CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
*Coty “Coyote” - Vice President*
Istorm to the dressing room — the only place besides the bathroom where I’m not under fucking surveillance. My breath saws in and out in time with the creak of the aggressively swinging saloon-style doors.
“Aaaahhhhh!” Fist balled and head tossed back, I roar unceasingly until the effort scratches my throat raw. I stomp through the room, slamming locker doors, tearing shower curtains off their rings, and knocking over stools.
All except one. The one Lace always uses. I come to a stop at her favorite table, curl my fingers around the edge on each side, bend at the waist, and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
A fucking animal glares back at me, feral and rabid. Foaming at the mouth. Hackles raised. Eyes and teeth gleaming. Lace named me Coyote for a reason, and I am living up to that title.
My vision blurs, and I fall backward onto her stool, hands trembling.
Everyone thinks they know — that they understand — why I get worse every rally. They think it has to do with sharing her. Well, of fucking course. But I have never not shared her. That dynamic between us is all I know. And I might never admit it to my club brothers, but it becomes easier every rally, even if their antagonizing gets worse since they all sure love to fucking stoke the fire of my madness.
Unlike me, the other Hell for Leather members all have their shit under control. I have serious fucking issues, and it’s not a secret. Yeah, I hate sharing, but they are the safer bet for her. Always have been. Even Kal. Especially Kal.
Kal and I have been tight since we were in diapers. Neglected, saggy, filled ones. He knows I have a penchant for neurotic, obsessive, compulsive stalkerish behavior, so he kept me in check for the first year after my initiation — after meeting Lace.
She took care of me. We didn’t even fuck. Not once on that first night. The next morning, though? The next day. We never left the bedroom. I fell hard and fast. Obsessively. Haven’t been able to shake her ever since.
Things happened. I quickly caught feelings deeper — scarier — than stalker ones. Our club grew, and Kal made sure everyone knew I was the weakest link where women were concerned. Therefore, Lace.
She knew my type well, too. Considering her profession. Lace has not once put up with my shit, even if I wish she would, because I want to control the damn woman with every fiber of my being. That, however, would make me a walking contradiction to the purpose we serve as a club.
As a result, however, she unknowingly has better protection than most celebrities. Two weeks out of the year at least; more if our employer has followed through with his promises. But still, it’s not enough. Not anymore.
Kal fucking feels it, too. I can tell. And that right there is why I bent over and lubed up, even if he’s keeping the bigger picture from me. Even if having whatever control I managed to build over the years stripped away tonight and my impatience brought to the surface. Angry and wanting — just as bad as, if not worse than, her throbbing pussy rubbing against Zane right now.
Damn it was hard to leave her out there while she peaks. Knowing the Chaplain is who she’s with is the only thing easing my temperament. And, really, even that doesn’t make me feel any better.
The reason why I get worse every rally is because she is slipping from me. Has been for about a year now. I’m fucking losing her. I feel it. Sense it — her fear and trepidation — much like a predator might.
But I also know her uneasiness has nothing to do with me. Something else is causing a rift, and I am hell-bent on figuring out what the fuck it is before it takes her from me for good.
Grasping at invisible straws, I scan around her makeup table, searching for anything that will give me a clue. The bag she always brings to the condo is near my feet, so I start there. Resting on top, just inside the open zipper and beside a goddamn pill bottle, is her cell phone. I snatch up both items, first eyeballing the pills.
The subscription is made out to Jessica Lainis. Pain relievers. Since it’s a legit prescription for Jess, I place the bottle to the side on the tabletop. After a quick dig through the rest of the bag and realizing it is only clothes and bathroom stuff, I shove the phone into my pocket and leave the dressing room.
Wasting no damn time, I settle in at the table and chair in the far, darkest corner of the room so I can snoop at her phone activity history while still keeping an eye on her since this is the only spot in the entire building where there’s a decent visual on the entire main room, bar, and a peek inside the private dance area.
Usually I leave when she really starts engaging with the initiate. This time I have to stay because she’s fucking high and has just been gifted to seven other men.
I hack into her phone using a trusty process, knowing she changes the password every few months because I told her to, and start scanning through the messages.
Everything seems pretty normal at first. But then I spot a new number, some financial transactions, and a couple pictures of some damn guy — that looks an awful lot like Baylor, yet not — from the same number that made the financial transactions.
My vision shakes. I slip my own phone out of my opposite pocket and call the contact. It only rings a couple times before someone answers. The voice on the other end is feminine. I hang up, not nearly satisfied enough with the female voice behind that number. There aren’t just one or two activities on her phone tracking back to that particular contact. There are several.