* * *
“Tracker, long time no see,” a familiar voice purrs.
Wincing, I turn to the woman, schooling my expression to passivity. “Leanne, what are you doing here?” I ask Jess’s younger sister.
“Came to visit Jess,” she says, smiling seductively. “Plus I missed you.”
This time I don’t bother to hide my grimace. “Sorry, sweetheart, I’m a taken man now.”
She giggles, a noise that grates on my nerves. “Yeah, like you were with Allie?”
“Don’t have to explain myself to you,” I snap, then get my temper under control. “Fucked you a few times; won’t be happening again. I’m sure Rake will be interested. Or one of the other men.”
She places her hand on my chest, and I stare down at it in disgust. Why can’t some women take no for an answer? They could be beautiful with a smoking body, like Leanne is, but that doesn’t mean that I want them no matter what. I’m not about to lose Lana over a bit of easy pussy. Worst part is, Leanne is actually friends with Allie and still fucked me behind her friend’s back. Women like this make me want to kiss Lana’s feet, grateful that I found a woman who can be trusted. A loyal, honest-to-God good woman. More than I deserve, but no less than I’d settle for. Anna walks into the kitchen, taking in the scene before her.
“Get your hand off Tracker if you want to keep it attached to your skinny-ass body,” Anna snaps, forever looking out for her best friend.
Leanne backs away. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
“Actually,” Anna says. “I can. And I will.”
“I’m gonna go find Jess,” she mumbles, leaving the room.
“Anna Bell,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re becoming even scarier than Faye nowadays.”
Her eyes stay narrowed. “Why was she touching you?”
“You kidding me right now? I told her I didn’t want anything to do with her,” I say, angry she jumped to that conclusion so quickly.
Her shoulders drop. “Okay.”
“Christ, when did the women start running shit around here?” I ask, feeling like punching something.
“My thoughts exactly,” Rake says, running a hand through his messy blond hair. “Soon they’re gonna fuckin’ take over.”
Anna quickly leaves the room.
Smart woman.
“You wanna get in the ring with me?” I ask Rake. I really do want to hit something. Or someone.
“Yeah, give me an hour and I’ll meet you in there,” Rake replies. “Gonna fuck Leanne first just so she’ll shut up.”
I laugh at that. “Better you than me, brother.”
Rake shrugs. “Any pussy is good pussy.”
I grin. Rake has been going through even more women than usual, and I have to wonder what’s up with him. I have a feeling it’s something to do with his ex, Bailey.
Keeping my thoughts to myself, I slap his shoulder. “See you in an hour.”
He better be ready, because I am in a bit of a mood.
* * *
Later that night, I return home from Rift, feeling tired and just wanting a good night’s sleep with Lana in my arms. There was some drama at the bar, a few guys dealing meth who needed to be dealt with. We don’t want drugs run out of our businesses, especially if it’s not beneficial to us. We also don’t want those drugged-up fuckheads frequenting the place. Our women go to Rift more often than not, and we want the place safe for them. Well, besides from us anyway. It’s a biker bar, our biker bar, and one of the benefits is that we’re in control of who enters the place.
I find Lana already passed out on the bed, her laptop resting on her stomach. Her glasses are still on her face, lopsided, and she’s snoring lightly. A cute sound, unlike Anna’s. I remove her glasses and set them on the side table. Kissing her relaxed mouth, I lift her laptop off the bed and the screen goes from black to a white document page, showing something Lana was working on. When the word fuck catches my eye, I grin and place the laptop on top of my drawers. What is she writing? I know she writes a lot—she’s even mentioned that she wants to go to Ireland for inspiration. And she’s casually stated in the past that she publishes some of her work, makes money from it, and once even made a joke about writing porn. When I see another word, orgasm, I begin to wonder if she was telling the truth.
My smile widens.
Curious, I read the first paragraph . . . then the second, and the third.
Sexy biker Rogue was having a birthday, but it wasn’t like any other party I’d been to. With wide eyes I watched as people in the room openly touched each other, the clubhouse turning into a sex club for the night.
Sexy biker? Is she referring to Rake?
I see red.
I read all of it, from start to finish
Then, pissed off, I delete the whole thing.
She’s writing about bikers? About shit she saw in the clubhouse? The club dynamics? Did she think that was okay?
How could she?
The club trusted her; I trusted her.
She’s let all of us down.
* * *
When Lana wakes up the morning, I’m sitting on my chair in the corner of the room, watching her.
“’Morning,” she says in her sleepy voice, a smile appearing on her lush mouth. “You’re awake early.”
I hadn’t slept.
“I read what you wrote,” I tell her, getting straight to the point. “I knew you wrote, but I didn’t know that you wrote books. MC books. Is that why you’re here? Research for your stupid fucking books?”
She sits up, frowning. “You can’t seriously think that. It’s just a little fiction, Tracker.”
“Fiction based on the facts of our lives,” I snap, anger clouding my judgment.
Pain spreads through my chest at the thought of Lana not being who I thought she was. Everything I’ve praised her for, loved her for, her loyalty, was bullshit.
