I should’ve just stayed home.
“Another shot,” Lil insists. It’s not a question. She knows I’m going to take it. I’m a sucker.
At the club, the last place I need to be, I’m drinking because what the hell else would I be doing here? I drink because I have zero self-control, nor do I have much self-respect anymore. I’m spying. My morbid curiosity piqued and my martyr complex flared up. I came the second Lil’s text came through. ‘We’re at the club and Tags is here with us.’ I left work early and everything. I hopped in my car, my prospect bodyguard hot on my heels, and hauled ass here.
Stupid, Samantha.
Grabbing the offered glass, I down the amber liquid in one quick swallow and slam the shot glass down on the bar top. Gin smacks me on the back as I cough, the burn stinging the back of my throat. My eyes water and my chest aches. “Good girl.” He applauds me, laughing as he sits down next to me. He’s the worst influence. If he were a sobriety buddy, we’d both be off the wagon.
I promised myself I wouldn’t drink as soon as I got here. After my first drink, I told myself no more. I’m four shots in now, and there’s no stopping me once I get going. There was no going back once I saw Tags here, happy and in love, with someone else. I should’ve known better. I should’ve never come here.
I fucking hate him and I shouldn’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I was the one who ended my two and a half year on-again, off-again thing with him. I was the one who told him he no longer did it for me. I told him to lose my number. So why does it fucking hurt to see him hugged up on some dark-haired chick with a nice rack and curvy ass? The only reason I can surmise? I’ve got fucking issues. I don’t want him, but no one else can have him. Makes sense, right?
Jesus. I’m a mess.
“Another shot,” Lil says, putting a small shooter in my hand. “You need it.” Her eyes dart to where mine linger.
“I need a long nap and a big dick,” I mutter, dipping my finger into the thick brown liquid and popping it into my mouth. I feel stupid for even caring. I’m so over him. Have been for a while, but still …
She laughs. “We all do, honey.”
“Need a nap or a big dick?” One or the other would be nice.
“Both. Preferably at the same time,” Peaches adds, a shit-eating grin on her face. Gin grabs her, pulls her onto his lap and grinds against her ass, which makes me both nauseous and jealous. I wonder what the sex between those two is like? My guess? Rough.
Everyone’s here—my Washington and my Oregon family—for some giant Disciples meet up over something I couldn’t care less about. I should care, it affects me in a roundabout way, but I don’t. Not right now anyway. I only care about my drink.
Lilly and I drink while I repeatedly glance at Tags and his bitch at the other end of the room. The way his arm is draped over her shoulder, her body pulled into his. How she laughs at his jokes and smiles as he talks. When he kisses her neck, I’ve had enough.
Finishing my sixth shot, I slide the glass down the bar and get up. Walking off, drunk and uncoordinated, I leave the bunch to their drinking with a wave of my hand. “I’ll see ya later.”
I’ve had all I can take.
Stumbling around like a newborn deer on my six-inch heels, I bump into Buck on my way by.
“Okay?” he asks, steadying me. He smells like cologne and gasoline. His hands are big and his beard is bushy. The guy is a true mountain man in every sense of the word, and I don’t like him much right now either. He’s a traitor, being friends with Tags.
“Fine,” I grumble. Irritated, I brush his hands off my arms. He means well, but… “I’m good.”
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, why I feel so angry. I want to punch Tags in his stupid face. I want to drop kick him across the room and boot him in the nuts. And before I know what I’m doing, I’m heading toward him, a smirk on my lips. I don’t even know what the smirk is for or about. I have nothing to be happy about. No reason to smile. I blame the bravado on the booze.
“Tags,” I growl, shoulder checking him on my way by. Even though I don’t want him, I don’t want him with someone else. The asshole didn’t have to run out and fall dick first into the first willing vagina he stumbled across. The nasty bastard.
I grumble, “asshole,” as I walk off.
“Jesus, Sam,” he growls, grabbing my wrist. “What’s your problem?”
