Page 72 of Tied to You
I am so fucking done with this night.
No one mutters a word. I’m pretty sure my poor car’s about to set on fire with the unspoken things bubbling up inside it. A few glances in my rear view show me Dean checking his phone. He looks up and sees me watching him, but I get no more than a narrowing of his eyes. I daren’t look to my left. Can’t. But I feel the tension seeping from him.
The stab of misery hurts so much. I don’t bother asking where I’m taking them. They’re going to the clubhouse, whether they want to or not. Considering neither of them challenge me when I pull up outside, leaving the engine running, keeping my face forward, I assume this is where theywanted to be.
Travis steps out, manoeuvring his seat for Dean to wedge himself out too. He gripes and grumbles. It’s not my fault they’re both tall and have muscles like bricks.
I wait for the door to close, but it doesn’t.Don’t look. Don’t look.The urge pulls deep, but I keep my stare forward.
Travis dips his frame into my peripherals. “Are you okay?” he asks. It’s gentle, considering how brutal I’ve seen him.
I don’t reply. Because I’m not okay. He knows it as much as I do.
Shocking me, he sighs, a somewhat condescending edge to it. “Fine.” He stands, but the door remains open. “We’re done then, Mollie. It’s for the best.” Then the door closes, and I’m left sat alone, my ears ringing, my heart trying to physically leave my chest.
I pull away making him step back, and I flick my eyes to watch him turn and immediately start walking inside. I change gear, but flinch, feeling betrayed. What’s that hurt in my gut that I’m feeling? I slam on the brakes, my fingers in a vice like grip on the wheel as he moves out of sight.
The engine ticks over, just like my thoughts. Fuck him. Fuck him for making me endure what I did, then tell me we’re done like I did something wrong. I haven’t done anything wrong. Not to him. Not my dad. Anyone. My entire life is just a constant state of upsetting people. I should be able to do what I want, when I want, no repercussions or questions asked. Is that too much to ask?
It’s for the best.
You’re my daughter, I know what’s best for you.
Fuck. Them. Both.
I turn off the ignition, grab my clutch from the passenger footwell and vehemently make my way to the door to the clubhouse, my temper reaching dizzying new heights as the fucking necklace around my neck bangs against my chest. The door opens with a thud, and I hear it close behind me as people stop, turning their heads to me. I don’t care that they’re looking, probably wondering why I’m dressed the way I am in a place like this. I only care about one person seeing me. And he’s standing by the bar, his back to me.
He knows I’m here. I see his shoulders tense, his back straightening. It’s like he’s bracing himself for me. Good. I feel murderous.
Chapter Sixteen
TRAVIS
Iclose my eyes, hearing the bang of the door. I knew she’d be unable to let me get away with telling her we’re done. I have no right. Not after everything. The way I know we’re going to clash and fight has me bracing myself, preparing for her wrath. But inside, I’m thanking whatever gods are out there, fucking glad that she chose to challenge me, like I knew she would. It means she’s here. And whether she wants to fight me, talk, shout, kick or scream, I’ll take it all. Because it means she’s right here with me. In the chaos.
Ourchaos.
“We’re done?” she calls, no fucks given to my brothers all watching.
Unlike Mollie, them I do care about. This should be handled in private. Not on show to be the talk of the town. I already know Rocco has his opinions on distractions. I don’t want to add fuel to the fire. That’s not my style.
Turning, I come face to face with her, seeing her pent-up frustration. Beautiful. “We’re not doing this here.” I sound so controlled, but my hands are trembling. I grip her elbow, turning her, marching her to the bedroom, the only other room with a lock. I nudge her inside, closing and locking the door behind me.
I should have anticipated it. Mollie’s vicious right-hand lands against my cheek as I face her. Her go-to reaction with me whenever she’s stressed. I hate that she’s this angry, but seeing her this passionate, stirs my need to feel everything with this woman.
Love. Hate. Anger. Pain. I want to feel it all. More than anything, I want to show her that with me, she can be anyone she wants to be. She doesn’t haveto prove anything. Doesn’t need to be anything other than herself. If that’s what I can give her, then she can hit me as many times as she fucking likes.
“You’re a fucking arsehole!” she shouts, her chest bouncing, her hands balled into fists.
I push off the door. “I know.”
She thinks about hitting me again, her eyes locked on where, no doubt, my cheek has already turned red.
Our eyes then meet, and her lips slightly part on a lost breath.
“Mol—”
She cuts me off, closing her eyes. “Don’t! Don’t you dare try to tell me anything other than you’re sorry.”
