Nowhere (Crimson Outlaws MC #1) Page 7

  A warm hand gripping my forearm startles me. It’s Nash, and he doesn’t say a word as he carts me out of this dank hellhole, up the stairs, through the hall, and into his small apartment on the opposite side of the bar. Just as the lock clicks into place, he starts in on me. I knew it was coming.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?!” he booms.

  Shrugging out of his tight grasp, I walk over to his brown, ratty couch and drop into it with a sigh. Nash moves across the floor until he’s blocking his flat screen that’s directly in front of me. I cross my legs, arms folded over my chest, eyeing him warily. “I wanted to make amends. So I brought chicken. It’s in the bar.” My head nods toward the closed door.

  Chest heaving for air, he cracks his neck side to side. Blood stains the front of his shirt and knuckles. He needs a shower. “I didn’t fucking give you permission to come downstairs. Thanks for the food. But fuck. That’s not a place for any woman.”

  “I’ve seen plenty of that before,” I defend, haughtily.

  “Steel doesn’t hold back for no one. For all he knew, you’ve seen this time and time again. He shouldn’t have stabbed him in front of you. That’s my fault for not thinkin’. But Toa shouldn’t have brought you down there to begin with.”

  Damn it, this isn’t going according to plan. I was supposed to leave work and pick up food. Then eat dinner with Nash before the boys pick me up tonight so we can hit the road. This is not what I want. Why isn’t life ever that simple? If I had been talking to Nash, I would have already known about the man in the cellar. Why did I have to wait until last minute to try and take this load off my shoulders? It’s been weeks of work hell and emotional turmoil not talking to him. I hate admitting it. It tears me apart inside. I’m not supposed to care this much. But I do. There’s something fucked up about me—about this—about us.

  “Earth to Gwen.” Nash snaps his fingers, and I come to, blinking rapidly.

  “What?”

  “Stop bein’ pissy,” he says.

  “Pissy? I’m not pissy. You’re the one who won’t talk to me. You’re the one who’s been avoiding me for two weeks. I came to get you back into my life. I don’t give a shit if it was a bad call for Toa to bring me down there. It’s over and done with.” My wrist flicks in the air, waving off the event

  Some women might be haunted by what I just saw- but not me. There’s hardly anything that could permanently disturb me after I was raped all those years ago. Hell, there are still things about that time that I haven’t told anyone else. And I never will. Stuff that involves baseball bats and popsicles.

  “I’m hungry,” he remarks, ignoring what I just said. “I’mma go get the food.” Nash doesn’t wait for my response before he leaves his apartment. I glare at the door as it’s shut in his wake. Minutes later, he returns with the bag of food and a bottle of beer.

  Sauntering silently into his galley kitchen, that’s directly off the living room, he washes his hands then carries out some plates, napkins, silverware, and a cold bottle of water for me. He sets everything on the coffee table before dropping onto the couch to my left.

  Nash opens up the food as I arrange our plates and other stuff. In the company of companionable silence, we dish out our dinners and eat hunched over. The sound of chewing through the crispy chicken skin and dense breaths are the only things to be heard.

  Finishing my meal first, I wipe my hands with a wet nap the restaurant provided and lean into the couch, feeling stuffed. “Are you planning on talking to me after you’re done?” I ask.

  He nods, so I wait.

  Once he’s through, Nash wipes himself clean, takes a long pull from his beer, finishing it off, and drops back into the cushions with a satisfied groan. Our shoulders bump. “That hit the spot.” He pats his stomach. “Kelly doesn’t like it when I eat fatty foods, so I don’t get it much.”

  No offense, but I don’t want to be talking about Kelly at a time like this, so I keep quiet. She’s a mood killer.

  He keeps on. “So how’s Trish’s boyfriend?”

  This is so not what I came here to discuss.

  Staring straight ahead, eyes on the blank wall above the TV, I reply, “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t asked. So why don’t you tell me?”

  “He’s never even had a speeding ticket.”

  I guess that’s a good thing.

  “So you checked in on him, I take it?” This is something I expected, so it’s not like I can be upset. He’s just looking out for her.

  Nash leans a bit closer, his shoulder kissing mine. A calming warmth flitters through me, regulating my crazy nerves. Damn, I’ve missed him. “You should’ve known I would. And I texted her yesterday to check in,” he states.

