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“All right.” Curly lifted his hand. At least someone had gotten control of themselves. “Settle down. Look, Spec, we’re giving you shit, but we know the problem with Liv’s ex is serious as fucking dick warts. Okay?”
Scott nodded while Tracker shuddered.
“Here’s the thing. We all love Liv, and Brooke will skin my hide if we don’t help her in every way we can. But to make this club business, we gotta be formal about it and get a unanimous vote. Unless she’s your ol’ lady. Then she’s official family, and we’ve got her back no matter what. So, Spec, what’s it gonna be? You making her your ol’ lady, or are we voting on helping?”
His ol’ lady. Like Brooke was Curly’s or his sister was Rocket’s. Damn, he’d never even considered having an ol’ lady—a woman who belonged to him and vice versa. It was a declaration of long-term commitment, not recognized by the government or God or whatever, but in the MC world. It was as good as a marriage. A patch didn’t make his fuck buddy an ol’ lady. Hell, he didn’t make a girlfriend an ol’ lady. That honor was reserved for a partner.
Someone to stand by his side and ride at his back—always.
They hadn’t discussed it, but Liv said she loved him. And he was through pretending he didn’t feel the same. “Yeah. I’m making her my ol’ lady. Any objections?”
“Gentlemen?” Curly asked.
Scott glanced around the table at his brothers, who all wore grins and shook their heads.
“All right, then. Spec has an ol’ lady, poor woman.”
He flipped his prez off.
Curly snickered, then held his hand out. “In all seriousness, congrats, man. She’s a damn good woman, and I know I’m not the only one who thinks that.”
Warmth spread through his chest as his brothers nodded their agreement. “Thanks,” he said as he shook his president’s hand. Thankfully, no one called him out on how he had to clear his throat before speaking and still sounded choked up.
“I want a few of you on a plane to Chicago to deal with her piece-of-shit ex,” Curly said. “I can’t send everyone because I’m not convinced Lobo has gone dark, but half of you can go. Now, let’s hash this shit out.”
An hour and a half later, they had the details hammered out. He, Tracker, and Lock would head out the following morning. He preferred to ride over flying, but that would take days he wasn’t willing to waste. By the time they finished planning, Scott’s head throbbed, and his nerves were strung tight. These symptoms of giving Lance hours of focus could only be alleviated by one thing.
Olivia.
After a promise to check in with Curly later that evening, he practically sprinted to the barn and up the stairs. “Liv?” he called as he flung his door open. “Sure hope you’re naked cuz my dick is hard as hell.” Seriously, he hadn’t come so much in such a short period since he’d been a horny teenager. Something about that pussy of hers de-aged his cock by two decades at least.
Eerie silence met his announcement. “Liv?”
More silence. Unease slithered through his gut. Decades of relying on it to keep himself and his team alive had taught him to trust his gut every time. And something was off. The place was never this quiet when Liv was over. She was either humming, playing music, or mucking around with something.
Maybe she went across the hall to her apartment?
Even as he posed the possibility to himself, he knew it wasn’t correct.
A handwritten note lying on his tiny kitchen table verified it.
I can’t live with myself if I take the coward’s way out. This is something I HAVE to do.
I’m sorry.
I trust you.
I love you.
Livy
“God fucking dammit!” he screamed as he crushed the paper in his fist.
She’d left.
She was gone.
The table became his next victim. A half-full coffee mug and the turquoise vase his sister bought went sailing to the floor as he flipped the table across the room. Both shattered, but he didn’t so much as flinch.
Liv left. She put herself in danger. He and his brother would’ve taken care of it.
Why the hell did she leave?
Did she not fucking trust him?
Bracing his hands on the wall, he hung his head. Betrayal flowed through him, twisting his insides until he could barely breathe.
He’d made her his ol’ lady. And she walked out, back to her ex.
Curly’s voice sounded in his head. “She’s a damn good woman.”
He stared down at the crumpled note lying on the floor between his feet.
This is something I HAVE to do.
I’m sorry.
I trust you.
I love you.
His breath stuck in his lungs.
Jesus Christ, he was such a stupid shit. There he was throwing an epic pity party while his woman was out fighting the battle without backup.
He straightened, pushing away from the wall as he made for the door. Her leaving had nothing to do with a lack of trust and everything to do with the fact she was a damn good woman. A woman who couldn’t live with herself if she condemned someone else to a traumatic fate if there was a chance in hell she could prevent it.
