CHAPTER THIRTEEN
*Lace*
The dotted lights around my vanity screen double as both my mind and vision swim. There is way too much to unpack about what just happened. I have no idea what scares me more: the guilty and morose expressions lining all their features, being restrained as the extent of my punishment, Kio keeping details from me about Jess, or how Coyote is behaving. Or not behaving, for that matter.
I have no regrets over what I said or did — I’ve officially hit the deep end. Right now, the only thing keeping me from drowning is knowing Hell for Leather has to be at the booth opening in just over an hour. That and Reece, of course.
The dressing room is empty other than the two of us, but I am still tempted to walk the handful of paces behind me to check on Reece. Not wanting to risk drawing attention to where she is sleeping, however, I pull up the baby monitor feed on my phone instead.
Streaks of phantom lights left lingering in my sight float across the screen as I stare at her small, sprawled form, my thoughts floating right along with those black speckled imprints in my vision.
For all intents and purposes, the club officers expect me to dance here today. Closer to the end of the rally, though, when exhaustion is setting in for everyone, they like having me work at the booth to help boost morale. Plus, the booth having a new wave of dancers toward the end encourages attendees to stop by again. Half of us are scheduled to work the booth during the first half of the rally, while the rest of us work the second half of the rally. Doing so ultimately increases what we earn for the domestic violence charity, Bikers Against Abuse, by quite a lot.
Bikers.
Against.
Abuse.
Jeez. The answer was pretty much right under my nose the entire time. A classic case of overthinking at its finest, if ever I saw one.
Anyway, thank the Universe I am assigned to be here and not there with them today. What would I do with Reece then?
The scrape of the double doors brushing together nearly has me jumping off my stool. In a rush, I black out my screen and shove the phone to the side of the vanity.
In strides Kal. Suddenly, even so much as the quiet hum of the air conditioning is as loud as the squall of a sea storm. Reece is noiseless, though, thank goodness. My paranoia, however, is not.
Kal sinks onto the stool beside mine, leans back, and drapes an arm over his thigh, hand dangling front and center at his dick — definite mannerisms of an asshole. Body language is an amazing thing. I tend to avoid the cock-sure ones. Therefore, whenever possible, I tend to avoid Kal, even if that was far from the case once upon a time.
Speaking of body language, how tight the upper portion of that same arm is against his side looks awfully suspicious. My guess is that Foster bruised a couple of his ribs during the showdown.
Continuing our little non-verbal tête a tête, I flip him the bird and flash a toothy smile, because apparently, I am all about class today.
“Popping pills again, hm?” he tosses.
My smirk drops.
Kal adjusts his elbow, nudging a rogue pill off the vanity. His eyes follow the round tablet as it hits the ground and rolls away.
Suddenly anxious and needy, I resist the urge to dart forward and scoop up all the pills I dropped earlier. Instead, I twist my fingers together and suck in a small breath between my lips.
Kal notices. At first he blinks — one of those blinks that often ends in an eye roll. But then his expression loosens, he clears his throat, and leans forward. “What you silently relayed to Coty last night about Harry being innocent, I need you to tell me more about that.”
Wait. What? What is this? Assassin guilt? Him trying to confirm and justify? To clear his conscience after a kill? Or is my dad safe after all?
I shake my head. “I want you and your crew to stay away from my family, Kaldon.”
“Little too late for that, Lacinda; what you want doesn’t matter.” Kal looks toward the back of the dressing room. He knows about Reece. He must. But how? “Now, tell me about Harry.”
I shake my head emphatically, nose and eyes burning with the effort to keep all emotions internalized. “No.” My refusal comes out as nothing more than a weak, faint exhale.
His lips and eyebrows flatten, and his emerald eyes dull to a mossy olive.
He stands, looming above me, and in the next instant, my hair is wrapped in his fist, and my body is yanked upward and spun around so that the vanity edge digs into the tops of my thighs. I am face to face with my own image and cheek to cheek with the devil in human form.
“Is this what you want? To fucking push me?” The fresh scruff on his face, an ode to his long day and night, abrades my cheek and jaw.
I keep stock still. Refusing to shake my head. To panic. To cower.