Page 70 of Choices

A shiver moves through her.

“What the fuck are you doing here? Do you know whose club this is?”

“That’s not why I’m here. I would never?—”

“Shut up and get on the bike.”

“In this?” She blanches, looking down at the ass-skimming leather skirt and two scraps of shiny material hanging off each tit, revealing the bandage across the side of her boob.

“I don’t care.”

“You’re overreacting. I came out to have a good time,” she drones, her voice scratching across my skull. “Do you know how hard it is to get in here?”

“I don’t fucking care. It’s over. You’re done for the night.”

“I’m lonely,” she whines. If she went home to her kid, she wouldn’t be. Liquor steams from her breath.

“You’re drunk,” I correct.

“Why won’t you fuck me?”

For fuck’s sake, not this shit again.

“Claire…” I warn.

“We’re married, Cutter. I didn’t ask you to love me, but you give me nothing. We live one life in front of people and another behind closed doors.”

“Because this isn’t a real fucking marriage,” I bark. It’s never been more than what it was when I first took the bullet and married her. I’ve never fucked her, shared a bed with her, or given her any illusion this is real.

Laughter carries across the street from a group of teenagers, drawing her eyes toward them.

“Get on the fucking bike. I’m taking you home.” I grip her under the arms, and she begins crying.

What the hell is happening?

“Claire, don’t fucking do this,” I plead, releasing her.

“You didn’t even care that I had surgery.”

“You had a stitch to fix a scar.” I rub at my temples.

“So?”

Fuck my life. “So, you’re already out partying. How bad can it be?”

“That’s not the point.” She folds her arms, black streaks running down her face.

“What is the point?”

“That I need more. I want more from you.”

No. I have nothing more. I pace the space between us.

“I gave you my life, lied to my pres for you, raised your kid. Is that not enough?”

“That’s not true. We saved each other.”

“How’s that?” I ask, my tone bitter.

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