Potter threw Stretch a sour look. “Sorry, brother. I believe you wanted hemlock or arsenic. Am I supposed to run somewhere and find that for you or is there something behind the bar you’d like?”
Cash narrowed his eyes at Stretch. “If you want poison, come to me. I’ll get it for you.”
“I’m sure you would,” Stretch snapped, then looked at Potter. “There’s a bottle of crème de violette behind there. That’s mine.”
“Fuck, you don’t need me to get poison for you,” Cash griped. “You have it covered.”
“I agree.” Potter found the bottle and handed it to Stretch. “That shit tastes like fucking cough syrup.”
“That’s why it’s my shit and not yours,” Stretch grumbled, hopping to his feet. He winced at the pain streaking through his leg. Grabbing his cane with the skeleton head, a gift from Cash, and his bottle, he limped away.
Thanks to the crowded hallways, it took him several minutes to reach his room. Seeing so many people enjoying themselves satisfied Stretch. The past year had been good for the club. Many of the old members who’d stayed away when the club was under siege by Sharper Banks, had become regulars again. The Bobs were back at two dozen, as they’d been when K-P was alive.
The club was different, though. Before Stretch patched in and was just a hang-around, the parties had been a little more frenetic. Those days were long gone. The club president was married, a father, proving everything changed.
In the safety of his room, he made his way to his messy bed, where two torn condom wrappers remained.
He sat on the edge of the bed, opened his bottle and drank, uncertain how to feel. Sometimes, he resented Fee’s intrusion into his relationship with Cash. Like tonight.
Cash’s focus had been her, until Stretch pulled it away by gripping his cock. Just as quickly, she’d regained control. Stretch might’ve been pissed at the way she’d used him to seduce Cash—if he hadn’t been using her for the same reason. The rancor between them wasn’t her fault. Cash had brought her in, without asking how he felt about the change.
Now, Cash had given both Stretch and Fee ultimatums. Either the three of them made it together or they all went their separate ways. Again, all without Stretch’s consent or consideration.
Cash was an overbearing, domineering bastard.
A little more drink removed some of Stretch’s rising bitterness. He had no right to bear any grudge against Fee. Both of them had chosen to be at Cash’s mercy.
Stretch had no idea why she did it. He, himself? Cash had stormed into Stretch’s life, full of arrogance and charm, stealing his heart.
Setting his bottle on the nightstand, he stood and hobbled to the bathroom. He wondered if Fee had made it home safely. As soon as he showered, he’d text her.
He proceeded to strip, then he looked in the mirror. Once again, he touched the long scar on the side of his face, not only feeling but seeing it. Remembering the hatred, the cruelty.
Remembering Hanson, the lover Stretch had reconnected with again. Beaten, shot, and killed, because of Stretch’s supreme fucking stupidity. He deserved every pain, every mark, for leading him into that hellish nightmare.
Turning too quickly, Stretch wobbled on his feet, losing his balance. He landed on both of his knees, biting on his lip so hard he tasted blood, to keep from crying out. Men didn’t show such weakness and he was a man.
Well before Stretch had come across Cowboy and company, his father and uncles’ attempted to prove differently.
He sat on the floor and massaged his leg, grimacing at the long scar and shrunken muscle. Sometimes, his damaged nerves hurt so bad he wanted to throw up.
He could ride, but he no longer ran. He wanted to cry, but hardly ever considered laughing. He hated, when he only wanted love.
Guilt and grief gnawed at his soul. Hanson had been his friend.
Stretch had acted in fairness and broken it off with him when he fell for Cash. When things didn’t work out as Stretch expected and Hanson found out, they’d reconnected.
Two loud pounds on his bedroom door snapped Stretch’s head up. Fuck, he didn’t feel like being bothered right now, but experience had taught him they wouldn’t go away until he answered.
Pulling himself to the opened bathroom door, he grabbed the handle as leverage and struggled to his feet. Closer to the door than to his cane, he dragged his way toward it, not realizing his nudity until his hand touched the knob.
“Fuck.”
“I heard you,” Cash called. “Open the fucking door, Woo Woo.”
Woo Woo. Stretch stiffened. Asshole. Cash knew he hated that fucking name.
“What do you want?” he asked, quite aware of his nakedness and scarred body.