Page 47 of Promiscuous Lies

And I make sure not to hold any of those things too deeply. Because I know too well how crippling the weight of grief and regret can be, so, it doesn’t serve Bentley or me to be living in the past when all I have to do is look forward to our future.

“I can’t believe you actually came,” a voice says behind me.

I furrow my brow, turning around as I stand. I don’t recognize the man. I do, however, recognize the leathers and patches he’s wearing. I immediately start scanning the cemetery, making sure he’s the only one here.

“Oh, he’s not here. But he told me to hang out here for the day in case you showed up. And you did,” he says smugly.

“What are you, Bobbi’s lackey or something?” I ask snidely.

Fuck.

This is not good.

I didn’t want to run into anyone here, but I didn’t think he’d actually remember what today meant to me. When I found out I was pregnant with Bentley, he threw cash at me and told me to get rid of it, and I never saw him again. It’s been six years since then. I thought enough time had passed that he would’ve moved on.

The error was in my own sentiment: I needed to come back. Digging into the past never brought anything good.

“I’m not his lackey!” he shouts, offended. “I’m one of his really good friends.” This guy looks like he’s barely twenty.

I scoff. “Bobbi doesn’t have good friends. He has people who he uses and takes advantage of.”

“What was that, bitch?” he says, squaring up.

Fuck, this is bad.

I don’t carry guns with me, and I can’t hide behind the bat that’s stationed beside my door at home.

I’m not scared of men, but I know when standing alone in a graveyard with one who’s double my size and potentially on something, I’m not going to win that fight. Not without my bat, anyway.

My fiery temperament aside, I don’t take chances of never returning to my son.

So I make the split-second decision to run to my car.

“Hey! Get back here!” he yells.

I run as fast as my legs will take me. I pass through the metal gate, grabbing my keys from my pocket. As I round the big oak tree, I run into someone in leathers.

My heart pounds from fear and the exertion of running. I shove at them as they try to grab me. Terror grips me like a vise, and I punch them in the face, the key scratching them across the cheek as I shove them off. They grab me again, and I thrash in their arms until a familiar voice cuts through the haze of panic.

“Posie.” Dutton shakes me, and I stare at him wide-eyed, and terrified.

He looks over my shoulder as the man comes around the corner, and he immediately shoves me behind him.

“Who the fuck are?—”

Dutton’s so fast that I take another step back, tripping over the roots of the tree and falling on my ass as I watch in horror.

Dutton punches the man, causing him to fall to the ground, and within seconds, Dutton is on him, laying into him so the man can’t even get back up. There’s no fight from the man when Dutton’s pure, unleashed rage overpowers him.

Blood spatters as Dutton hits him again and again. It takes me a while to stand on shaky legs, and I am completely surprised by the last few minutes. The shock of the situation begins to lessen, and I find my fire once again.

“Dutton! You’re going to kill him!” I lean against the tree. “Dutton!” I yell. Not because I care about the other guy—I’ve seen a handful of men killed—but because of the repercussions it might have on Dutton.

I understand he has connections, but the motorcycle club is savage, and no matter the reason, they will defend their own, especially if an outsider kills one.

Dutton kicks the guy’s face in. The guy chokes on blood, barely conscious.

“Dutton!” I scream, picking up a rock and throwing it at his back. He turns then as if noticing me for the first time since his rage took over. His hair is a mess, and his eyes shine so brightly in the day that they’re a vivid, icy blue.

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