Page 49 of The Order of Disorder
Heat flashes through me like wildfire.
He wants me.
I lift myself until I’m straddling his hips and grind down, instinctive and unthinking. The contact shoots sparks up my spine, and Wyatt’s hands clamp down on my hips, hard, like he’s trying to stop me. Or himself.
“Max,” he groans, a raw warning. “Stop.”
“Why?” I whisper into his neck. “Wyatt…”
His fingers dig in deeper, caught in some kind of war.
“No,” he breathes. “This isn’t right. It’s not—” His jaw clenches. “It’s not appropriate.”
But he still doesn’t push me off.
I bury my face in his neck, and for a long, electric moment, he just holds me there. Our hearts racing, breathing hard in the dark.
Then, slowly, like it’s killing him, Wyatt shifts me to the side. Onto the mattress beside him.
Not far. Just enough.
His arm stays wrapped around me. He pulls me in tight, like he can’t let go, even now.
I press my face into his chest, breathing in his heat, my pulse still erratic.
He kisses the top of my head again and sighs.
And neither of us says a word.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AT NIGHT I fall asleep with my head on Wyatt’s shoulder. In the mornings, I wake up in his arms. But we never speak about it. Wyatt gets up without saying anything, goes about his day as Ryan, flirts with me in public but treats me with quiet concern in private—as if everything between us isn’t shifting like sand.
But it is. Everything’s shifting.
By the time the clubhouse comes together for a patching-in ceremony, the air feels so charged I can’t tell if it’s because of us or them.
Two prospects stand shirtless in the center of the hangar at sundown, the doors open to let in the golden light, as ritualistic as any religious ceremony. One of them is Cash, the kid who used to follow Billy like a stray dog. I used to think he was harmless. But now he’s a patched-in member of the Order of Disorder and not harmless anymore.
While they bow their heads, bare chests rising and falling with their nervous, bated breaths, Billy circles them like a preacher and gives a speech about brotherhood, blood, and debt.Silas stands in the circle too, smoking and unmoved. Wyatt is beside him, stone-faced and unreadable.
Road Captain.
I hate seeing him in that role. Hate how seamlessly he wears the mask. How easily he passes for one of them.
After the ceremony, the prospects are given their new cuts—fresh leather stitched with screaming skulls—and the mood turns. The hushed, ritual silence gives way to the unhinged, orgiastic energy of an O.D. party.
Wyatt finds me right after, hanging back by the far wall with the other women, and pulls me into him—big and solid and smelling of leather. Even though so much of what we do in public is a performance, his body against mine feels real. As Ryan, he tries to act harder. More distant. But he’s still Wyatt underneath. Still my tether.
“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my cheek.
I melt into him. Pathetic, maybe, how much I’ve come to crave these fake romantic gestures. But they soothe something raw in me. Babydoll, one of the girls who’s been around as long as I have, catches my eye and winks like I’ve lucked out.
We wander into the center of the crowd as it disperses into the four corners of the hangar, a diaspora of chaos. Four men take up posts behind the bar, slinging drinks. Laughter rises. The smell of pot starts wafting over us.
Wyatt’s eyes scan the room, cataloguing threats and possibilities. I only see it because I know him, but no one else would know he’s running calculations behind his eyes. They only see Ryan the Road Captain, competent, calm, and powerful. The man who climbed the ranks fast enough to make Silas nervous. Billy’s right hand.
Billy himself emerges from the crowd, bottle of tequila in one hand, a wide grin stretched across his face. He slings an armaround Wyatt’s shoulders, dragging him in with a burst of mock affection.
