Page 82 of Choices

My heart pounds frantically in my chest, dread eating away at my insides. Nausea swirls in my gut. Acid burns up my throat and spills from my lips, liquid splashing to the ground.

Swiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I wince from the pain and then sob. How the hell did that turn so bad so fast?

Steeling my shoulders, I take a few calming breaths and attempt to clean up my makeup, using my phone as a mirror. I shouldn’t have called him. He’s going to lose it. This is going to cause so much trouble. Stuffing my phone away, I finger-brush my hair and check my dress is in place. The cool chill of the morning hours snuffs out any heat from earlier. Shaking, I rub my hands up my arms, ignoring the burn ripping at my cuts. I attempt to replay the night Nicolas came to the club, coming to the same conclusion: I never saw him leave.

Dad sent me to my room because they said the police were at the gate.

“Cops are at the gate. Don’t come out until me or your brother come for you.”

I didn’t hear the alarm that usually goes off when cops are at the gate. But it was evident something terrible was going on by the stress in his voice and posture.

Were the cops even there?

It was Cutter who finally came to my room hours later—bloodied and injured.

What the hell happened that night?

The sound of a motorcycle thundering through the silent night floods my system with relief. The headlight beams toward me, a beacon of safety, as it pulls up to the curb. His large frame climbs off the bike, dwarfing me. Gripping my shoulders, he asks, “What the hell happened?”

Bowing my head, I sniffle, “Take me home.”

“Tell me what happened. Where’s Tim?”

“Please, Callan. Take me home.”

“Look at me, Kitty. What the hell happened?”

Tension leaks from him in waves. Fierce, dark eyes take in our surroundings. “I just want to go home, Callan,” I repeat, pulling back. Blowing out a breath and nodding, he slips out of his cut, and helps me into it before hauling a spare helmet from the backseat and fastening it into place on my head.

Mounting the bike, he says, “Get on.”

Using his shoulder, I swing my leg over and rest my head against his back, my own back screaming at me for the action. As soon as the vibrations rattle through me and the wind hits my cheeks, I silently cry into the night, feeling more relief with each moment we become farther from that fucking apartment.

Cruising the winding path up to the clubhouse gates they open without us having to change our pace. Pulling into the compound, Callan parks out front next to the row of other bikes. Climbing down, I take off the helmet and nod a thanks.

“Kitty,” he says my name so softly, I wonder if I imagined it. “Did someone hurt you tonight?”

My pulse hums beneath my skin.

“Can we go inside? I need a drink,” I beg, my throat on fire.

“Sure. But you’re going to tell me what happened, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I don’t want to admit how naïve I was tonight.

Loose lips sink ships.

Dammit. I know better than that. I got too caught up in the moment.

We’re greeted by quiet hallways when we enter the clubhouse, much to my relief. I don’t want anyone else to see me right now.

The pounding of Callan’s boots follows me into the kitchen, and he almost bumps into the back of me when I pause at the threshold. Cutter is slouched over the counter, sitting on a stool, head resting on folded arms. Taking a step inside, Callan moves around me and goes to get a glass from the cabinet, filling it at the sink with water.

“Here.” He pushes it toward me. His gaze lands on my face, and his stance suddenly becomes rigid. A chill chases up my spine. I can only imagine how harsh the bruising looks under the bright lights of this room. Regret cloaks me as that realization sets in.This could start a war.

As if sensing the company in the room, Cutter raises his head, eyes squinting. “Kit?” He’s on his feet in the next instant, tilting my chin with the crook of his finger. “Who fucking did that to you!”

The pain along my chin is nothing compared to the agony radiating from my back. Manic eyes dance to Callan. “Who fucking did that to her?”

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