I drop back onto my stool. Better than fine, he looks happy.
It’s not as if I expected him to be destroyed after I left. After all, he demanded I get out of his life. But seeing him so strong, as if our time together meant nothing, sends agony slicing through my chest.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes. How can he be so unaffected? I drop my head into my hands and rub my temples. I can’t do this. I need to get out of here.
I fish a few dollars from my bag and drop them on the bar. A hand clamps down on my shoulder.
“Snow White.”
My back goes stiff, but at the same time warmth blooms in my chest at the familiar voice.
“What the fuck’re you doing here?”
I turn into the enormous frame, all wide shoulders and crossed arms, of Hatch standing just over my shoulder. “I was just leaving.”
He studies me, eyes tight while he rakes his teeth across the flavor saver below his bottom lip. “What happened to you?”
“Nothin’.” My head feels like it weighs a ton, and I fight the urge to rest it against the bar.
“Don’t look like nothin’.” He rounds my back and pulls the stool next to me up close so that he’s practically straddling mine. Pushing my hair over my shoulder, he studies me. “You runnin’ again?”
How did he know? I roll my eyes. “Hatch—”
“No, you show up here all the way from Vegas, you tell me what the fuck.”
I groan and give into the weight of my head, resting it on my forearm against the bar. My eyes close as fatigue and booze kick in tandem. “Had to leave. Didn’t know where to go.”
His hot breath is at my ear and the overpowering smell of liquor and smoke. “Can’t get this drunk in a place like this, Snow.”
I huff out a breath. If I could just sleep for a few minutes. “Been riding for ten hours.” I yawn so hard it makes my eyes water. “My ass is numb. Need sleep.”
“I get that, but you can’t do that shit in a place like this.”
Whatever. I mean what’s the worst that can happen? I get killed and left on the side of the road? At least then I can end the suffering and finally get some rest. Ahh, rest. I take a deep breath, gently pulled into sleep—
“That’s it.” Firm hands grip my shoulders. “You’re coming with me.”
I shove him off, trying to focus on him with one open eye. “Five minutes, Hatch.” It closes and I go back to resting my head.
“Ha, take a look around. Check out the way you’re being sized up. You’ll be begging me to get you out of here.”
“Hatch, man, you cool?” The bartender’s voice is laced with concern.
I tilt my head back to see him scowling at Hatch.
“Yeah, Zip. Mac here’s roommates with my chick in Vegas. I’m taking her to the compound before these idiots catch the scent of her pass out.”
Zip’s eyes move across the room. I follow the path of his glare. A few bikers off to the side of the bar are watching me, whispering. My skin crawls and my hand darts out to Hatch’s cut.
“Now she gets it.” Hatch chuckles. He holds out his hand. “Bike keys.”
I fish them from my pocket. Hatch snags them and tosses them to Zip. “Honda out front. Mind pulling it into the back for the night?”
Zip nods. “Sure thing. Get Annie the fuck out of here.”
A burst of energy sends me to my feet. A wave of liquor-haze makes me dizzy and I stumble.
Hatch holds me upright. “Easy there. Let’s get you on the back of my bike.”
I flash Zip a small smile, and he pops up his chin in acknowledgment. Hatch moves me through the crowded bar. The room tilts and he holds me closer, keeping me steady. We emerge from the bar and into the cold mountain air. I breathe in a deep, sobering breath.
He lets me go and moves to his Harley. “Hop on.”
“Why are you doing this?” I sway on my feet. “You don’t even like me and I’m pretty sure I hate you.” Although at this point I’m in no position to rule out anyone as a friend.
“You took a punch. Didn’t even cry.” He looks around; then his eyes are back on mine. “I don’t like you, but I respect you.” There’s a flash of something behind his eyes, but it’s gone to quickly for my drunken thoughts to process. “Now get your tiny ass on the bike before I send you home with a dude who doesn’t.”
Better to be cared for by someone I can’t stand than to be rejected and tossed aside by the love of my life.