“It isn’t like that at all, Tracker. I’d never betray your trust like that. I told you, remember. I told you that I—”
“You said you wrote, yes, but you didn’t tell me all the details, clearly,” I snap. “You never mentioned it had anything to do with bikers. This is my fucking life, Lana! My club! If people find out who you are, what do you think they’re going to think? They’re going to know most of the shit you wrote is fact.”
“The only thing that’s fact is some of the sex scenes!” she yells back. “I never once wrote anything to do with the ins and outs of the club or anything that could be considered a betrayal. You’re overreacting right now, Tracker.”
But every scene I’d read had really happened. Rake’s birthday, the way we fucked that night, to when we made love, every fuckin’ detail of what we explored and shared together. She was documenting it.
Documenting our love life.
Christ.
I was living it, but she was remembering it so she could share it.
When we were fucking, was she making mental notes?
Christ, while I am so into her, in so deep I can barely remember my own name when I’m with her, her mind is racing. It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?
I feel betrayed.
And even worse, I feel like I don’t know her. Have I put the club at risk? Has she written anything personal about us? Does she have information saved? Has she already published something?
Isn’t this something you’d talk to your partner about in detail?
The whole thing is a clusterfuck.
And it’s probably karma.
All the women I’ve hurt in the past, all the things I’ve done, have led to this moment.
The moment where a woman, a little slip of a thing, breaks my fucking heart with her lies and omissions. I finally fell in love with a woman, and now I feel exposed. Unsure. And fucking hurt.
I don’t like it.
When did I give her the power to control my emotions? I don’t think even I realized just how deep I was in, until now.
“Tracker, I would never
write anything about—”
“Your time for explaining has long passed, Lana,” I say in an ice-cold tone. “Get your shit and get out of here. I’m done.”
I trusted her with everything. I gave her everything I had. I gave her my family, my protection, my love. I gave her myself. I changed for her.
And the whole time she was what, writing a book on my lifestyle?
This isn’t a fuckin’ story. This is my life.
I get up and leave, ignoring the sounds of her crying.
Leaving what’s left of my mangled heart with her.
TWENTY-FOUR
LANA
IT’S been a week. He won’t talk to me, let me explain. And he deleted my work. All my hard work, lost because of his misguided anger. And now, we can’t even talk about it because he won’t see me. I haven’t stepped back into the clubhouse since the day he told me to leave. I’m not going where I’m not wanted. I tried to call him, and send him a few messages, but there was no reply. Nothing. He cut me out of his life, just like that. At the very least, I deserve to be able to explain myself. I didn’t do anything wrong, and he’s not completely innocent either. He hurt me too by thinking the worst of me, by jumping to conclusions. I was right all along. All men leave. It’s just inevitable.
I would never betray the club, and the only scenes I had written out, before Tracker deleted them, were sex scenes, the amazing moments Tracker has given me, now immortalized forever with the written word. How is that a bad thing? If he read the story like he said he did, he would know what I wrote. So why is he acting like this? I never used him. I love him, more than anything. Because I didn’t tell him the whole story about my writing career, I’d now lost him. Over something trivial.
The love of my life.
I haven’t typed a single word since.
Tracker wouldn’t even let me make it better. Anna said he wouldn’t listen to her either, leaving the room every time she tried to bring it up. He is done with me.
Done.
And I’m left a shell of a person.
I almost wish I could go back in time, before Tracker, so I could carry on with my life. So I didn’t know what it felt like to live with a broken heart. So I didn’t know what it felt like to be cared for and loved, because when you lose it, it hurts like a fucking bitch.
But life goes on.
The day after he kicked me out, I moved into that apartment I wanted, the one Tracker said he didn’t like.
It feels lonely.
Sometimes I see Blade around, keeping an eye on me. I don’t know if Tracker asked him to, or maybe it was Rake. Either way, I don’t know if it is because they still care for me or that they no longer trust me.
That hurts, badly.
My writing is fiction. I’m not a journalist, trying to expose someone—I’m just a lover of romance.
Or at least, I was.
Anna visits me every day, but we stay off the topic of Tracker. I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to know who he’s with now, or how much he hates me.
I want to erase every memory of him.
“Lana?” Anna calls out, walking into my bedroom. She sits down and stares at me. “Don’t you have classes? I went by campus but you weren’t there, so I came here. You didn’t even answer your door. Lucky I brought my spare key.”
“Sorry,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’m not feeling too well, so I stayed home. And I was lost in thought.”
She sighs. “I know you don’t walk to talk about him, but I think the two of you need to stop being so stubborn and—”
“He doesn’t want to hear what I have to say. We’re both moving on with our lives. It’s for the best.”
She looks around my room. “How is this for the best? You barely leave this apartment. You don’t see anyone. You’re turning into a hermit.”
“I’m dealing with everything the best way I can, and I’m going to be fine,” I tell her, nodding my head. “Perfectly fucking fine.”
“Yes, you sound it,” she says dryly.
“Hearts get broken every day. I’m just another statistic.”
“Would you listen to yourself?” she yells. “Get your ass up and into the shower right fucking now or I’m going to tell Rake and everyone to come here and deal with you. Decide, now.”
