Page 46 of Misguided

“Fuck you, you conceited goddamn asshole,” I holler. “Fuck you.” Tears stream down my face, my heart on display for the whole club as he crushes it beneath his dirt-covered boot.

This is why I promised to stay away from him the first time, why I knew we could only be friends. Because how else would it end with a guy carrying a reputation such as his?

I was a fool to believe anything would have changed around here in the time I’ve been gone. Men still take what they want, women still get treated like commodities, and I’m still stuck somewhere in the middle, too precious to touch, and yet not coveted enough to risk the consequences for.

I’m in the no-man’s land between the men at the table and the women who serve them.

Gravel crunches beneath my boots—at least I had the sense to choose my flat soled ones over the less practical heeled pair. I hotshot it across the yard toward the garage, only to change my mind at the last moment and veer right toward the small stand of trees. Something about their darkness, the shadows that promise respite from the world, call to me.

My shoes hit the grass, and yet, still gravel crunches. Fucker. My foot slips as I hasten to get away from him. Nothing he could say right now would soothe this anger in my heart.

Nothing.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he calls through the darkness, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know how to be serious with someone. But you make me want to learn, Mel. You’d be worth giving this up for.”

Except, maybe that.

I turn in time to see him wrench his cut off, dropping it to the ground. My breath stutters in my chest at the sight of him so blatantly disrespecting the club, and I lean right to make sure nobody else has followed or might have seen.

“Don’t be angry at me, babe.” He staggers right, jamming a boot out awkwardly to regain his balance. “I’m a jerk when I’m him.” He points to the cut, groaning as he sinks to his knees. “He’s an idiot,” he says, slurring his words a little. “A fuckin’ idiot. But this guy,” he pounds his chest twice with closed fists, “he only wanted to see you smile.” His words die off, his voice weakening as he sags on his knees, his head almost touching the ground. “He loves your smile,” Dog whispers.

No, scratch that. Koen whispers.

The man doubled before me isn’t the jerk I just witnessed doing body shots off a mostly naked whore. The guy palming the damp grass beneath his hands as though its texture can sober him up, bring him back to reality, is the man I sat upstairs thinking about.

This is why living two lives can never work. This is why he needs to understand the importance behind finding out which Mel I am and running with it.

If balancing two lives destroys him, then what the hell would it do to someone already weakened like me?

“Stand up,” I say softly, approaching him with caution.

He groans; his T-shirt bunched up over his back so that his tanned flesh stands out against his black clothing like a beacon in the dark. His hands walk a path back toward his torso, and yet his head stays firmly planted on the grass.

“Are you okay?” I stop right before him and squat down. “Hey, look at me.”

I don’t know how many shots they got him to do, but the guy’s absolutely roasted. He pushes, his forearms twisting and cording as he heaves his dead weight upright.

“You came back?” he murmurs, his voice breaking on the last word promptly before he hunches over and vomits.

“Oh! Dude!” I scramble back, sure my boots are wearing some of it. “Jesus, Dog. How many did you have?”

He flops onto his back, rolling to the side. “Koen,” he scratches out.

“Dog, Koen, whoever,” I say, doing my damnedest to wipe my boots off on the grass. “You still drank too much.”

I stare down at him, my hands on my hips as I evaluate the sorry mess before me. I’m still mad at the asshole, so much so that I’m worried if I reach out to help him up, the physical contact will prompt me to kick him instead.

But still—my daddy raised me better than to leave a man this skunk-drunk alone on his own.

I pick his cut up off the ground and move it between my hands. I can’t carry it and help him, yet I can’t get it back on him either given he’s flat out. Plus, if I left it out here in the grass to be ruined, he, I, or both of us would get raked over the coals for it.

Glancing back to the distant clubhouse, I sigh, and wrench it on over my own. The armholes hang to the bottom of my ribs, and the length is more like a mini dress, but at least it’s out of the way.

Taking a hold of his T-shirt in both hands, I bunch the fabric at his shoulders and heave. He budges slightly, his head hung back as he moans, and then promptly hits the ground with a whompf as I drop him.

Bastard’s heavier than I gave him credit for.

I re-plant my feet on either side of his hips and throw my back into it. He lolls a little, but I manage to set him upright against my knees while I work out how to get him to his feet.

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