Page 72 of Hemlock

"What's his name?"

Jericho tilts his head as if confused. "You don't know his name?"

Hound grins even wider, the smile taking over his entire face.

"It's--" Jericho begins before he's interrupted.

"My name is Pax Hart," he says as he clears the top of the stairs from the basement with the large, tattooed man right behind him. "And I'm President of the Gatlinburg, Tennessee chapter of the Cerberus MC."

I don't even bother fighting the smile that tugs up the corners of my mouth.

"Really?" Jericho snaps, but there's an absence of anger in his tone. "Did I even have a chance?"

"Did you apply?" Pax challenges, but I see a hint of amusement in his gaze for a brief second before he shuts it down.

Jericho looks at Kincaid, the man who was introduced as the New Mexico chapter president. "There was an application?"

Kincaid shakes his head with a laugh. "There was no application process."

Pax crosses the room, standing right in front of me, eyes sweeping over my entire body as if he's checking me for wounds or inventorying my mood.

I look up at him, my piece of toast suspended a few inches from my mouth. I'm not hungry for some reason, but I accepted the bread to have something to focus on and keep my hands busy while waiting for them to leave the basement.

"We have a lot to talk about," he says, eyes locked on my mouth to the point that I'm distracted enough to forget that anyone else is even in the room standing behind him until someone speaks.

"Where do you guys keep the coffee?" I recognize the voice as Hound's.

Pax seems more in control, and less manic than he did just a few hours ago, but I know the limited sleep we got won't be enough for long. He still needs more rest, and more time to heal from being stabbed.

Goose pimples rush down my arm as he sweeps his hand from my bicep down until our fingers are tangled.

"Can we speak in private?"

"Of course," I answer, letting him lock our hands together before he escorts me out of the room.

A wave of nausea washes over me as he leads me up the stairs and toward his room. I imagine seeing all the blood on his bed, but the room is in pristine condition when he pushes open the door.

I pull in a relieved breath at the normalcy of the room.

He guides me across the room until we're close to the edge of the bed.

"Is this okay or do you prefer the chair?"

"This is fine," I answer quickly, wanting to get to the meat of the situation although my heart is pounding. I'm terrified he's going to tell me that he made a mistake, that he had a choice to make and I wasn't even a consideration.

"So, club president, huh?" I say when he sits beside me seeming content to just exist in the silence.

"It's new."

"How new?"

He looks down at his watch. "Half an hour or so."

"What did you have to give up to get that job?" Tears burn the backs of my eyes with the question, but shit, if I'm going to be asked to leave, I'd much rather that happen sooner rather than later.

He pulls in a deep breath, making my head race with the path I'd have to take to get out of the house and the direction I'll leave the driveway, and the stop signs I'll hit on the way to the interstate.

Beach or mountains? I realize I still haven't fully made up my mind.

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