Page 192 of Romeo

Apparently, she was going to have to wait a little longer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Romeo

The room emptied slowly after church. Brothers filtered out in groups, some heading for the parking lot while others drifted toward the bar. Morgan left with her mother’s arm around her shoulders, Grace beside them as they talked quietly about getting her packed. The noise followed everyone through the door until eventually the room settled into silence.

I stayed near the wall with my arms crossed.

My president hadn’t moved.

He stood beside the table with his hands on his hips until the last person disappeared. Then he turned toward me. “Close the door.”

There was no mistaking what this conversation was about.

I pushed away from the wall and closed the heavy door behind the last brother. When I turned back, King was watching me with the same expression he’d worn outside after seeing Fiona in my arms.

“You want to tell me what the fuck that was outside?”

I didn’t bother pretending I misunderstood.

“That was me keeping a promise.”

“A promise.” His jaw tightened. “To an eighteen-year-old girl.”

“Yes.”

“Jesus Christ, Romeo.” King dragged a hand through his hair and paced a few steps away before turning back. “Do you have any idea how fucked up this is?”

“I know how it looks.”

“How it looks?” His voice rose. “It looks like one of my men is sniffing around a goddamn teenager. It looks like you’ve been keeping shit from me for months. It looks like you’re about to bring a world of shit down on this club because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.”

My hands curled at my sides.

King had every right to question me. He was my president, and Fiona’s age made his concern legitimate.

The rest pissed me off.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what the fuck is it like?” He crossed some of the distance between us. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been grooming a kid who works for your cousin. A kid who’s barely legal and doesn’t need some biker twice her age making her life harder.”

“I’m not twice her age.”

“You’re thirty-one, Romeo. She’s eighteen. That’s thirteen years. That’s a fucking lifetime at her age.”

“I know exactly how old she is.”

“Do you?” His voice dropped again. “Do you know what this looks like to the club? To the fucking cops if someone decides to make noise about it?”

“I know what it looks like.”

“Then why the fuck are you doing it?”

Because she was Fiona.

Because for nine months, every road had somehow led back to her. Because a woman fifteen hundred miles away had become the person I wanted to talk to when something was funny, when I was pissed off, when the clubhouse got too loud, or when I simply wanted to hear a voice that made the day feel better.