“Yes, ma’am.” I grin, and she rolls her eyes.
They head out of the room, while I load up a plastic bag with a bunch of plates and utensils. She said forks, but may as well get everything; I know she’ll ask for it next. The other bikers in here ignore me, going back to their chat and I do my best to not overhear anything. The last thing I want is to be putting my nose in other people’s business.
Once the bag’s full, I make my way to the hall that leads out the club’s back door. I hate not having Maverick in my sight, but Princess says I can trust London. She’d never let either of us get hurt, so I believe her.
My heads in la-la land as I walk the long hall, not paying attention to the shadow in a passing doorway. The shadow sees me, however.
My wrist is snatched in a tight grip, my gaze flying to the source of strength.
“Bethany?” he utters deeply, and the air catches in my lungs. How could I not know he was standing there?Fuck.My pussy clenches from his voice alone.
He gazes at me, confused and a little surprised to see me. I’m guessing that I’m the last person he was expecting to be walking around their clubhouse.
“Ummm.” I begin to stutter, the word instantly making me think of Maverick. I know where he gets it from now. Shit.
“You’re here?” His voice swallows me whole, coating my body in tingles as his other hand finds my cheek. His palm’s rough and big, easily covering part of my face and jaw with warmth.
How does he expect me to speak when he’s touching me like this? I could barely say anything before when I didn’t hate him. And lack of words has never been an issue for me; if anything, it was always the opposite.
His touch is everything—caring and controlling—just the way I liked it before. The heat from his palm ignites my body in sensory overload. I want him to feel me everywhere, rub me all over.
“Yes?” I nod, a little unsure of what he even said. I know he spoke and I need to give him a response; to what, who knows? I can’t think, I only feel him and take in his features.
He’s aged a touch, but nothing too noticeable. The few lines from his ever-present glare and his time out on the road have gotten slightly more pronounced, but that’s about all. His hair’s throwing me a bit. It’s so much longer, and I’ve never cared for dreads, but I like them on him. He wears the look well, reminding me of one of the guys you see in a heavy metal video—forbidden and wild.
“Where have you been?” He’s angry; I can hear it in his voice. He’s pissed over something. Over me leaving? No way; he has no reason to be. I was the one who left hurt and upset, not the other way around.
“B?” Princess comes into the hall, a concerned gaze at Nightmare’s hand on me. Her wake never falters, coming to me immediately and grabbing onto my free hand, holding the plastic bag in a death grip. “Come on Bethany, I need you to help me.” Her eyes snap to Nightmare’s, full of her own warning. She can’t say anything to him; it’s not her place in the club, but she can tell her ol’ man if something bothers her.
He drops his hands from me, releasing my cheek and wrist. Taking a step back, his gaze shutters, and without another word, he watches my best friend cart me toward the door. He never says anything, and part of me wishes he would stop us, while the other can’t stop thinking of how it felt when he touched me.
How did I ever think I could come back here and he wouldn’t affect me? I’ve never been that strong. I am for Maverick, but never for myself and never when it comes to Nightmare.
Maverick.
“Mav—” I begin, and Princess cuts me off.
“Is fine. I checked on him. I don’t think Night has seen him yet.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course; I have your back.”
“We should go.”
“Already? Please stay. What if you go back to my house and take a breather?”
“Okay, I can do that. Maverick will probably be ready for a nap soon anyhow. I just need some space from him.” I nod at the back door.
“I’ve been with Viking for a while now; I get it. They have a way of overtaking everything, nearly smothering you at times.”
“Exactly.” I set the bag down and toss the half-full beer in the metal trash bin. Smother is a good word to use whenever I’m near him; consumed would work as well.
Collecting my kid and his stuff, we get out of there as quickly and quietly as possible, not wanting to draw any attention.
It doesn’t take long before Maverick’s down for a nap, and I’m lying beside him, tears flooding my face. I was a fool to think I wouldn’t be that messed up at seeing Night. It’s been years—actual years since I saw his face and heard his voice—yet he has this control over me within minutes. Not only did he suck me right back in, but he twisted my heart all over again knowing that the innocent little boy playing right outside is unwanted by his own father.
Fuck you, Nightmare!