Page 95 of Forty

Forty steps closer to me, casts me a worried look. I give him a small smile. I’m okay.

Finally, Harper sighs, having figured out something in that spider-webbed dark pit of a brain.

“Come to the clubhouse, Nevaeh. The past is the past. You’re family now.”

And she turns on a red sole and stalks back the way she came, taking her posse with her.

* * *

“You okay, baby?”Forty eyes me uneasily.

“Yup.” I flash him a big ol’ fake smile as I tug down my tank top. It’s black with an elaborate sequin skull across the tits. I paired it with a pair of black leggings ‘cause denim irritates my wound, and I finished off the ensemble with thick-soled shitkickers. In case I need to kick some shit.

Gnarly butterflies are careening around my belly. I’m nervous, and that’s pissing me off. I don’t need these people to like me.

After Harper’s visit, I said I’d come. Just because she and I are cool doesn’t mean the brothers have changed their minds. The President still hates my guts. It’s not exactly a welcoming feeling.

“Let’s head on in.” The clubhouse doors are slid wide, air conditioning spilling out into the hot-as-hell late summer evening.

A wall of music, voices, and smoke rolls toward us. We head in and bodies part. The place is packed. There are a lot of SBMC cuts and familiar faces, but they’re outnumbered by other folks. I see some Smoke and Steel cuts from the support club based in Shady Gap. Creech’s crew is here in all their sideshow glory. My eyes are dragged from a fully tattooed head to a girl with dermal piercings down the back of her neck.

I catch sight of Lou by the pool tables. He’s only got eyes for Bucky. They’re playing each other, and it looks like it’s down to the eight ball. Bucky’s showing Lou how to line up a shot. Well, that’s interesting.

Forty’s ushering me through the crowd, hand firm on my lower back, and my nerves ease a bit. There are so many people here, I might go the whole evening without running into an unfriendly face.

And then I realize where Forty’s steering me. There’s a table by the bar. Unlike every other inch in this place, there are no bodies smashed together within several feet. Like there’s an invisible rope. Heavy’s sitting at the head.

Nickel’s to his left, Story on his lap. Charge is there, but his old lady Kayla’s nowhere to be seen. She has a young kid. She’s probably home. Harper’s across from Charge. She greets me with a subtle chin lift.

Scrap is the only one not staring at me. His eyes are glued on Crista, working the bar. Annie Holt’s perched on a stool, Bullet Nowicki’s hand on her ass.

There’s an empty chair at Heavy’s right hand. Right between Heavy and Harper.

Oh, hell no.

I stop in my tracks, and Forty’s hand on my back kind of propels me forward. I trip. He grabs my elbow, steadying me.

Great. Very smooth. My face burns.

I shake my elbow free.

Pretty much everyone is staring at me now. Heavy lounges back in his chair, a head taller than everyone else at the table, black hair wilder than mine. I feel like a peasant come to beg at the foot of the king.

Let me back in.

Like me.

Decide I’m worth something.

Fuck that.

I’m the hero of this story. Not the victim. Not the villain.

How do I get one of these assholes to fight me? I took a bullet. I’m invincible.

I ball my fists as I look for a drink to throw. And then Harper pushes up from the table.

She’s always dressed to the nines and perfectly made up, but she’s dialed it up to a hundred tonight. Her smoky eye makes her gray eyes look like mirrors, and pearl combs hold her hair back.

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