I’d granted more Glasgow smiles than I could count on two hands, and lynched monsters without blinking, but putting a girl down when her momma had just died somehow felt like my biggest sin.
Especially when I’d compounded it by ignoring her as I’d walked the trio over to the bunks. Even though she’d tried to ask if I was okay—me? Okay? I wasn’t okay. I was the exact opposite of okay. But she’d tried to be nice, and I’d blatantly ignored her, mostly because the sight of her reminded me of a time I really wanted to forget. I’d had the biggest crush on her mom, and sometimes, that crush had been the only thing that got me through the fucking days.
Cammie moaned at my side, reminding me she was there. I’d fucked her hard last night, hard enough to make her scream—not necessarily in a good way. She’d come though, clenching down on my cock like she was a vise… which diminished some of the guilt I felt on that score. What was left wasn’t enough to stop me from
shoving her arm away and muttering, “Go back to bed.”
She mumbled, “In bed already.”
“Wrong bed,” I retorted. When she started to close her eyes so she could fall back asleep, I shook her harder. “Cammie, fuck off back to your own bed.”
She squinted at me, then pouted. “Don’t be mean, Nyx. I can make you feel good later,” she whispered, more sleepily than sexily.
“I don’t want to feel good later,” I told her dryly, then I smoothed over my harshness by tapping her on the ass and saying, “Go on, get.”
With a huff, she rolled off the bed, grabbed her shit together, and barely took a moment to slip into her shoes—couldn’t blame her, only a fool would walk about this place barefoot—and limped off toward the door.
Without a backwards glance, she disappeared into the hallway buck naked and shameless. But then, why would she feel ashamed? She wouldn’t be the only clubwhore wandering the halls at this time of the morning.
Rubbing a hand over my face, I yawned and stared at the clock. Rex was a sicko. He liked to be up and about before eleven—didn’t matter if we’d been partying hard the night before or not. And because I was on the council, that meant I had to be up too.
In fact, I was so fucking used to his dipshit ways that my own circadian rhythms knew to be awake at this time—it was ten-forty.
Grunting as I rolled into a sitting position, I scrubbed a hand over my hair as I scanned my room. A lot of my brothers were pigs, but not me. Everything in here was spotless, except for the clothes I’d tossed on the floor last night and the wet condoms that hadn’t hit the bin.
If anything, that was what had me shuffling off the bed. I tied knots into them before shoving them in the trash, and yeah, I knew it was weird, but I grabbed the packet of disinfectant wet wipes I stored in my bedside table for just this occasion, and bent over to clean that mess up.
The rest of the house might gleam under a black light, but not this fucking room. I was too accustomed to keeping shit clean after a kill to let my DNA out on the loose.
Making a mental note to get Cammie to change my sheets later on, I headed for the bathroom. After I took a piss, I shaved, then dove into the shower. I hadn’t shaved in at least five days, and I didn’t even want to think about why shaving was suddenly imperative.
Ten minutes later, I was just in time to make it to Rex’s office. His was the biggest in the place, and it had a conference table in there. It was where we held council meetings. Church, on the other hand, went down in the bar.
Around a yawn, I headed for his desk where a large tray had been placed. There was coffee, Ibuprofen and aspirin, a few cinnamon buns, and some bottles of water.
Ignoring some of my brothers who were already at the table, I grabbed a coffee, some aspirin, and a bottle of water, but stared at the cinnamon buns with definite surprise. They not only looked freshly baked, but they smelled it too, and no one, as far as I knew, baked around here. Certainly none of the skinny bitches we fucked on the regular.
“I’m sweet enough,” I commented, eying the treat which, I had to admit, would have been appetizing if I hadn’t been shitfaced from the night before.
Rex grunted. “Far as I’m concerned, you could eat a thousand of them and not be sweet enough. Maybe that’s the key to getting you in a better mood. We need to force feed you baked goods.” He laughed. “Like in Seven?”
I grimaced at the memory of watching that movie back when we were twelve and had to sneak around to watch that shit. Even I wasn’t sick enough to force feed someone until their stomach exploded. Go me. “You’re all fucking heart,” I retorted, then eyed the door when I heard some squeaking sounds out in the hall. Knowing what they meant, I muttered, “Mav’s late.”
“Ain’t he fucking always,” Rex grumbled, casting a glance at the clock.
A few minutes later, the sound of swearing hit us loud and clear, followed by a few bangs as Mav used his crutches—crutches he only used as battering rams to get about inside the clubhouse—to push the door open before quickly wheeling inside the room.
He wore his usual scowl, a cut, and jeans. With his chest on show, I could see scars and tats. Because he could have worn a clown suit for all I gave a fuck, I never asked him why he always had his scars out on display, just wasn’t surprised at the sight of them anymore.
First time I’d seen them? My initial reaction had been shock—not at the sight of them, but that he’d survived in the first place.
Fucker always had been stubborn, and if there was a God, I’d thank him for that. Maverick was one of the best.
Even if, ever since he’d come home, he’d been ornery as fuck. And when I said ornery, I meant it. He’d make a bear who’d been disturbed mid-hibernation look fucking cheerful.
“When are you changing the fucking door?” Mav growled at Rex.
“Why do I need to change my door? Nothing wrong with it.” Rex folded his arms across his chest, standing there like Solomon, like he could wait forever for Maverick to change his ways without having to move an inch.
“Would make my life a lot easier if you made it a swing door.”
I snorted. “You’re in that chair by choice. The second you start pulling your weight with physical therapy is the second you’ll be back on your feet.”
Mav didn’t reply, just scowled at me, then wheeled over to the desk. He grabbed himself a cinnamon bun and took a bite that was close to defiant.
“I ain’t the one who’s gonna get fat sitting down all the time,” I told him cheerfully, enjoying his glower while everyone else was still settling into their positions.
Making Mav feel something was number one on everyone’s todo list. The poor bastard had PTSD from his time served overseas, and if we let him, he’d just curl up and die. That was why he was Treasurer. As soon as he’d woken up after his last surgery in Bethesda, Rex had dumped the role on him and told him to get better, because the club’s books were a mess after Boney had been looking after them—a lie because Boney was one shrewd motherfucker.
Four years later, he was still in the fucking chair, though the doctors said there was no physical reason for him to be handicapped, and even though Boney had ceded the role to help a brother out, he’d never asked about taking the position back either—even though being on the council earned him forty percent more of a cut in earnings. Everyone knew being Treasurer was the only reason Mav got up on a morning. That, and the shit he did for me too. We were both on a mission, didn’t matter that it wasn’t government sanctioned… Someone had to take out the trash.