  Not wanting to waste another second on Trish talk, which is our safe-zone, I cut to the chase, turning my head to face him. “So, are you going to tell me why you’ve been distant? Last week, you texted three times. That’s it. Once about Trish, once about my motorcycle, and another about Sunday lunch. When I replied, that was it. You kept silent. Is this about what happened the other Sunday at Mom and Dad’s? You know … the kissing stuff.”

  God, I really hate discussing this, but it needs to be brought to light. No use in brushing it under the rug.

  “I don’t wanna talk about this, Gwen.” Nash stands and strides hastily to his bedroom door. “Thanks for dinner. It was nice seein’ ya. Now I gotta shower and maybe catch a nap before I gotta get back to work. The bar’s closed tonight for obvious reasons, but Kelly is supposed to drop by after she gets off at the club.”

  Leering at him, I remain seated, in fear of what I might do if I get up. I can’t believe he’s giving me the cold shoulder. He’s so fucking hot and cold tonight. One second, he’s calling me his Gwen, and now he’s brushing me off. What the hell?

  “What’s your problem?” I snap.

  “I have no problem, Gwen. I’m busy, tired, and I don’t want to fight.” He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, looking a bit haggard.

  “You’re gonna ignore me? Treat me like some second-rate family member? Is that it? I came here to mend whatever it is that’s broken.” I gesture between the two of us with my hand, trying to keep my voice calm. “Now you wanna blow me off. What the fuck?”

  Tugging out his man-bun, he runs fingers through his hair. That’s not a good thing. If he combs through his hair, it means he’s stressed and needs something to relax him.

  “I can’t do this, Gwen. Not anymore.”

  What in the world is he talking about?

  “Do what?!”

  “This.” He does that hand gesturing thingy, too. “I can’t do the kissing. The biting. The scratching. I thought I could. But I can’t. After I left Mom and Dad’s that Sunday, Kelly and I got to talkin’, really talkin’, and she explained some things.”

  “What kinda things?!” I can’t control it, every word that keeps coming out is high and full of venom.

  “That we’re codependent. She thinks you need me to breathe. Which makes her jealous.”

  “She’s jealous because I love my brother?! Of course, I need you. Why wouldn’t I? You came into my life when I was lonely. We were buds from day one. Since you were fifteen, I watched you work on cars for hours. I used to bake you cookies for Easter because I knew you’d buy me a stuffed bumble bee. I have twelve of those, all from you. All of them on display in my bedroom.”

  I realize I sound pathetic, but this is just stupid. I can’t believe he went from being okay with this for all these years, and now he’s suddenly changing his tune. This … Gah!! I dunno … It’s wrong! Plain wrong! I need him. I can’t do this … live this way. He’s ripping my heart from my chest.

  I suck in a pained breath and swallow down the lump of emotions that has crawled its way up my throat.

  “I know you still have them, Gwen.” His tone is flat—sad.

  “Then what the hell? Does Kelly expect me not to want to be in your life like I have been? When I was sixteen, when we moved into
the apartment above Mom and Dad’s garage with Trish, you watched her while I went to school. Then worked nights to bring home money so I could afford diapers. We lived together for years, Nash. Inside of Mom and Dad’s, and out. There’s nothing that’s going to change the bond we share. How could she expect that? It makes no damn sense. I respect Kelly … or, I did. I get that I need you in ways that are ten degrees of fucked up. I’ll be the first to admit that—”

  “You need to go, Gwen,” he interjects grimly, eyes fixed on the floor. “This’ll be the last time I let you bring me food. If you want to continue the monthly weekend fucks, that’s fine. I’ll watch out for you, but I won’t participate anymore. Now, I need to shower. You can see yourself out.”

  And just like that, Nash spins on his heel, enters his bedroom, and shuts the door. I hear the lock flick into place, and do nothing but stare in stunned silence. What just happened? Did he cut me off? Why would he do such a thing? I don’t get it. No communication. No nothing. And now I’m left with this gaping wound in my chest. It literally hurts as I rub my fist there, in the place that my heart is supposed to be. But it’s not. He took it with him when he turned his back on me and shut the door in my face.

