks up with a scowl. “The fuck you callin’ me?”
Prophet ignores him and takes two steps closer, opening and closing his fists, like he usually does when he’s trying not to let anger overcome reason. “Nothing to say? No ‘I’ll explains’ or ‘it’s not what you thinks’?”
I’m set onkeeping Clyde with me, but the cutting edge in the voice of my best friend, the man who quite literally saved my life and gave me a new family, makes me flinch, no matter how certain I am about what needs to be done.
“I’m gay—”
“That excuses nothing! When did I ever say I’d have a problem with you being—”
“Every fucking time you made jokes about the gays, sucking dick, or someone taking it up the ass,” I shoot back, overheating with years of anger I didn’t know I’ve been holding on to.
Prophet stills with his mouth open, looking between me and Clyde like a dog confused that his bone turned out to be made of plastic. “I didn’t mean it like that…”
“I don’t fucking care how you meant it. You guys have no fucking idea how often you make those dumb jokes.”
“Didn’t know you were so sens—”
“Sensitive? Me? Are you for real?” I ask, squeezing Clyde’s hand, because he belongs with me, and I don’t want him to doubt that for even a second. “I’m not ‘sensitive’. I just didn’t want to lose all of you, and how would I know how you’d react if I told you?”
Prophet gestures toward Clyde. “It would be an easier pill to swallow if it wasn’tClyde fucking Turner. Were there no other gays within a fifty-mile-radius?”
“So it’s not something neutral but a bitter pill to swallow?”
Unlike a lot of men I know, Prophet is thoughtful, and doesn’t just get defensive for the sake of it. He frowns, leans against the wall, and takes his time. “It changes things,” he says. “But we can adjust. You’re our brother.Heon the other hand, is a Butcher. With a bunch of his buddies in the parking lot downstairs. Seeing him behind our backs…” Prophet shakes his head like a dad who says ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’.
I thread my fingers through Clyde’s, and as my blood pressure spikes, the headache becomes somehow more bearable. “They’re here?” I ask and glance at my partner.
Clyde’s breath is shaky and only now I notice that he’s not wearing his cut. “I told you,” he whispers. “I’m fucked.”
“You arenotfucked,” I tell him with as much conviction as I can muster.
“He kinda is,” Prophet mumbles but averts his eyes when I glance his way. “You were seeing him behind our backs. What do you want me to say?”
Fear squeezes around my throat like a thick-fingered hand, but if my club won’t have mercy, I will have to keep us safe on my own. Somehow.
“I didn’t plan this. And then, it was too late to talk. I’m sorry.”
“I accept. Maybe you got in over your head. What the fuck do I know? But he is not one of us, so he’s on his own. The Butchers can take care of him how they see fit.”
