Page 10 of That Girl is Trouble

“I know what I said,” I say with another bite. In my periphery, her shoulders slump, making my chest twist.

I don’t want her here. It’s better for her if she isn’t. But no way she wants to sleep in that room alone after last night. Even with the new lock I had one of the prospects install, the sanctity of the room she’s been calling home for the last two months is tainted. Dirty. Even though all that blood is gone, it’s still an invisible stain, still hiding in the grooves of the wood and the cracks of the doorframe. A mess like that surely lingers, just like memories of last night will for Kat.

With a deep sigh, I glance back at her and jerk my head towards the edge of the couch. “Yeah, yeah, all right. Couch is shit though. Can’t promise a good sleep.”

She smiles and shuffles in. Once she’s over the threshold, she locks the door behind her, then folds herself into the corner of my couch. I toss her a blanket, and she wraps it around her shoulders, covering her loose-fitting tank top and sleep shorts.

“Jesse says they’re stopping up in Deep River. Should be back tomorrow morning,” she murmurs, her focus on the muted TV. I simply nod, and then she asks, “Is… Bane okay? That was a lot of blood.”

Yeah. That. Another fucking problem. Some fuck on a sports bike ripped into our town in broad daylight and emptied his clip on two of my guys. Took us hours to patch Bane up and get him right, but he could have easily come out of that dead. Another round of shit Kat shouldn’t be near. Another reason Graves should boot this girl the fuck home.

“Fine,” I say. “All patched up.”

We fall silent as the soundless play-by-play from last night’s game flashes in front of us. Football is one of the things I missed most when I was inside. Sure, there’s TV in prison, and if I managed to go more than a week without pissing off a guard, I was even allowed to watch it here and there. But I spent the vast majority of those four years without it.

It was an inevitability, I guess, ending up in there, given the life I live, but it was never real to me until the day I lost control, the day I tried to kill a man who’d come for the club. I don’t regret it, but I really fucking missed TV. And women. And food. Tacos, burgers, steak, ribs. Fucking donuts. Been out two years, and a day hasn’t gone by since where I haven’t taken exactly what I want, because if anything ever goes south again, if I’m backed into another corner, I’ll be coming out of it in a body bag instead of handcuffs.

Kat clears her throat. “About last night.”

“Which part?”

“The part where Graves…” She drops her chin, as if she can’t quite say it. “What he did last night… is that—is that going to cause trouble? Because… of me?”

“I imagine there will always be trouble because of you, Kitty Kat,” I say with a chuckle.

She frowns. “I mean is anyone going to come after him? After you?”

I lift a brow. “This is my town. My club. That fuck touched what wasn’t his, and he paid. End of discussion.” I take another sip of my beer. “You should go home. This place is no good for you. It’s not a place a young girl should be spending her time.”

She clenches her fists and shoots me an angry look. “I’m not that young.”

“You’re sixteen.”

“Seventeen soon.”

“Like that fucking matters,” I mutter.

The scowl on her face deepens, and I can tell it’s coming—the fucking attitude, the anger that makes her pop off on whoever’s unlucky enough to be in her way when she loses her temper.

“Easy, Kitty,” I say, dropping my voice in warning. “I was just sayin’.”

“So then send me home,” she snaps.

“Would love to. But Graves is insisting you stay here. I imagine to make sure your sister keeps letting him in her bed. Speaking of which,” I say before gulping down the rest of my beer. “Time for me to get into mine.”

“Probably a good idea.” She says it like a dismissal. Like she’s fucking sending me to bed in my own goddamn house.

I let out a deep sigh, the little patience I’ve been clinging to tonight waning. She’s baiting me. Poking. Pushing. It’s what Kat does. She likes to test the limits, see how close she can get to an edge without toppling over. Jesse feeds right into that shit. It’s why the two of them are always going at it—yelling, slamming doors, fucking, and then starting all over again. It’s all dramatics. All bullshit.

Most days, I ignore it. Tonight, though, I’m tempted to bend the little brat over my goddamn knee and slam my belt down on her ass until she’s raw.

Jesus.

Fucking. Sixteen.

“Careful,” I murmur, another warning. One she heeds. Her spine straightens, her eyes drop, and she bites down on her bottom lip. That’s all it takes sometimes to remind her of who she’s talking to. Remind her I’m not her fucking boyfriend, who she can step all over and expect to come out on the other side intact.

That I’m Axel fucking Donovan, and she’ll show me respect when she’s in my fucking house.

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