I take a few dragging steps toward him, throw on my backpack, and saddle up behind him. “Should I grab my helmet?”
He fires up the bike; the ominous growl of the engine vibrates around me. “No helmet law in Colorado.”
Sadness slumps my shoulders. I wrap my arms around Hatch’s middle and lean my cheek against his cold leather-coated back. “Perfect. Take us home.”
Twenty-one
Georgia McIntyre.
Gia McIntyre.
Mac In Tire.
Mac Entire.
Mac Ellenshire.
RIP Georgia McIntyre
--Mac Ellenshire, Age 17
Rex
The sound of my phone blowing up on my bedside table pulls me from a dreamless sleep. The double dose of Trazedone I took last night knocked me out cold. After celebrating Blake’s win and mine for all of ten minutes, my body gave in to fatigue.
I blink open heavy lids. My phone stops vibrating, and I let them fall closed. Muscles like concrete and blood like molasses, I sink back to sleep. Jackhammering sounds against my bedside table, and I force my eyes open.
Who the hell is trying to get a hold of me so bad?
A voice in the back of my head whispers that it could be Mac. Gia. The thought pushes my hand from beneath the warm covers. My sore muscles protest the movement. I face the lit up screen toward me.
Not her.
Fuck, it’s almost noon.
I slide my finger across the screen and press it to my ear. “What.”
“Dude, where the hell were you last night?” Talon sounds as if he woke up a few minutes before I did, but had a much rougher night. “Mario threw a huge deal for you at The Blackout.”
I had a feeling he might, but there was no way I could show my face there after what happened with Mac. When I told her I never wanted to see her again, I wasn’t kidding.
Rolling to my back, I rub my eyes. “Yeah, dropping weight did a number on me.” Lie. “I was exhausted.”
“Ha! Too tired to celebrate your win?” He chuckles. “Pussy.”
His lighthearted insult does nothing to my anesthetized state. “I’ve been thinkin’. We’ve been playing The Blackout for years. Might be time we find a new regular gig.”
“What? You’re kidding, right? That place has supported our band since we were wearing eyeliner and painting our nails black.”
He’s right. There’s no logical reason to stop playing at the venue that has always been our biggest supporter. But I can never go there again. “Just an idea I was kickin’ around.”
“Yeah? Well kick it right the fuck out of your numb-nut skull. I agree we need something new, but that’s why I’m callin’.”
New. New is good. I’ll have to figure out how to avoid The Blackout later. Maybe fake a stomach bug? Flu?
“Last night I met Carl Simpson. Carl fucking Simpson, man!”
A tiny rush of adrenaline fights its way to my brain. We’ve been trying to make contact with the booking agent for The House of Blues for over a year.
“And?”
“He said he’s been hearing about the band. Good things. He wants to see if we’d be willing to open for Smythe at the end of the year.”
Excitement pushes through my drug-sludged blood. I sit up. “You fuckin’ serious? Smythe?” They’re on fire right now. “Aren’t they finishing up a tour with Five Finger Death Punch?”
“Yeah. They finish in November and agreed to play a few smaller shows to round out the year. Fucking kick-ass, right?” His enthusiasm is catching.
&nb
sp; “I can’t believe it.” A spasm ticks my lips. A smile? Never thought I’d do that again. “You hooked it up. Ataxia opening for Smythe.” I shake my head. “Never thought I’d say that.”
“So no pussin’ out on any gigs. We need to do whatever we can to up our fan base.”
I hear what he’s saying. We can’t ditch The Blackout. Fuck. My fifteen-second high plummets.
How the hell am I going to face her?
“We still rehearsing tonight?” Maybe when I’m there I can talk to the guys about taking a few weeks off to work on new music. It’s my only hope of gaining some distance.
“Yup.”
“Cool. Later.”
“Late.”
I drop back to the bed and scrub my face. Darren told me things would be overwhelming for a while and that I need to stay in the moment. Focus on this day, hour, minute, whatever it takes to keep from flippin’ out.