I snort. “Oh, I don’t know.” I look at the bimbo on his arm, sizing her up. “Maybe how quickly you moved on.”
“You told me to kick rocks, remember?” Oh, I remember.
“I did, and I really don’t care what you or your dick do, but don’t bring it here and rub it in my face.”
His grip on my arm tightens. “Don’t do this shit. Don’t act wounded.”
Jerking away, I make a noise in the back of my throat. A noise that resembles a disbelieving snort and a gag of resentment. “Fuck you, Tags,” I say as parting words, only feeling the tiniest bit better. His balls in my back pocket would make me feel even better.
The only thing about the guy I like is his daughter.
Stumbling down the long hall at the back of the club, I damn near fall through my Dad’s office door. It’s long since been established that I might walk in on any sort of mayhem and debauchery at any given time. I’ve grown accustomed to it, but what I walk in on stops me in my uncoordinated tracks.
I feel like I’ve walked into a wall, my breath knocked out of my lungs.
Fuck.
“King?” My voice falters, his name like a razorblade on my tongue—sharp and painful.
Kingston “King” Toretto looks at me, his face giving nothing away. Blank. Emotionless. Ruthless. There’s that cold, detached look in his eyes that I’m used to when he greets me with “Princess” in return. It’s the only way I know he knows me, recognizes me, by the name that leaves his firmly pressed lips.
I say nothing. I do nothing. I can hardly breathe.
Sitting across from my dad, legs wide and arms crossed over his chest, he doesn’t utter another word, but he stares hard. His eyes linger on my mouth, watching me lick my suddenly dry lips. He doesn’t ask me how I’ve been or what I’ve been up to. I suspect he doesn’t care because King cares about nothing. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way, over and over again.
He doesn’t look the same. His shoulder-length hair is gone and is now cut short, almost buzzed. He’s also got a messy beard.
I think I hate the man sitting in front of me more than I hate Tags.
“Samantha?” my dad barks, garnering my attention. “Why you hangin’ off my door like a drunk fuckin’ monkey?”
“I’m leaving,” I tell him, hand flapping around. “Call you in the morning.”
Cocking a brow, he leans back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “Where’s your brother?” I know where this is going, and as much as I love my dad and brothers, their overprotective need to micromanage everything I do is fucking annoying. My dad and T are always in my business here, and Trace always in it from afar. I’m a big girl. Well, most of the time anyway. Stalker or not, I need to get the fuck out of this club as soon as possible. I’ll gladly take the prospect with me if I don’t have to look at Tags or King.
Shrugging, I lean myself against the doorjamb, needing the support. “Don’t know. But I’ll talk to you later.”
I turn to leave.
“Since your brother’s doing fuck knows what, I’ll get you a ride back to your place.”
Nope. Not gonna happen.
Looking from me to King, my dad nods. “We done here?”
King jerks his chin in acknowledgment, with something secret passing between them. Something that doesn’t sit well with me.
“I’m good,” I tell them both, not interested in being around King. My heart can’t take the pain. King makes me feel more than Tags ever did, and I can’t take that shit right now. It’ll crush me.
Turning on my heels, I march out of the room and down the hall. “Samantha, bring your ass back here,” my dad hollers at my retreating back.
“I’m good.” I toss a thumb up above my head, still walking toward the door, a drunken stagger to my steps.
“Knock your shit off,” my dad growls, his voice tired. “Take her home, King.”
“Nope. I’m solid,” I advise, still walking. I’m through the side door and halfway across the wet gravel lot before King catches up to me.
He doesn’t run. He doesn’t sprint. He doesn’t chase. But he catches me. He catches me quickly and efficiently.
“Let’s go.” Grabbing my arm, he jerks me in the opposite direction my feet are going and I stumble back into him, my side connecting with solid chest and stomach. “On the back of my bike, Princess.” He steers me toward the large matte black Harley at the end of the row of bikes.
If he thinks I’m going willingly then he’s lost his fucking mind.
I want nothing to do with him.