Page 31 of Misguided

ELEVEN

Dog

Mel excuses herself, saying she wants a good night’s sleep before we head out in the morning. It’s bullshit—her excuse—but I let it slide.

She needs the time alone to string herself together well enough to survive another eye-opening day.

If she thought it was hard being here at our clubhouse because of all the reminders, she’s going to be steamrolled when she walks in the doors of her home—Fort Worth. Everywhere that poor fucking bitch looks she’s going to be slapped with a reminder of what she’s lost, and what’s going to make it even harder for her, is she’s dealing with it alone. Everyone else down there has gone through the motions: they held a wake, the women wailed, and the men drank solemnly at the loss they experienced.

Mel—she’s at least twelve months behind them all, trying to catch up and jam her grieving process into as short a time as possible so that she can get on with life and rejoin the masses.

Fucking sucks.

I shake out another cigarette as two of the local girls who drop in most weekends stumble out into the yard to share their regular spliff. They spot the glow of my lighter and beeline over, all wobbly legs and pinpoint heels sinking into the lawn.

“Would you mind?” Busty asks, holding their shared roll between us.

I always forget her name—never had much interest in it—but I’d never forget that rack. Her surgeon deserves a fucking annual bonus for that outstanding effort. Totally thought they were real until she let slip what it cost one night.

“Sure.” I hold the flame out as she sparks up, her eyes on mine the whole time.

I open my mouth, the words on the tip of my tongue, and yet I bite my lip instead to stifle the lame pick-up line that bubbles to the surface.

It would be so easy to do, to pick her up for the night. Fuck, it would probably be easy to get both of them. I’ve had the set one at a time, but fuck, the two of them could do some damage.

Yet when I think of the kinky shit these bitches could do together, I don’t get the usual rush that accompanies the challenge.

I get some twisted fucking knot in my gut that I don’t really like all that much.

Weird.

“You want us to stick around?” her buddy asks. “Hate the thought of you all lonely out here.”

“All good,” I mumble. “Kind of want to be alone.”

Slut takes it as some sign that I need mothering, cooing as she wraps her manicured fingers around my chin. “That doesn’t sound good, baby.”

I jerk my head back, ripping from her hold. “Enjoy your night, ladies.”

They watch as I take my leave, resisting the urge to break into a run so I can get as far away from them as fucking possible. I don’t even know what has me so goddamn twisted inside out until I find myself at the top of the stairs, wondering which room Mel’s using.

I jog back down the staircase, eyeing the common room as I go. Sonya lifts her head from the plates of food scraps she’d been clearing as I approach.

“Hey, Dog. What can I do you for?”

“You know which room Mel’s in?”

She straightens up, placing a hand on her hip as she narrows her eyes on me. “Why?”

“Said she wanted to borrow a couple of things,” I lie.

“Like what? I can get them for her.”

Nothing gets past this woman.

“Yeah, it’s all good. I got it covered. We’d been talkin’ about how much she’s missed new music, and I said she could listen to the playlists on my phone.” Lame, Dog. Fucking lame.

Sonya eyes me a second too long, the suspicion clear in the crisp blue of her heavily made-up eyes. “To be honest, I’m not sure. She came and asked for a spare blanket, but I figured King had already hooked her up.” She points across the room to where our president drinks with Callum. “Go ask him; he should know.”

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