Page 23 of Choices

“You don’t usually stay over,” I point out.

“That’s why I need to borrow some clothes. I feel silly asking.”

“It’s fine. I’ll bring you something.” It’s not fine, but I’d look petty if I told her no.

Pacing back to my room, I throw the door open and avoid looking at the bed. After Cutter left, sleep evaded me. I ended up curled in the chair, wishing I’d had the strength to tell him to fuck off and not give him my body again. One day, he won’t hold this power over me. I’ll pry him from my brain and fill it with someone new.

Dragging my dresser open, I rummage through my clothes. Claire is taller than me. Whatever I give her won’t reach her ankles. “Sweats,” I declare, yanking out a pair tangled with jeans. My dresser is a mess. All my shit got scooped up and dropped in with hope and a prayer the drawer would close afterward.

Moving to the closet, I find the sweater I stole from Callan last week. It’s nothing like the clothes Claire wore, but it’s the best I’m willing to do—and there’s no way I’m giving her underwear.

Callan’s door is open when I get back to Dad’s room, and Cutter’s voice mumbles from inside. Goosebumps raise over my skin. I hate the reaction my body has to him. Tapping my knuckles on dad’s door, I wait, worrying my lip with my teeth, my gaze darting to Callan’s room every two seconds.

“Kitty?” Dad’s voice startles me as he creaks his door open. Freshly showered and dressed, he stands there, looking surprised to see me.

I shove the clothes at him. “Give these to Claire.”

I take a few steps to Callan’s doorway and peer inside, my chest tightening at the sight of Cutter standing by the door talking to Callan’s back while Callan pulls on his boots. Blue ocean eyes lift to mine, then he reaches for the door and swings it shut, shattering the last threads of my tattered heart.

CHAPTER 9

CLEAN UP

CUTTER

Not showering this morning wasn’t an option. The blood caked in my hair and stale sweat made my skin itch, but washing off Kitty’s scent for the last time made every vein scream with an emotion I didn’t want to acknowledge. Leaving her room was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It felt like someone took an axe and split me wide open.

“Let’s go.” Callan stands, slipping on his cut. Kitty’s gone when we step into the hall, and a pang of guilt settles in my chest. It was harsh, but I need her to hate me. Really hate me.

I smack a fist on Pres’s door as we pass, signaling we’re ready to meet in his office. Callan detours to the kitchen, grunting, “Let’s grab coffee first.”

Diamond’s cooking breakfast when we enter, the smell of bacon making my stomach growl. Kitty sits on the counter next to her, swinging her legs as she chews on toast. When her eyes find mine, her face drops. Dumping the bread, she kicks off the counter and grumbles, “I’ll catch you later, Di. I’ve lost my appetite.” She shoulders me on the way out of the kitchen, and Iresist grabbing her. I want to fuck all that attitude out of her, kiss her until she’s dizzy. It takes all my willpower not to watch her depart down the corridor.

“She’s pissed because you forgot to tell her it was okay to leave her room.” Callan chuckles, swiping up a rasher of bacon and sipping his coffee.

“She must not have heard me knock.” I shrug my shoulder as he passes me. “Did you not pour me a coffee?”

“Do I look like a waitress?”

“You could pull off one of those little aprons they wear.” I chuckle, weaving through the hall behind him.

“Not with these legs.”

Entering the office, the light banter evaporates, gravity dragging us back toward solid ground. We got rid of the body and dumped the phone, but this isn’t over yet.

Callan places his mug down and drags a chair out, dropping his ass into the soft leather as Pres walks in. Usually, we’d have this type of meeting in the church room surrounded by our brothers, but keeping them in the dark is the right thing to do. They don’t need to know unless shit hits the fan.

Closing the door, Pres takes his seat behind the desk, resting his arms on the solid surface. He seeks out a small ball, rolling it under his palm. “Did you bring me one of those?” He motions to Callan’s coffee.

I smirk over at Callan, and he narrows his eyes. “Should I have taken fucking orders and gotten everyone coffee?”

Making a tutting sound, Pres reaches over the desk and takes the mug, slurping back the hot liquid.

“Please, help yourself,” Callan grumbles.

“I will. Now, let’s get down to it.”

“How’s Claire?” I ask before he can start.

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