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“Nyx…” Slash said, and there was something soft, something longing in his voice that had my heart constricting in my chest as I tried to get into my other shoe without putting my foot on the filthy ground. “Nyx,” he tried again as I shimmied my skirt and top back into place. “Damnit, look at me,” he hissed, reaching for my face, forcing it up to his. Then I watched as he saw something on my face that had him exhaling hard, his shoulders slumping a bit afterward. “There they are again,” he murmured, seemingly to himself.
“There what is?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, moving a step back, then another, almost like he wanted to get away from me. “You know what,” he said, still retreating, but facing me. “When you figure out that you can fucking trust me with whatever the fuck is going on with you, you know where to find me. Until then, don’t fucking text me. I’m done being the guy you fuck so you don’t have to feel anything.”
With that, he turned and walked out of the alley.
Every part of me wanted to call out to him, wanted to run up to him.
But before I could convince myself to do it, he was gone, and it felt like a door had slammed between us.
“Oh, what the fuck?” I hissed at myself as I felt tears flood my eyes, then start to slide down my cheeks. “What the fuck?” I repeated, rubbing under my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Okay. Alright. Get it together,” I pep-talked myself, trying to brush it away, all the while knowing that no matter how much I tamped it down, it was going to tunnel back to the surface eventually.
But that was a problem for another day.
I had enough of them to deal with.
I was pretty sure it would have all come rushing back after my shift when I was tired and vulnerable.
But, see, when I got home, my door was open.
And as I moved inside, I realized that the intruder hadn’t exactly left yet…
CHAPTER SEVEN
Slash
“You wanna talk about it?” Detroit asked the following morning when I’d caught him at the ass crack of dawn, asking to tag along to the gym with him, then proceeded to push myself so hard I was close to puking.
I’d been pounding into a punching bag for so long that my body was slick with sweat and my arms had no strength left in them, falling numbly to my sides, completely useless once he’d interrupted me.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insisted, actually struggling to get my weak-ass hands to open my bottle of water to take a greedy sip. “I’m working out.”
“Yeah, but there’s working out and then there’sworking shit out,” Detroit said, brows lifting as he watched me drop down onto a weight bench, fucking exhausted.
Exhausted was good.
Exhausted was what I’d been searching for all night, but had failed, leaving me awake and pacing and overthinking shit for hours and hours and fucking hours.
I just wanted to fucking sleep. To slip into some oblivion where my goddamn head wasn’t constantly racing with thoughts I didn’t want to be thinking.
“I run an outlaw biker club, man. There’s always something to work out,” I said, shrugging it off.
“Except shit has been good with the club,” Detroit pressed. “Easier than usual. Smooth enough that Riff and Raff have been here for a while and we aren’t hurting for money. So what lie do you want to come up with next?” he asked.
See, now, this was both the major asset and huge flaw of having guys work for you who have known you for a long fucking time. They couldn’t be fooled. They knew when shit was off.
And while Sway and Crow were more the types to let shit slide, Detroit was someone who was always going to make it clear that he was there if you needed him.
But he usually stopped just short of pressing.
I was feeling pretty fucking pressed right then.
Though, yeah, maybe that was just because I was in a shit mood.
I was about to open my mouth and insist nothing was wrong when Coach came walking out of the locker room with an arm full of clothes.
“Do I want to know?” I asked as he took the clothes and dumped them in one of the garbage bins that were kept around to toss the sanitizing wipes in.
