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“Of course! Because helping people isn’t something you do.”
I laugh and shake my head at the narrative she’s created in her mind. “I’m not his family, Mom. And neither are you. That’s why they haven’t said anything to you and why they won’t say anything to me.”
I stare at her for a long moment. For a quick second, I feel a flash of guilt at the hurt look in her eyes, but I refuse to let it sway me.
“Glad to see you’re so worried about Frankie. He’s been good to you, Gia, always nice and complimentary.”
I shrug. “So what? He’s a creep, Mom. And he's not nice to me, he tolerates me. The only time he ever dished out a compliment was so he could sell me out to some stupid biker club.”
She spits out, “He did not. You’re lying again.”
I huff. “Okay, I’m lying. What do you care anyway? I’ll be gone soon enough, and you andFrankiecan have the place to yourselves.”
I’m sick of fighting with her, and I need to get the hell out of here.
I rush upstairs and get changed into my favorite pair of black jeans, a cropped white t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, and my black leather ankle booties with metal spikes on the heels.
I grab my purse and get ready to leave the room, but then I think of Mom’s mood and decide to pack an overnight bag. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’ll crash somewhere else—hell, anywhere else—tonight.
“Going out to partyagain?”
“Nope. I’m going to the library to do my college homework. Oh, wait,” I shoot her some major side-eye and sigh. “I’ll be back whenever.”
Until Frank shows up, she’s going to be a bitch to be around, and with everything else that’s going on in my life, I refuse to take on her worry over some shifty ass pastor.
I rush out the door and down the street, not quite sure where I’m going, only that I need to get away from my mom and from this block. This neighborhood.
I walk fast, tearing up two full blocks before I stop and look around.
“Nope.” This isn’t where I want to be, not tonight. I pull out my phone and send a text to the sexy wild-haired biker who said to call if I needed anything.
Right now, I could use a healthy dose of his soothing presence.
Seven minutes later, Preacher pulls up on his shiny bike with an extra helmet. “What’s wrong?”
His question nearly breaks me, but I let out a long breath and flash a flirty smile. “Nothing. Everything.”
He nods to the duffel bag. “Going somewhere?”
I jut my chin out in defiance, daring him to judge me. “Not my house, not tonight anyway.”
His thick lips pull into a straight line, and Preacher nods. “How about I buy you a drink?”
My shoulders sag in relief. “I might like that.”
He takes my things to store in the saddlebag and gives me the helmet. “Put it on.”
“Do I have to?”
“If you’re getting on this bike, you do.”
Shit. I roll my eyes and tug the helmet down over my hair, finishing with my hands on my hips. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” he deadpans. “Come on.”
He hops on first, and I jump on behind him, holding on to his tight, narrow midsection and simply enjoying the ocean breeze against my skin. I know Preacher will want to talk. He seems exactly like the kind of man who can pry all my secrets from me, whether I want him to or not.
He parks off to the side of a battered-looking roadhouse bar with an old hand-painted sign that proclaims the place is Joe’s Tavern.
