Page 21 of Diablo

“It’s not a problem. I have the space and you need a roof over your head—”

“I said no,” Tarzan cut in, sharply.

For the first time since our argument, he met my gaze. His eyes were hard, steady, and his jaw was set in a firm line. He wasn’t going to budge on this.

In the past, Tarzan had no problem hanging out with me all weekend while I worked on any bikes that were waiting in my garage for a paint job. It was obvious those days were over. As long as I had anything to do with Diablo, Tarzan would keep his distance.

I barely paid attention to the rest of the meeting as it passed in a muted, hazy blur. Lloyd’s voice was a low drone in the back of my mind as I sat there, lost in thought, trying desperately to figure out a way I could fix this.

For the remainder of the meeting, Tarzan kept his gaze focused on his hands or Lloyd. But he never looked my way again. Then heat started to prickle the back of my neck. Was he really going to shut me out because I had sex with someone else? Did he expect me to remain celibate in order to earn the respect of my club and my rank? It was my choice, not his.

At last, Lloyd picked up the gavel that lay next to him and knocked it firmly against the table.

“Dismissed. Let’s get moving.”

Tarzan wasted no time heading for the door. I shoved my chair back and went after him. I waited until we had reached the parking lot before I spoke so we didn’t have an audience because this was going to be one hell of an uncomfortable conversation.

“We need to talk,” I called.

Tarzan didn’t stop, didn’t even glance back over his shoulder to acknowledge that I’d spoken. He fished his keys out of his pocket and climbed onto his bike.

“Is it really going to be like this?” I demanded.

With considerable effort, Tarzan reluctantly met my gaze.

“Like what, Stevie?”

“You can barely look at me,” I countered. “I know you’re not a misogynistic asshole, Tarzan. You never gave a damn who I slept with before. Why are your hackles up over this guy?”

A muscle twitched in Tarzan’s jaw. His chest heaved and his eyes were dark.

“Do I really have to spell it out? Are you so fucking blind that you can’t see Diablo is using you? When he tosses you aside, I won’t be the one to watch you fall apart, let alone pick up the damn pieces.”

I couldn’t speak around the lump in my throat. A small voice in the back of my mind told me that Tarzan was right. That’s why I consoled myself with it’s just sex and it doesn’t mean anything.

As Tarzan yanked on his helmet and started his bike, I blinked back the hot burn of tears and lifted my chin. I had to raise my voice to be heard over the roar of his engine.

“I’m tougher than you think. My heart doesn’t break easily.”

Tarzan shot me a withering look, as if to say, you really don’t get it, do you?

Then he shook his head and reversed his bike, revving it out of the parking lot. I stood there in the dark alone after he was gone with the neon glow from the clubhouse sign at my back. An uneasiness settled in my stomach and I dug my phone out of my back pocket. I squinted in the screen’s glow. Scrolling through my contacts list, I found Diablo’s name.

Why hadn’t I deleted his number earlier? And why would I bother calling him now?

He wasn’t part of the Desert Howlers, so Tarzan’s situation was none of his concern. While most clubs would be willing to help a fellow biker in need and contribute to the rally this weekend, there was too much history between us and the Alpha Riders. They weren’t likely to lend a hand.

My thumb hovered over the dial button. After a moment, I moved to the delete button.

I hadn’t heard a peep from Diablo since my visit with LeBlanc. Diablo had seemed so…twitchy. And pissed. Something wasn’t right in his world.

I jabbed the button and sighed, shoving my phone in my back pocket again. Right now, I needed to be there for Tarzan and show my support, even if he didn’t want it.

***

Judge, Ratchet, and I spent most of the night designing a flier to promote the rally this weekend. Then we spent the next day riding from one town to the next putting them up or stopping to talk to clubs. On our way back home, the sign for Merry Field loomed on the horizon.

We had purposefully avoided it—seemed pointless to waste our time when we already knew we weren’t welcome there. But as we approached the turn, I realized we had nothing to lose. Tarzan needed all the help he could get. And as the Vice President, it was my responsibility to throw my weight around, use my influence to look after my club.

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