  Tears that I wish to keep at bay give me the big fuck you as they stream down my cheeks, dripping off the tip of my chin and onto my shirt.

  Oh. My. God. What just happened? Can you tell me? I’m … I … shit … I don’t even know what to say as more tears continue their descent. It’s like he … he doesn’t love me anymore.

  A pained sob rips from my throat, and I cover my mouth, attempting to muffle the noise. I don’t want him to hear. He doesn’t deserve to know what he’s doing to me. That gives the asshole too much power.

  I can’t stay here. If he doesn’t want to fight for me, for our family, then he can kiss my ass. No … I don’t mean that. I wish I did. I wish I could hate him, but I don’t. In the deepest recesses of my soul, I knew this day would come. The day when I would be cut off. No more soothing kisses. No more hair combing. No more Nash and Gwen against the world. Now, I’m alone. Truly alone. My daughter is busy with her life. Nash is … I can’t be sure, but he doesn’t want me. What else matters anymore? I have nothing. I’m a thirty-three year old single woman, who’s never even been in a relationship. Never been on a date. Never made love to a man. Nothing…

  I really am ten ways of fucked up.

  Righting myself the best way possible, I hold my head high and see myself out. Thankfully, I avoid everyone besides Meatball as I do the walk of heartbreak. He sees me crying, I know he does, but he keeps quiet as I give him a small wave before climbing into my car. With one final glance, I take in the rustic front of Nowhere and pull out of the gravel drive, headed to somewhere. Somewhere where I can forget this day ever happened. Somewhere that I can cut away all of this pain and exchange it for the addictive buzz of adrenaline. Somewhere where someone actually cares for me.

  Fuck Kelly.

  Fuck Nash.

  Fuck all of this shit.

  It’s time to ride.

  AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell’ serenades us along the long stretch of road ahead. It’s just past midnight and the stars are out in full force, dotting the clear sky. Seated next to me, Fat Larry is busy strumming his thumbs on the steering wheel to the beat of the music. In the back, Jack and Tony are busy making out. And by the shape of our windows—thanks to them fogging—I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a bit of stroking going on underneath the blanket that’s covering their laps. Those two are utterly insatiable every time I see them, and rightfully so. Both of them are married, but not to each other. It seems that these summer weekends are the only time they can be together. According to Fat Larry, who’s been best friends with them for the past twenty years, Tony and Jack have been an unofficial item for nearly a decade. They all went to college together and stayed close afterward. They were even groomsmen in each other’s weddings. Or Tony and Jack’s, that is—Fat Larry has never been hitched, because he’s never found the right man. Truthfully, it’s kind of bittersweet to see the love these men share—since they’re unable to be together thanks to life’s never-ending complications. Sounds a little like Nash’s and my predicament … maybe … hell … maybe not … I dunno. Part of me wants Nash more than I let on. My newly broken heart is a telltale sign. Though, I’m choosing not to dwell on any of it. It’ll do me no good.

  A few hours ago, the boys picked me up from my house, where I was moping in the darkness of my living room, overthinking the Nash incident. As soon as we left, I texted Trish to let her know what was up. Now, my phone is off, and I’m enjoying the ride. Or trying to. If only the vision of Nash and his retreating back would stop playing on a reel in my head.

  God … I have to stop thinking about him.

  “Hey, you fuckers! There better not be any cum stains on my seats tomorrow,” Fat Larry teases, as he reverently caresses his steering wheel like it’s his most prized possession.

  There’s a sensual gasp as lips are unsealed. “We’ll be careful,” Jack replies, breathlessly.

  “You’d better be,” Fat Larry adds, then reaches across the seat and taps my thigh before settling his slender hand there, just above my knee. “How ya doin’? You haven’t said much. Gettin’ pumped about the races tomorrow? I’ve added a few new touches to your bike. I think you’ll like ‘em.”

  Nodding through the darkness of the cab, I pat the top of his hand in reassurance. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.” I yawn, gazing out of the obscure passenger side window. “And yes, I’m excited about the races, and the new parts. Thank you for those, by the way. I just hope I can steer clear of Wes this summer.”

