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Which is why I called Jenny… to vent.
“I don’t want to leave.” I heave a sigh. “I just miss him when he’s not here.”
“How are things when he is home?”
“Perfect. He treats me like a queen. But I can tell he’s always got a lot on his mind. And it’s shit he can’t tell me, which is frustrating.”
“Yeah, it’s the same with Little Man.” She pauses. “Although, he’s still a prospect so he doesn’t know everything. But it’s enough to weigh on him at times.”
“How are we supposed to handle that?”
“I don’t know. Have you talked to the other ol’ ladies about it?”
“Yeah. They tell me it’s something I’ll just have to get used to if I choose to have a life with Dip. They aren’t mean about it, but…”
“But?”
“They’ve been around this life longer than I have, so it’s easy for them. I’ve been around the opposite.”
“Yeah, but Laney’s the only one who grew up around bikers. The rest of them went through an adjustment period, I’m sure.”
“True.”
“Talk to Dip tonight, when he gets home. Tell him how you feel, that you’re lonely,” Jenny suggests. “He wants you to be honest with him, so be honest with him.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Trust me, Kennedy, you’ll feel better after you do.”
And it’s with that thought in my head that I go about the rest of the day. I spend hours on dinner, setting the table, making everything perfect. But when six o’clock rolls around, the time Dip said he’d be home by, I’m still alone.
The hours tick by, and the food gets cold. I don’t bother cleaning it up, choosing to let it sit out so he can see all the hard work I wasted. Maybe it’s petty, but I’m pissed. And hurt.
I stop counting the number of times I’ve looked at my phone to see if I missed a call or text. I haven’t.
At one in the morning, I go to bed. But sleep evades me as I toss and turn, the bed and my body feeling too empty.
Four o’clock in the morning rolls around, and still no Dip. Or calls or texts. At seven, I give up trying to sleep and get up.
I work myself into a tizzy, cleaning and doing laundry, but I still don’t touch the food on the table. Nope, he’s going to see that.
A little after two in the afternoon, the door to his cabin opens, and Dip strolls in. For a moment, I take in the lines of exhaustion on his face, the hard set of his jaw, and want to comfort him. But then I look at the perfectly set table, and my anger ratchets up several notches.
“Where the hell have you been?” I demand, stomping toward him.
Dip’s eye twitches, and he glares at me. Silently, he takes off his cut and drapes it over the back of the couch. Next, he peels off his shirt, which is covered in blood, and tosses it on the floor.
“Are you seriously going to ignore me?”
Dip removes his gun from the waistband of his jeans and sets it on the coffee table before kicking off his boots.
“Dip!”
“I’ve had a long fucking night, Kennedy,” he snaps. “I don’t need a guilt trip from you.”
“Guilt trip?!” I shout. “Guilt trip?! I’ll give you a guilt trip, mister.” I stab a finger at his now bare chest. “I spent hours preparing dinner yesterday, worked up the courage to have a very difficult conversation with you, and don’t even have the decency to call and tell me you won’t be home.” I take a deep breath before continuing. “You said you’d be home at six, Dip. Six! News flash… you weren’t. So I was left here, alone, again, to worry. And I did worry. But I also worked up a pretty good snit, so fuck you for that!”
Dip arches a brow. “Are you fucking done?”
