CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After Rock finally, reluctantly—very reluctantly—leaves, I flop onto my bed and collapse into tears. I am weak. I am such a girl. It hurts. It feels wrong to even think it, but the pain is uncomfortably close to how I felt after Clay’s death.
How do people do this? How do they go on and survive after bigger tragedies than I’ve been through? I don’t know. I don’t have it in me, I guess.
After a few hours of wallowing, I snap on the bedside lamp and stare at the bedroom. Clay’s side is still intact. I pull on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt and finally do what I should have done months ago. Sifting through Clay’s clothes seems like the easiest place to start, but it’s not. Most of the things in his closet have a musty tinge to them from sitting so long, untouched. But a few sweaters still have enough of his scent clinging to them that I burst into tears. I set those aside for now and pack the rest into boxes. The criminal defense bar has a program where you can donate ‘professional’ type clothing for defendants to wear to trial—instead of the prejudice-inducing orange jumpsuits they might otherwise wear. That’s where I’m going to send Clay’s business casual clothing and suits. I feel good about myself once I make that decision, and the sorting and packing goes much smoother.
When I run out of boxes and garbage bags, I stop. As I look around at all the bags and boxes, I’m thrilled with the progress I’ve made.
Rock will—wait. Rock will nothing, because I told him we were over.
It makes sense for me to get rid of these things. This house. Pare it all down to nothing and find an apartment. No other man I might want to date will tolerate the shadow of my dead husband hanging around.
Other man? There are no other men compared to Rock. How can there be another man?
He’s it, and I know it.
I’ve been making him put up with all my grief and guilt. He’s done it and not said a word. Been very sweet and understanding, even though it probably kills him. That shows me just how much he does respect me. If I stopped my righteous indignation long enough to grasp it.
Dammit.
We still need to talk about this overwhelming need to protect me and go behind my back to keep track of me. I’m so not okay with that. If he’d just told me, explained it, I probably would have thought it was sweet, like the girl in the cellphone shop did. But by being sneaky, it made it ugly and infuriating.
Still, there were better ways I could have explained it.
Now he’s gone.
I can’t stand going back to my house. If I catch Hope’s scent on my sheets, I will lose my fucking mind.
Wrath spots me the minute I step in the front door of the clubhouse.
“Where you been, fucker?” is his idea of a greeting.
Through hell is what I want to answer, but I don’t.
“Why you waiting around for me like a nervous momma?” I ask instead.
Wrath curves his body to the side in an exaggerated movement. “Where’s your girl? Thought she was comin’ with.”
My jaw clenches, but before I can come up with any reasonable excuse, Z thunders down the stairs.
“’Sup, prez?” He also glances at the empty air behind me. “Where’s Hope?”
Shrugging off my cut, I storm into the war room, ignoring both of them. I’m not about to sit down and talk about my feelings with my brothers.
Not fucking happening.
I can hear the two fuckers out in the living room clucking about my dickish behavior.
Fuck.
Both their heads snap up when I bump into the couch. I drop down opposite from where they’re sitting. “Hope’s a little pissed at me.”
And isn’t that the understatement of the year?
For the second time in two weeks, she told me to “get out.” Shouted it at me, actually.
This time I don’t think there’s any repairing it. You went too far this time, Rock. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.
“What’d you do now, Rock?” Z asks. He’s asking as my friend, not my VP.
I look up, catching his eye. “She found the app I had you install.”
“Fuck, man, how? I buried it deep—”
Poor Z’s gonna get himself all worked into a fit if he thinks he fucked something up. I wave my hand in the air. “No. The phone broke and she had to take it up to the store—”
Z nods, satisfied it’s not his fault.
Wrath has his face screwed into an incredulous expression. “Wait a second. You put a tracking app on Hope’s phone and didn’t tell her about it?”
Surprised Wrath cares so much, I just nod.
“Whoa. I mean I get why you didn’t ask her, but to not even tell her? Bro, that’s fucked up.” Then he turns away and mutters, “and everyone thinks I’m the asshole ‘round here,” loud enough for me to hear.
“Big help, bro, thanks,” I tell him in my most sarcastic if-you-weren’t-my-best-friend-I’d-kill-you voice.
“You jacked Trin’s phone,” Z points out to Wrath.
His face transforms into one that has made lesser men shit their pants. Z is oblivious. “Technically you did, asshole. Besides, that’s different,” Wrath growls.
“She’s club property,” Z says with a grin that is about to get his teeth knocked down his throat by the look on Wrath’s face.
“It’s different because I told her we did it. She wasn’t surprised. But she grew up in this life and understands.” He swings his glacial gaze back my way. “Hope is citizen, Rock. You keep trying to integrate her into our world, but you’re not straight with her. Women like her get offended by that shit.”
Anyone who looks at Wrath and assumes he’s all brawn and no brain is seriously fucking stupid. Brother is apparently smarter than I am. Well, sometimes.
“How you gonna fix it?” Z asks.
She gave me the way. It’s a pretty fucking big gesture. Impossible really.
“I don’t know.”