Page 17 of Riding Bare

I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that, but I don’t like it. Standing, I walk out of the room. It’s selfish, I know. I should have stayed and supported Chassis, or whatever the fuck I’m supposed to do, but hearing that makes me fucking sick.

Moving out of the office, I head straight outside and stand on the sidewalk. I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath, holding it for a moment before I let it out slowly. What the actual fuck am I supposed to do?

Taking my phone out of my pocket, I find a name and touch the icon there. I haven’t talked to him since he unloaded his pregnant daughter on me, but I think it’s time we have a little conversation.

“Chass good?” he barks as his greeting.

I almost laugh, because she’s probably fine, but me? I’m decidedly not fucking good. Not in the goddamn slightest.

“We’re at the doctor’s. She’s fine and so is the baby,” I murmur, but I don’t give him the opportunity to continue before I start talking again. “It’s a boy.”

“Goddammit,” Cake hisses. “You’re shitting me?”

“I’m not.”

There is a long moment of silence. I can hear him breathing heavily in my ear, no doubt his stomach having had the exact same reaction as mine hearing the words. I don’t know why I didn’t think about this yesterday or even a month ago, but the moment the word boy came out of the nurse’s mouth, I fucking felt like I’d been hit by a goddamn truck.

No way in fuck is that Russian going to stay away knowing he’s got a son in the world.

“It’s going to be war,” I state.

Cake grunts. “We need a meeting.”

“Bring your sons and your top officers. Church at the clubhouse. Tomorrow at two.”

“We’ll be there.”

Ending the call, I shove the phone in my pocket and turn around to go back to get Chassis when I come face to face with her.

She.

Is.

Pissed.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

CHASSIS

I’m not even sure how to describe how I feel… angry, pissed, hurt, and dejected are just a few of the emotions swirling around inside me at the moment. I don’t voice any of my feelings. It would be fruitless, especially voicing them to him.

I stand on the sidewalk, the hot Nevada sun pounding against my exposed skin, and wait for him to speak. Because I’ll be damned if I say a single word first. This was supposed to be a happy moment. I wanted him here because… I don’t even know why I wanted him here.

“We need to have a talk,” he announces.

We sure as shit do, but I don’t say that. I don’t say a single word. I know that getting into an argument in public or at the clubhouse is a seriously big no-no. And it would do no good at all. Instead, I take one step toward him, then another, closing the short distance between us.

I place my palm against his chest. I’m holding on to the ultrasound picture where it shows the sex of the baby. A small, typed, three-letter word: boy. There is no denying that it’s a boy, and for whatever fucked-up reason, this pissed off my husband.

Husband.

I want to snort, and it takes everything inside me to keep from being snide. Whatever his problem is, it’s on him, not me, and I am going to do the best I can to ignore everything about this moment and wipe it from my memories… tomorrow maybe.

But today, I’m going to find out exactly what the hell his problem is, and then I’m going to pack my things and go home to my father. Because this is obviously not going to work out between us, no matter how my body craves him.

But even that causes me to second-guess myself. I can’t help but wonder if I can even trust my own judgment. I got it very wrong with Samuil, and it seems I’ve done it again with Amos. Maybe I’m the problem after all, or at least the men I’m attracted to.