Page 28 of Ravaged and Ruined
But now what?
Her body’s marked up from my grip. Her lips are still swollen from my mouth. I can still smell her on me.
The weight in my chest is a bitch, heavy and stealing my breath as I stare at her. Sunlight filters through the blinds inslats, cutting across Lacey’s bare skin like a cage of gold. She’s curled into my side, her bare leg draped over mine like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. Her breathing’s soft and steady, her mouth slightly parted, her cheek pressed against my pillow. She looks so soft and peaceful. The sight of her like this should calm the war raging in me, but it doesn’t.
I should keep holding her. I should wake her up with soft kisses, but I’m not that guy. I never was.
Instead, I ease my arm out from under her, being careful not to wake her. The second her skin leaves mine, I feel the cold rush in. I swing my legs over and sit at the edge of the bed, counting how many ways I could fuck this up. Not just Lacey, but everything. The Club’s bleeding cash. Ricci’s making moves, and I’m too busy losing my damn mind over a woman I don’t deserve.
I stand quietly, being careful not to make a sound. Her lashes flutter like she might wake, and I pause, holding my breath. If she opens those eyes, I’m done. I’ll crawl back into bed like a fucking weak man, pull her into my arms and lie to her face about forever. I don’t have the right words, or the right timing. So I do what I always do.
I leave, because I don’t know how to stay.
I grab my jeans off the floor, pull them on, then snatch my shirt from the chair. My boots thud against the floor as I slide them on. I swipe my gun, and my keys I tossed on the dresser last night. The room smells like sex and sweat and her, and I fight the urge to look back.
I swing my cut onto my shoulders before I go out there and become the man the world expects me to be.
The man who can’t keep her.
I shut the bedroom door behind me and regret slams into my chest like a punch.
I don’t go far. I lean against the wall in the hallway outside my room, my hands braced on my knees like I’ve taken a hit I wasn’t ready for.
Last night she looked at me like I was everything. Like maybe this time, I wasn’t going to wreck her. And what did I just do? I snuck out like a damn coward while she’s still in my bed. Still believing my lies.
“You’re mine, Bambola.”
Fuck.
I didn’t say it just to get her off. I meant it. God help me, I meant every syllable. But she deserves better than some broken bastard who solves problems with his fists and never stays the morning after.
I pull myself together the best I can and make my way downstairs. What’s done is done. She’s going to hate me now but not more than I hate myself. I tell myself that she’s better off without me and if she shuts me out permanently this time, I only have myself to blame.
The clubhouse is quiet this early, only the soft hum of the TV in the commons room hinting anyone’s awake. I don’t bother looking to see who it is, cause frankly I don’t give a damn. I keep walking toward the kitchen, finding Crank hunched over the counter nursing a cup of black sludge he calls coffee.
“You look like hell,” he says without looking up at me.
“I feel worse.” I grab a mug, pour myself a cup I won’t drink and try to push thoughts of Lacey in my bed out of my mind and focus on my job. “Did our special delivery make it?”
Crank nods. “Prospects checked in. Torrent out in Newport, Rhode Island was appreciative of our gift. Said he had the perfect market for them. The boys should be back this afternoon.”
“Good.” I bring the mug to my lips and take a sip. Crank side eyes me, and my instincts prick up. “Is there something else?”
“Got word early,” he says, lighting a cigarette with one hand, the other wrapped around his coffee. “Quick job. Docks. Low-profile grab, but heavy payoff. Could float the casino if it goes clean.”
I take a slow sip, watching him over the rim. “What kind of cargo?”
He smirks around the cigarette, then flicks ash into a tray already overflowing. “Manifest’s blank. But my guy says it’s weighty. Weapons, most likely. Military grade.” He pauses, eyes narrowing. “Might be connected to the stash we pulled from the warehouse.”
That gets my attention. I straighten, setting the mug down with a dull thud. “Go on.”
“Word is, some Russian crew’s been sniffing around the Eastside. Used to run their product through Ricci’s pipeline, until he iced them out. Now they’re freelancing.”
I cross my arms, leaning back against the counter, the cold edge of the granite biting into my spine. “And this crew at the docks?”
“No real muscle. No patches. Just a few rent-a-thugs playing soldier. They’re sloppy and vulnerable. If we hit them hard and fast, we can make it look like a rival crew jacked the shipment.”
“How clean can we make it?”