  My crack at sounding cheerful falls a bit short. I’m typically more enthusiastic about these weekends since they’re one of the few times I get to let loose without my family worrying about me. If Nash knew about them, I’d be lectured for sure. But tonight just isn’t one of those nights I can be happy. I’m bored and sullen—two qualities that definitely don’t mix.

  “We’ll be fine. No worries,” Fat Larry comforts, patting my knee again. “I requested a primo spot at the site. We should have some privacy.”

  That sounds perfect. The more privacy, the better.

  Over the past few years, to keep these summer activities under wraps, I’ve stored my street bike with Fat Larry. Honestly, that’s the safest place for my bike anyhow, since he’s a mechanic and the one who transports our unofficial team to and from these events.

  Hitched onto the flatbed of Fat Larry’s Chevy 3500 dually truck is a toy camper. It’s one of the coolest damn things I’ve ever seen. Until I’d met him, I had no idea those kinds of trailers existed. It’s part camper, part hotel. The front half has a queen suite that Jack and Tony use a leather, four-person sofa in the living room. There is also a dining booth that folds into a full sized bed that has a pull down from the ceiling to make it into a full sized bunk. It’s huge. There’s also a luxury bath with a stand-up shower, and a kitchen with all stainless-steel appliances, including a full-sized refrigerator. In the rear half of the camper, there’s a garage of sorts with diamond plate flooring, a ramp, fold down bench and built-in tool boxes. It’s spacious enough to house our four bikes and a few other odds and ends. It sure as hell beats tent camping when we’re away.

  Another song starts, and my head lulls to the side, my forehead resting on the cool windowpane. Fat Larry squeezes my leg. “You’re not only tired, but you're also stressed,” he comments, nailing my problem right on the head.

  I shrug, even though he can’t see it. “I’m a little stressed.”

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Nash, does it? Or maybe Trish?” he asks.

  I guess I should mention that just because Nash and my family know nothing about Fat Larry, Tony, and Jack, these men do know about them. It’s impossible not to talk about my family when I’m away. So I’ve confided in these three guys more times than I can count. And yes, that includes the sord
id details of my monthly fuck fests, and the strange relationship Nash and I’ve always had. I think Fat Larry is secretly wishing I would date my step-brother. I, on the other hand, would just be happy to have him back in my life. Dating him has never crossed my mind, anyhow. Dating is for people you just met. People you are getting to know. Nash and I have known each other for over twenty years, so there’s not much else I haven’t learned about him one way or another.

  A moan emanates from the back, and I stifle a giggle, forgetting my own thoughts for a moment.

  “I haven’t fucked anyone in over six months, and here you two assholes are moaning in my truck? Come on; give a guy a break,” Fat Larry reprimands half seriously.

  Smiling, I grab his hand and fold my fingers through his. “Let them have their fun,” I torment, skating around his previous questions.

  “Fun? They’re going to stain the upholstery. And we’ll be smelling cum soon enough.”

  He’s right. It happens every time we get together. And it might bother some people, but it doesn’t me. I’m pretty laid back when it comes to sex. It’s a normal bodily function that needs tending to. I just happen to enjoy it kinkier than some.

  Another moan reverberates, followed by loud, sloppy kissing. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Fat Larry, who really isn’t fat at all, remove his hand from the wheel for a moment to run his palm down the muscled front of his chest, and end on his crotch where he adjusts a prominent bulge. Maybe he’ll be lucky to find himself a quick lay at one of our races. Looks like he needs it. Not that I blame him. I couldn’t go six months without some dick. At least these events are stocked full of just about any type of man or woman you could desire. They’re not like the stereotypical Harley riders. You know the ones I’m talking about—men dressed in leather, wearing bandanas, and covered in tattoos. No, street bike racers are an eclectic bunch. From known thugs to the rich assholes with so much money they don’t know what to do with. All the way down to the average rider, like me. Or that’s what I’d consider myself. Although, there aren’t many women who ride in the circuit we run. They’re typically used for arm candy, wearing their tight, barely-there clothes. If you’ve ever watched The Fast and the Furious, you’d understand what I’m talking about. That’s exactly how we roll. Except we race bikes on long winding roads, in the backwoods of some state where the cops can be easily paid off. A man named Rubio heads it up. Though you rarely see him at any race. It’s his minions that run the show, gathering bets, buy-ins, and designating our tracks.