Before he could answer, Sundance stepped out of the room, his face mottled red with rage. “Officers in the war room, now. Scooby, grab any of the members with old ladies and bring them in too.”
I gave him a chin lift and made my way into the great room.
* * *
Rowan
An hour later, I slid my hand into the scruff of Lord’s neck and took in the bullcrap Scooby was spewing from his mouth.
He’d walked out of his meeting, his face pale, and he pulled me into a room off the hallway.
“Is everything okay?” I’d asked.
“No. I think it’s time we bring this thing between us to an end.”
I frowned. “Thisthing?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to ‘all in?’ An hour ago, we were all in, but now we’re just a thing that you can just toss aside?” I asked. “What’s going on? What happened in there?”
“What happened in there is club business and it’s gonna stay that way.”
“So, you’re a liar,” I hissed. “After everything you said and everything we’ve been through, you’re just going to shut down and push me away.”
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he said.
“Don’t flatter yourself, I can walk away just as easily as you can.”
I focused on my breathing as Lord pressed his body against mine. I was okay. I could handle this. It was a breakup. It wasn’t the end of the world. I’d be okay.
“I’m going to go home now,” I whispered.
“I’ll drive you,” he said.
“No,” I rushed to say. “I’m good.”
“Rowan, you’re not driving yourself home.”
“I am actually.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “You are relieved of any further obligation to me.”
“Lord’s leash is in Sundance’s office,” Scooby said. “You go grab that while I get your purse. The rest of your stuff I’ll drop by later, okay?”
I nodded and guided Lord toward the President’s office. The room was empty, but his television was on, the channel on the local news, and as we walked in, a very familiar face filled the screen.
“Stanley Morter, local entrepreneur, and successful businessman has died. His body was discovered early this morning by his long-time maid. Local authorities have stated that Mr. Morter appears to have died by suicide. No foul play is suspected. Stanley Morter was forty-nine years old and had no wife or children.”
I sank to my knees, buzzing in my head growing louder by the second. I knew in my heart the man didn’t commit suicide and I felt bile rise in my throat. I heard Lord whine as his body covered me, but I suddenly couldn’t breathe.
“Fuck. Rowan,” Scooby hissed, reaching for me.
Lord growled low and I held tight to my dog, burying my face in his fur.
“Make him stand down, Rowan,” Scooby demanded.
I shook my head.
“Baby, please.”