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When I walk into the clubhouse, I find Tempt sitting at the bar. She throws her head back with a burst of laughter. If I gave a shit about her, I might be jealous that she’s laughing with the prospect. But I’m not, and I just want her fucking out of here.
Making my way up to her, I wrap my hand around her bicep and roughly tug her off the bar.
“You got your shit?” I demand.
“Ow, that hurts,” she whimpers, trying to tug her arm from my grasp. My fingers tighten around her bicep, and I jerk her once more.
“You got your shit?” I demand.
“I do. It’s by the door, asshole,” she snaps.
Dragging her behind me, I walk over to the door, where I pick up her bag on my way out and throw her forward. She stumbles a few steps but catches herself before she falls flat on her ass.
She doesn’t lash out at me or call me an asshole again. She makes her way to me, placing her hand on the center of her chest.
“I know you’re not happy about this, but I won’t ruin your life with her. We can live separately. I know all about your woman. She can be your civilian wife. Our family doesn’t have to be part of the one you have with her.”
Fuck.
That is the last goddamn thing I want, but I don’t have a choice right now, and even after I find out who the father is, I still may not. Sometimes, we make the wrong goddamn choices in life and have to live with our consequences. This is just one of those times—at least right now.
PIPER
After sitting around for far longer than I should have and feeling sorry for myself, I get up, take a shower, and stare at my phone. I only have a few numbers programed in, but the ones I do are all wives. I wish I had someone who isn’t part of this world, living the good life, to speak to.
Then I think about Reese. Finding her name in my phone, I nervously touch my thumb to the send image before lifting it to my ear. It rings, then rings again, until finally, she picks up. Her voice is chipper, and she sounds happy.
“Piper, is everything good?” she asks, her tone switching from excited to concerned.
“I’m okay,” I lie. “I just…”
My words trail off because I’m not sure exactly what to say to her. She doesn’t rush me, though, but waits for me to say exactly what’s on my mind, as if she knows that this is really hard for me to blurt out.
“I need something to do, for me,” I announce. “I don’t have a high school diploma. I don’t have a license. I have nothing. But I can’t sit in this house all day every day—”
“And think about that man of yours and that possible baby. I get it,” she interrupts me, saying exactly what I was thinking. “I’m coming to pick you up. We’re going to have a girls’ meeting and brainstorm.”
“I don’t want to bother anyone,” I quickly blurt out.
She’s quiet for a moment, then clears her throat. “You don’t want the others to know?” Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper, then she lets out a sigh. She doesn’t sound annoyed, but she does sound concerned.
“I’ll come over. We’ll talk.”
The call ends, and I am left staring at the blank television on the wall again. I don’t know what she’s going to say or do, what she’s going to suggest, but she’s coming over, and I should be happy about that. I need some help, some kind of support. I feel anxious about this whole situation.
Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for her to drive to me. When the doorbell rings, I jump as it takes me out of my head. Almost as if I have no control over myself, I begin to walk toward the door, and because I know that this world is scary as hell, I check the peephole before I open the door.
It’s Reese standing on the front porch, wearing holey jeans and an oversized T-shirt tucked in at the front. Tugging the door open, I open my mouth to say hello, but I don’t get the chance. She slides right past me and toward the sofa, sinking down without a single word.
Closing the door, I flip the bolt locked and make my way toward her. Sinking down on the oversized chair next to the sofa, I look at her and give her a small smile. She doesn’t say anything immediately, her gaze moving around the room, then she kicks off her shoes and brings her legs up, crossing them on the couch before she speaks.
“You need something to do in order to have some kind of independence,” she announces.
“Something under the table,” I state.
She hums. “Something under the table, yeah.” I wait for her to tell me what it could be, but she is just staring at me, watching me, then she slaps her hands on the inside of her thighs. “Work at the shop with me, as my cleaner. That’s what Kiplyn used to do before she started her own massage thing. But beyond that, you could be my receptionist. I can’t pay more than minimum wage, but it will keep you out of the house Tuesday through Saturday.”
“I didn’t call you for that,” I say. “I didn’t mean—.”