With a few deep breaths, I listen to the cues my body gives me. The pinch in my shoulder is screaming for ice. Even though I won the fight, Reece got in a few good hits. The angry jagged scab on my cheek is proof of that.
My stomach growls. No more need to diet and after last night’s fight on an almost empty stomach I’m ready to make good on my burrito promises.
With a plan for the next couple hours, I push out of bed and drag myself to the shower. I try to avoid thinking about the last forty-eight hours. I avoid all thoughts of what it felt like to be comforted by her again: her arms wrapped around me, replacing the memories of the hands that took and took until they got their fill.
I crank the shower to high and step under the spray, not at all missing the only person who I’ve ever let in.
The only woman who’s accepted me for me.
No regrets.
Not one.
It’s time to move on.
But how?
~*~
Mac
I’m lying in the dark in Hatch’s bed. The smell of stale booze and dirty ashtrays fills my nose. The low grumble of his snore pounds in my head, intensifying my hangover. As far as I can remember, I only had the beers at the bar. Once we got here to the motorcycle clubhouse, I flopped on Hatch’s bed and everything went black.
The second I woke up I checked to make sure I was still clothed. Thankfully my bra, jeans, and tee were still in place. I dig my fists into my eyes. Dirt from riding on the bike mixes with day old mascara. My brain feels like it’s going to explode and my stomach twists.
Why did I drink so much? The memory of Rex’s face haunts me: crystal blue eyes and black hair, a million different kinds of beautiful, him pulling that lip ring between his teeth to keep from smiling. Rex smiling. To think of all I’ve stolen from him: his happiness, a future. My eyes flood with tears, and I push back the weakness to avoid the full meltdown that threatens.
Crap. I can’t do this. Not here. I shrug off my self-pity and try to focus through my post-drunken blur.
I’m an idiot.
My original plan to ride through the country, stopping at random places and drinking myself into oblivion was not well thought out. Where would I be if Hatch hadn’t found me?
I lick my lips. So thirsty. My gut rumbles and spins. I need to eat, get my bike, and find a decent motel to recover in. Then I’ll come up with a better plan.
“Hatch.” I smack his shoulder with the back of my hand. “Wake up.”
He groans and rolls away, giving me his bare, tattooed back.
“Seriously.” I shake him. “I need you to take me to my bike.”
His answering snore tells me he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
“Shit.” Maybe there’s someone else who’s headed out who can take me. I push up from the bed and pain stabs through my temples. My hands grip at my head. “Ouch.”
I stumble across the room, tripping over biker boots and who knows what else. It’s too dark. I pull back the thick curtains and the bright sun makes me think it’s later than I thought.
Where did I put my backpack?
My eyes scan the area. It’s not here. I move across the room, flipping up dirty clothes and tossing food wrappers.
“Hatch! Where’s my backpack?” I have no memory of bringing it in here, but then again most of my memories from last night are fuzzy. “Shit, shit, shit!”
I race out of the room and down the hallway to the main living space. There’s a naked couple asleep on the couch, and one woman passed out on a recliner.
But no backpack.
Everything I own is in there: cash, cards to my bank account, clothes. If it’s gone . . . My heart pounds and I break out in a sweat. Bile rushes to my throat. I race to the kitchen, double over the sink just in time to cough up the sour taste.
I have nothing, no one I can call. The only person who would consider helping me would be Trix, but how do I explain being in Colorado with her semi-boyfriend. I’m screwed. Totally fucked.
“Yo, Snow.” Hatch’s voice calls from behind me. “You okay?”
I spit bile and shake my head.
He laughs. Asshole.
“Where’s my backpack?” I just want to get the hell out of here. Physically, emotionally, these last two days have brought me to the threshold of my tolerance. I can’t handle anything more.
“No clue. Did you leave it at the bar?” He hands me a paper napkin.
I take it, straighten from the sink, and wipe my mouth. “Of course I didn’t.”
“You look like shit.”
“You’re an asshole.”
