Page 75 of Forty

Forty could get hurt. He could be killed.

I still haven’t told him that it was me who messed up the hood of my car. I’ve started to tell him a dozen times. I even wrote down what I could say. I thought about leaving him a voicemail or texting or sending an email.

Then I’d hear him in my head sayingYou know what Nevaeh? You’re trash. We’re done. And I’d figure I could give it another day. Bang him so good and love on him so hard he won’t even care.

He’ll care. He’ll hate me.

So maybe he doesn’t need to know. Maybe one secret won’t ruin everything. Again.

The whole thing makes my stomach ache. And that’s before I think about how when duty called, he bailed on me without blinking. No discussion. Club business. Boom. Gone.

I’ll only be gone two years. I have to do this. I’ll be back before you know it.

I don’t think he even knows he’s full of shit. I’m his heart. His whole world. Yeah. Until duty calls. Then I’m a woman. Andold ladies aren’t involved in club business.

Maybe I’m being unfair. If this is life and death, if this is really important, aren’t I being overly dramatic, moping around feeling sorry for myself? I know what the Raiders did to Hobs and Crista. They deserve justice.

Ugh. I need to get out of my own head. Find someone to talk to. I finish tying my sneakers, and I hustle on downstairs and head for the bar. It’s late, but Crista might still be working.

It takes less than a second to realize that she’s not here, and the vibe is definitely very, very different than it was earlier.

There’s a cloud of smoke hanging in the air—pot and vape—and there’s top 40 on the jukebox. Probably because after a brief scan of the place, I only see a handful of men. Grinder, Big George, Gus, Hobs. I wish Boots were here. He’d be a friendly face.

There are at least a dozen women, though. Danielle, Cheyenne, Angel, and some other sweetbutts. No Fay-Lee. Dizzy must have come for her. No Shirlene, either, but I doubt she’d be out this late. She gets up at the ass crack of dawn.

No Deb or Ernestine or any of the older ladies. Annie Holt’s here, though, shaking her ass on the dancefloor. She ended up marrying Forty’s older brother, Bullet, and had a few kids. Bad choice. Bullet’s a gambler and a drinker, and he’s been working steps and falling down them since long before I met him. They’re split now, but they still bang. So Fay-Lee says.

And there’s Harper Ruth, bellied up to the bar, dressed like a villainess from an 80s soap opera. Half-dollar-sized, red fan earrings, sparkly black one-shouldered blouse, pencil skirt, and six-inch heels with bright red soles.

She’s drinking straight from a bottle of wine as she scrolls through her phone. She hasn’t noticed me. No one has. The lights are low, and I don’t think anyone’s sober going by the volume of laughter and reek of hops.

The door to the kitchen isn’t too far from the bottom of the stairs. I’d need to scoot past the hallway to the offices, pass a few prospects playing cards, and duck on in.

I’m so hungry, I’m starting to feel light-headed. I’ll just stroll on over there, slip through the swinging doors, make myself a sandwich, and take it back upstairs. I’m not completely reckless. This is not a good scene for me.

I make itsix damn feetbefore Annie Holt shouts, “What are you doing out of your room, you dumb whore?” At the top of her lungs. While pointing at me. Just to make sure everyone knows who she’s talking about.

Harper’s gaze locks on me and a dead smile curls up her lips as she slithers out of her chair. Oh, crap.

Annie, Cheyenne, and Danielle march over. Grinder’s crew swivels so they don’t miss the action. The ladies crowd me, almost toe-to-toe, in a boozy, sweaty, smudged eyeliner and dragon-breathed half circle.

I swallow, and it gets stuck in my throat.

Harper saunters over, bottle dangling from her hand, and they shuffle back, make room for her.

“Who let the dog out?” Cheyenne calls over her shoulder. A smattering of drunk voices woof in response.

I can’t take all four of them. A decade ago, I got in a few decent licks before Annie and Harper left me curled up in Finnegan’s parking lot with chunks of my hair missing, but I haven’t been brawling much these past few years. And all four of these bitches are taller than me. Cheyenne outweighs me by fifty pounds, easy.

Annie cracks her knuckles. “I say we drag her ass up these stairs, throw her back down, and tell Forty she tripped.”

“Good plan,” Cheyenne says as she grabs my collar and yanks. I jerk back, try to get loose, and strangle myself. Panic rises as I fight for air, focusing my glitchy brain like a spotlight operated by a drunk guy.

Harper has inch-long, almond-shaped blood-red nails with Swarovski crystal flowers at the cuticles.

I scrabble at the hand on my collar, flashing back to Carlo, those fingers squeezing, and a surge of pure fear steals the rest of my breath. I swipe wildly for Cheyenne’s eyes.

“Let her go.” Harper lays those nails on Cheyenne’s forearm. Cheyenne shoves me back, and I fall on my ass on the bottom stair.

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