Page 46 of Savage Heart

Trouble closed his eyes and sighed. He hated that he even needed to think about the Russians, when all he wanted to think about and deal with was getting his woman back. Though, twisted as it was, he had the Russians to thank for bringing Liz back to where she belonged, and for introducing him, as it were, to his daughter.

“I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but I’m aiming for longer than a few weeks, if I’m honest. I want her and Erika in my place, settled, rooted.”

“I get it, brother, but I know you know it’s going to take more than a change of residence to get the doc to stop wanting to rip out your spine through your asshole.”

For a brother with an Ivy League education, Hawk could talk shit with the best of ‘em.

Trouble snorted again. “You’re right, I do know that, but this is the first step of many. I have a lot more to do before she even stops looking at me like she wants to murder me. But I think it might be easier with Erika around.”

“Yeah, she can’t kill you in front of the kid,” Hawk offered unhelpfully.

They talked for a few more minutes, Trouble unnecessarily reminding Hawk to be watchful, then they hung up, and Trouble started his bike.

Slipping the hair tie from around his wrist where he kept it for moments like this, he pulled his hair back into a man bun, something he knew the ladies appreciated—Amelia was always going on about his “luscious locks” and how sexy he looked with his hair pulled back. When he and Liz had been together, his hair was just growing past his ears. He hadn’t been out of the service long, and since he’d spent years buzzing his blond hair close to his head, he’d wanted to grow it out. Liz had loved running her fingers through his hair, and she especially loved pulling it when they were fucking. And for him, that bite of pain only heightened the ecstasy of the pleasure, a depth of pleasure he never experienced with any other woman.

Now, he couldn’t help how his chest puffed out a little at the memory of all the times he caught her looking at him when she came through the club. She couldn’t hide her interest in him, nor how she hated that she was still attracted to him. Sadly, in his ignorance and stupidity, he’d used that against her, pulling Amelia into his lap as a slap in the face. He told himself he was keeping Liz away, that he was making sure there were clear boundaries between them, so that the pain of the past couldn’t slither into their present. But that was fucking bullshit. He shoved Amelia in Liz’s face, not as a way to force boundaries, but because he was a fucking coward. He knew that if he let himself appreciate Liz’s attraction to him, if he let himself approachher, talk to her, be around her, that hunger for her that had gone unfed for ten years would erupt, and he’d never be able to contain it again.

He wanted Liz with every molecule of his being, but he’d hurt her, betrayed her, and he knew that if he allowed himself that sliver of hope that they could be together again, he’d have to explain to her just how fucked up he really was. All those months they’d been together, all those nights lying in bed next to one another, sharing about their lives…not once had he spoken a single word about his family. His life in Skimmer, Texas. Or his piece of shit father, and how he’d blown a motherfucking hole through the bastard’s chest. Liz knew their names, but that was it, and that’s how it would stay.

Fuck, he really was a coward. Put him in the desert with a hundred militant jihadists and he’d grin and probably get a woody. Put a gang of asshole thugs up against his club, and he’d mow down the motherfuckers with a smile on his face. No gun, no threat, no promise of death or violence ever made him hesitate. He was built to do damage—just like his pa—so hewasviolence, hewasthe threat, hewasthe promise of death. He lived and breathed calamity. But…put him in a bed beside the woman he loved, her begging him to open up, to share with her, her beautiful blue eyes yearning for true intimacy, and he devolved into a pool of boneless primordial goo. Spineless, brainless, and about as deep as the tip of a pinky finger.

Damn. His chest ached, a burning, throbbing low grade agony. It had been that way since that night. Booze dulled it, sex numbed it—for an hour or two—and sometimes fighting would ease it. But it was never gone. And now that Liz was in his life, in his keeping, the pain was still there, but it was manageable. He didn’t want to dull it, numb it, or ease it. He wanted to rid himself of the symptoms altogether, to heal the parts of his heart that were still jagged.