A slow smile spreads across his goatee’d face. “Come on. I got something that’ll perk you up so we can find your backpack.”
“Perk me up?” I look around the dirty kitchen, open bottles of liquor, half-eaten food. “I don’t think I want whatever biker hangover cure you’ve got in mind.”
I just want my shit so I can leave.
“Hey, you want to find your shit and get on the road?”
God, yes. So badly. I nod.
He motions for me to follow him. “Then come on.”
My stomach still in knots, I follow him back to his room, scanning the entire way looking for my backpack. There are a lot of closed doors in this place. Maybe one of the guys pulled it into his room?
Even back inside Hatch’s room, I pull open the drapes and click on the bathroom light, searching. It’s nowhere. Dammit!
“Here.” He holds a small square mirror up to my face.
“What is that?” I’m pretty sure I know, but he can’t possibly think offering me drugs is going to help my situation.
“Coke. It’ll kick that hangover. Help you think straight.” He pushes it closer.
“No thanks.” I scoot around him and continue my search.
“You’ve got a better option?” The sound of him sucking the powder into his nose fills the room.
Do I? The only way I’d ever touch that shit would be to put myself out of my misery, which I may need to do if I can’t find my backpack.
Terror pricks along my nerves. If it’s gone, stolen, I’m at the mercy of Hatch until . . . until when?
I watch him pour out another line and suck it back, the biker dick who hates Rex and hit me.
But saved me last night.
And he’s my only hope.
Twenty-two
Institutionalized for most of my life.
Not anymore.
They’re letting me out.
And after I make the person who threw me in here pay,
I’m going to find my brother.
--Mac, Age 20
Six months later . . .
Rex
“Are you sure you’re cool with this?” I look over to find Emma squirming in the passenger seat, her hands knotted together.
Her bright eyes fix on me. “Yes. It’s fine. I’m just nervous. It’s a lot of pressure to meet all your fighting friends on our first date, ya know?”
Date. Right.
The last date I went on was with Gia back before my entire world wa
s destroyed with the discovery of a damn stuffed animal. Coming back from that has been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It’s taken months of intensive therapy three times a week to get to this point, and I still have so far to go. Fuck, it’s only been in the last few weeks that I’ve been able to stop referring to Gia as Mac.
I’m grateful for Emma. She’s been a good friend. I’ve had her inside my condo, even curled up with her on the couch to watch movies. She’s mellow, never demands more than I can give. I figured it was time I took her out on a real date. Thought it might help me move on. Forward.
So here I am. But I can’t help but feel blah.
I like Emma. She’s beautiful, sweet, and funny in her own way. I’m sure if I give it time I’ll grow to have the intense feelings I felt with Gia, before I found out she was Gia.
I blow out a long breath and try to relax.
“Are you sure you’re cool with this?” Emma lifts one eyebrow.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “Jonah’s been staying home a lot, and I haven’t seen Raven and the baby since I visited them in the hospital.” After everything they went through when the baby was born, Jonah didn’t let anyone come near Raven or the baby for a long time. He was so close to losing them both; he’s added a new level of overprotection to his already nuclear-level possessiveness. “We don’t have to stay long. We’ll drop in, say hi, and then grab dinner.”
She nods and stares out the window, and I can’t help but think of Gia. Darren says I need to stop comparing the two girls and just appreciate Emma for the girl she is rather than who I wish she was.
I’m trying. But the truth is I miss Mac.
It didn’t happen overnight, but I realize now that her heart was in the right place. God, the things I accused her of: lying, stalking, and manipulating me to feel something for her so that she could destroy me.
Every night when I lie in bed, waiting for sleep to take me, I remember the feel of her soft body, the tropical smell of her skin that drove me fucking insane with lust, her hands tearing into my hair when we kissed, pulling against my lip ring with so much passion she could hardly control it. But she did. Her white-knuckled grip held her back to keep from touching me, biting down on those full lips to keep from talking—all because I asked her to—ignoring her own desires to accommodate mine.
Fighting to Forget Page 22
