Page 40 of Choices

“You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?” He looks through the door to Callan then focuses on Cutter and Claire.Does he miss her?

“The only man I have is four-legged and furry,” I assure him while walking backward up the corridor, keeping my eyes on him.

“That’s the safest kind,” he grunts, running a hand up his arm.

“You okay?” I frown, stopping my retreat.

“Always. My son is getting married.”

“Yeah, he is.”

Monster appears behind him, his gaze dancing between us. “Everything good?”

“Fine. I’ll catch you later, Dad.”

He disappears inside the bar and Monster stands in the space he vacated, glaring at me.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

The thing about being the daughter of the president and living in the clubhouse: everyone is an annoying big brother.

“To brush my cat.” I smirk, turning on my heel.

“That code for what I think it is?” His dark tone follows me up the hall, bouncing off the narrow walls.

Pushing into my room, I head to the closet, throwing clothes on the chair in the corner and moving shoe boxes out of the way until I find what I’m looking for.

Staring down at the bowl, my stomach tightens. The cold press of glass against my palm spreads like water seeping into the skin, expanding up my arms and settling in my chest. The fact Goldie died the day after I let Cutter back into my bed for thefirst time should have been a sign.It was just a fish, Kit. Get a grip.

But it was more than that. It was what I had left of our fucked-up relationship. Goldie was my pet, my comfort in a time I thought my heart was going to crack straight through my ribcage and bleed out—something alive and vibrant while my world decayed around me.

Getting to my feet, I grab my purse and shoot Tim a text.

Me: Need to go out. Meet me out front.

When I make it out front, Tim’s casually leaning against the hood of the SUV in dark, baggy jeans and a vintage t-shirt beneath his prospect cut, and his leg is bent, a boot resting on the tire.

“Hey,” I say. Ignoring me, he kicks off the rubber and opens the door, folding himself into the seat.

Making my way around the car, I slip inside and click the seatbelt into place. “I can drive myself if you’re going to be prissy.”

“Where are we going?” he asks, a bite to his tone.

“The pet shop.”

We drive in silence until it becomes deafening. Reaching over, I flip the switch for the radio and turn the volume up. It’s some pop crap but it’s better than nothing.

When he pulls up to the store, I jump out without waiting for him to follow, greeted with the scent of dried food and earthy tones as I enter. Dog barks splinter the air like shockwavesas they yap to get attention. Bypassing them, I head toward the aquarium at the back, focusing my attention on the fish swimming silently around their tanks. A store attendant catches my eye, and I wave them over.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, scratching at a patch of acne on his cheek. Brown, greasy hair curtains his face, and he smells like chip fat.

“I want a goldfish.” My fingernail taps at the glass tank.

“Goldfish usually do better in pairs.” He tugs at his pants, pulling them up his skinny frame. He’s built like a surfboard.

“I only want one.”

“Do you need a tank or…” he asks, surveying the store.

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