Page 30 of Wreckage of Me
I press on the breaks so hard, if it wasn’t for the seatbelt, I’d be flying out the windshield.
“Jesus, woman,” Dylan calls from the back, one large hand holding onto my headrest. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I look around really quick and realize that we are on a quiet street, away from traffic, close to the ramp I always take to get on the expressway that takes me home. I normally ride with Emily, but she wanted to come in by herself today, said she had some errands to run after work.
Now, as I’m looking at the clock on my dashboard, I realize how stupid I was. It’s almost midnight. What errands does one run at midnight?
“What the fuckI’mdoing?” I scream at Dylan, refusing to turn around in my seat. Instead, I just continue watching him in the rearview mirror, afraid to breathe too hard so that he doesn’t disappear. “What the fuck areyoudoing?”
“I obviously came to see you,” he says it like it’s a no brainer. Like the last time we saw each other he didn’t tell me that I was basically as important to him as the random club whores he had begging for his attention. Whatever the hell that means.
“You came to see me,” I repeat the words and shake my head in shock. “Are you fucking’ crazy?” I finally give up, undo my seatbelt in an aggressive move and turn around to look at him. The mirror just won’t do it anymore.
“Crazy for you,” he mutters right before he wraps his hand around the back of my head, yanking me closer to him. “So fuckin’ crazy for you,” he says again, pulling on my neck harder, forcing me to climb up on the middle console, then pretty much fall right into his lap in the back.
“What are you doing, Dylan?” I ask, my voice shaking in fear and excitement. I can’t believe he’s really here.
“I’m about to kiss you like you’ve never been kissed,” he nips at my lips just like I remember him doing it before. “And then I’m gonna fuck you until neither one of us can fuckin’ walk anymore.”
“I…” I put my hands up on his chest and push. No matter how hot his words get me, I would never forgive myself if I just went along with anything he said. I did it twice before and look where it got me. Alone and crying myself to sleep after he compared me with his whores.
Not to mention, and this is the most important piece of information I need details on, he may be a fugitive. I really have no desire to become an unwilling part in some sort of Netflix crime documentary that the housewives of the world can dissect at large.
“Are you running away from the police?” I finally bring myself to ask.
“No.” His reply is quick and to the point. He doesn’t hesitate when he says it, his eyes never waver from mine.
“Why are you here?” I whisper, repeating my question from earlier, just not in the same angry tone.
“I’m here for you.”
11
Wrecker
The clubhouse blowingup with Shortie inside of it and its aftermath will haunt me for the rest of my life.
I never thought I cared about much in this life, always burying my sorrows, and my dick, in all honesty, in being a good VP to the club, having my president’s back even though I hated his guts. The dick part I buried in all the club pussy I could find. And not like it was hard to find.
Then, out of nowhere and hitting me like a Mack truck, two things happened that changed the way I started viewing the world.
The first thing that made me want to live a different sort of life was learning that I had a son. I didn’t manage to bond with Ethan, nor did I feel like an actual parent to him. However, I did feel responsible for him. I knew what the club life would do to him. I didn’t want my son to grow up and hate me. Like I grew to hate my father.
Giving Ethan up and sending him to live with Wyatt and Alison is the smartest thing I could’ve done. And I hope the boy will understand one day why I did it.
When I came looking for Becca, I didn’t make a very good plan for it. I have no idea what I thought would happen once I got to Montana. Puck kept on bringing it up, tempting me at every corner.
Since I couldn’t waltz back home, the clubhouse explosion being under heavy investigation by the FBI, I made sure Ma was okay and kept the illusion that I was still in prison for now as they’re supposedly running out of reasons to keep me in there, this according to Devereaux.
“Come with me to Montana, dude,” Puck shoved at me, trying to get my attention.
“What the fuck are you doing in Montana?” I asked, even though I suspected his reasons for wanting to come. And they all came in the shape of one petite Miss Emily Stewart.
“It just sounds like a good place to move to. What’s keeping us here?” he shrugged me off like it was nothing.
And that’s how I found myself in Montana. Finding out where Becca lived and worked was way too easy, almost scary how easy.
I found her on social media as well, where I happened to come across a picture of her by her car. Showing off her license plates for the world to see. Seriously, if someone wanted to stalk her, they’d be bored to death with how easy she made it for them.
