Page 8 of Stitch & Steel
She draped herself all over a new prospect named Clay, some twenty-something with more tattoos than brain cells. She laughed too loud, swayed her hips too slow, and kept glancing over at me like I was supposed to blow a gasket.
But I didn’t move. Just leaned back in my chair, beer in hand, and kept peeling the label off the bottle like her whole circus act didn’t mean shit.
That, apparently, was worse.
Naomi finally snapped.
“What, no fight? No jealousy?” she hissed, sauntering over. “You really that dead inside, Diesel?”
I looked up at her—at the eyeliner smudged with too much effort, the lips pouting like she still owned a piece of me—and shook my head.
“I’m not dead,” I said evenly. “Just over it.”
“You used to throw men through tables over me.”
“Yeah,” I said, standing. “And I was dumb back then.”
Gasps and laughter rippled through the room. The prospect looked like he was about to piss himself.
I didn’t raise my voice. Didn’t touch her. Just gave her a look.
“Get out.”
Her nostrils flared. “You can’t just?—”
“I can. And I did.”
She stared like she didn’t recognize me. Maybe she didn’t.
I used to be the guy who’d throw punches to claim what was mine.
Now?
I was just tired.
She stormed out, heels clacking like war drums. No one stopped her. Bullet tipped his glass toward me from the bar.
“Hell of a funeral speech.”
By the next afternoon, I was back behind the wheel of my truck with no excuse and too much time on my hands.
I told myself I was just going for a drive.
Just clearing my head.
But the minute the road curved into familiar territory and the pine trees thinned around Gran’s cabin, I knew exactly where I was headed.
I told myself I wouldn’t stop.
Until I sawher.
Bella Grace.
Half-hidden in waist-high weeds, electric chainsaw in hand, hacking like a woman possessed.
“What in the actual hell,” I muttered, slamming the truck into park and stepping out.
She didn’t hear me over the roar of the saw, her ponytail bouncing with every swing. The blade jerked and jumped. My spine locked.