“Fine,” I grumble ungracefully. “I’ll take a shower. You make something to eat.”
“I’m on it,” she says, leaving the room.
I get my ass in the shower, pushing Tracker and everything that goes with him to the very back of my mind.
* * *
A week later, I get a phone call from Arrow.
“Lana,” he says gruffly. “Anna needs you.”
I sit up. “What’s wrong?”
“Just come to the clubhouse, please,” he says, cutting the line.
Arrow said please?
Something isn’t right.
I quickly throw on some shorts and put on a bra under my T-shirt, get in my car, and speed to the clubhouse. Walking inside, I ignore the looks from everyone—especially Tracker, who I can see out of the corner of my eye sitting on the couch.
He’s not alone, and I didn’t expect him to be.
A pretty blonde is sitting next to him.
I can’t even look directly at them, the pain is so blinding.
I ignore the agony, which is so strong it feels physical, and demand, “Where is she?”
Rake steps out and grabs my arm, taking me to Anna and Arrow’s room.
“She won’t come out,” he says, pain flashing in his eyes. “I can’t save her from this, Lana. I don’t know what to do.”
I pull my arm from his hold and walk into the room without bothering to knock. Arrow is sitting there next to her. She has her knees to her chest, and she’s sobbing into them.
“Arrow, can you give me a second?” I ask quietly.
He nods, kissing her forehead, then looking at me. His eyes plead with me.
Fix her, they say.
Make it better.
I nod at the door. I want to be alone with my best friend. As soon as he leaves, I climb into the bed with her, wrapping my arm around her shoulder.
“You want to tell me what this is about?” I ask quietly.
She lays her head on my collarbone, and I wrap her tightly in my arms. “I went to the doctor.”
I stiffen, swallowing hard. “What did they say? Are you ill?”
She shakes her head, but says nothing.
“Goddammit, tell me, Anna!” I say, starting to panic.
“I just wanted to be sure . . . so I did some tests. . . . And . . .” She starts sobbing.
I want to shake her. “Tell me.”
“I can’t have children. They think I might have blocked fallopian tubes,” she says, wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her T-shirt. “I might never be able to have kids. They want to run more tests, but . . . God, Lana. I can’t even give Arrow kids.”
I sigh in relief that she isn’t sick, or dying, then rub her back soothingly. “Okay . . . first of all, do all the tests. You can still try IVF.”
“I suppose,” she whispers.
“You know what?” I tell her in a gentle tone. “You try the IVF, if that doesn’t work, I swear to you, I will carry your baby for you. I’ll be your surrogate. You want a kid, you’re going to get one.”
She looks me right in the eye. “You mean that?”
“I do. I promise. I’d do that for you in a heartbeat. My uterus is your uterus.”
She laughs softly at that, some of the misery of her face clearing.
“Hard road ahead, Anna,” I tell her. “But you will have a baby, all right? Might take a little more time than you wanted. But everything will work out.”
We spend the next hour talking everything over.
“I better get going. You’re going to be okay,” I tell her, smiling. “Hey, I got invited to attend a book signing next week, about five hours from here. You want to come with me?”
&nb
sp; “I’d love to,” she says, smiling. “Finally get to meet some of your fangirls. Don’t worry, Lana, I’ll keep your ass humble.”
My lip twitches. “Good to know.”
She walks me to her door and opens it. Arrow is waiting on the other side. Did he just stand there the whole time? He enters the room, and exhales deeply, seeing her in a much better condition than she was in before.
“Thanks, Lana,” he says. “I owe you. You ever need anything, you call me, all right?”
I give him a small smile. “What are friends for?”
I walk toward the front door, make sure not to look in the direction that I last saw Tracker.
“Lana!” Anna calls out just as I pass the living room.
“Yeah?” I ask, turning around.
“You’re the best person I know.”
“Right back at you,” I say, waving, then I make my way
to my car. I’m at my car door when I hear his voice from behind me.
“You gonna leave without even looking at me?”
I turn my head over my shoulder, keeping my face impassive. “Happy now?”
“No, I’m not fuckin’ happy,” he says, glancing over me. “You’ve lost weight.”
“I’m not your problem anymore, Tracker,” I say, unlocking my car door and opening it. “You’ve made that perfectly clear.” I get in without another glance at him, although I can feel his gaze on me the entire time I pull out of the driveway.
I’d hate to pull him away from my replacement.
TWENTY-FIVE
TODAY is the day of my book signing.
My cover model, the sexy Wyatt Bruce, attends with me, along with Anna.
“He’s hot,” she says for the tenth time. “I think my fallopian tubes just unblocked themselves.”
Well, it’s a good sign if she’s making jokes about it.
“Be quiet, he’s going to hear you,” I say with a grin as we figure out how to put up my banner.
“Need some help?” Wyatt asks.
“I think we might,” I say, looking to Anna, who is holding a pole and scrunching up her face. The picture rail in this conference room is a good two feet higher than our upstretched hands.
“I got it,” he says, chuckling.
Tracker's End Page 18