And he could only do that by making things right with Liz.

But first, he needed to deal with the motherfucking Russians.

Shaking off his thoughts, he kicked his bike into gear and headed out of the parking lot.

He needed to spend a few hours dealing with club business, but after that he’d head back to the hospital. Liz was healing well, and she was getting around better, and he wanted to see if she was feeling up to listening to him. He had a lot he wanted to—needed to—say to her, and she would have to listen, eventually. They could not live together for the next however long with the cloud of his past mistakes hanging over them.

He just hoped she was willing to give him a shot at being her man again.

And if everything failed, and she refused him that shot, he hoped she’d give him a chance to be a father to Erika. He refused to lose either of them, but he would be damned if he couldn’t be Erika’s father. Yeah, he realized what a hypocritical asshole that made him, after all the bullshit he spewed that night in the bar ten years ago, but he’d been lying out his ass. He hadn’t meant a word of that; he’d only said it because he knew Liz was listening, he knew those words would hit her where it would do the most damage—though he had no fucking idea she was actually pregnant, that she was already carrying his child. She’d taken those words at face value, disappeared, and raised his daughter with the mistaken idea that he wouldn’t want anything to do with his daughter.

His stomach rolling and bile rising, Trouble could barely keep himself from pulling over and puking into the scrub on the side of the road.

It took him longer than usual to get to the custom bike shop he managed for the club. They had a shipment of custom parts arriving that he wanted to inspect and sign off on so theycould finish the two bikes some billionaire in Florida ordered for himself and his new wife.

Coming to a stop outside of Savage Custom Rides, he dismounted and headed inside, stopping on a dime to see Amelia sitting behind the reception desk, her gaze pinned to the door. Obviously, she was waiting for him to arrive, and since he’d ignored all her calls and didn’t read any of her texts, this was the only way she’d get his attention.

Fuck. He didn’t need this shit, not today, not now that Liz had agreed to move in with him. He wasn’t a goddamn idiot; he knew Amelia would pull the usual club girl shit and cause trouble between him and Liz because she saw him as hers—even though that was complete bullshit. But he thought he made shit clear that night in the club booth. He was done with her, and there was no going back.

Her perfectly made-up face complete with pouty lips lit up when she saw him.

Ah, fuck.

“Trouble!” Amelia called out, her voice that baby girl whine that never failed to make him wince. In her hurry to get to him, she hopped off the stool she was sitting on so clumsily, the top she was barely wearing barely kept her tits from popping out. Good thing the reception area was empty, ‘cause it only took one set of eyes to see, then one mouth to tell, and that telling would get to the club, and he just knew Liz would hear about Amelia showing up, wearing skimpy shit, at his place of work. No, he was nowhere near reconciling with Liz, but that was the end game, and that last fucking thing he needed were more obstacles in his way—and Amelia staking her claim, as she was doing by showing up at the club-owned garage—would only push Liz further away.

For not the first time in the last week, he wondered if the Stonecutters MC were looking for a new clubwhore. He’d sendAmelia to Arizona, get her out of Vegas and away from him, and he’d not have that added anxiety, worrying what Amelia would do to fuck shit up with Liz, hanging over his head.

“Baby, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” Amelia cooed, coming around the desk to press herself against his stiff as a fucking board body. Slowly, he lifted his hands, gripped her arms, and pushed her away from him, putting two feet of space between them. “Trouble?” Her eyebrows were furrowed, her eyes glinting with anger and disbelief.

“What are you doing here, Amelia? I thought I made shit clear; you and I are done. Our arrangement, as loose as it was, it over. You can’t be comin’ ‘round my place of work uninvited.” He dropped his hands from her body, like his palms were on fire, then took a big step backward.

“Come on,” she purred, her lips in a curling smirk. “I know you were just putting on a show for Fang; I know you’re just saying we’re over because that bitch is threatening to keep the brat from you if you don’t make happy families with her.”

Twice.

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