“You seem to think I’m some sort of glass figurine. I’m not going to break, Puck. I’m an adult who’s been through shit. I survived and now I’m moving forward. You should’ve trusted me.”
“But it’s my job to protect you,” I said, wondering how the hell I could make all this go away.
“You can’t protect me,” Becca whispered. “Life doesn’t work that way. Look, I’m sorry I lost it with you. I’m not stupid—I know Mom screwed me over and I know I need to cut her off. But that was something I had to figure out for myself. When you give me orders it pisses me off and then I stop listening.”
I sighed. “Yeah, I get it. I’m sorry I was a dick, too. Look, I need to go out to talk to Diesel. Might hit a bar or something. Won’t be more than an hour or two, that sound good? I think a little space might be good for both of us right now.”
She nodded, looking away. “Yeah, space is good.”
Her quick agreement didn’t make me happy—shouldn’t it bother her that I wanted out? Fuck, what did I want?
A smoke. Yeah. Smoke first. Calm down a little . . . then we could talk, figure everything out. Damn, but relationships were complicated. No wonder Painter couldn’t keep his together.
BECCA
Puck had never taken me seriously.
No matter how I looked at it, I shouldn’t have been so surprised. That’s just how things were in the MC world. An old lady isn’t supposed to ask questions. She certainly doesn’t stick her nose in club business, not even when it’s not club business at all.
Puck himself had told me the Silver Bastards were different from the Longnecks, but they weren’t that different. Now what? We needed to find a compromise or this whole thing was dead in the water. That terrified me, because despite our fight I couldn’t handle the thought of losing him on top of everything else.
I dropped back on the motel room bed, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. There had to be something, right? Puck treated me like a child and my mom treated me like I wasn’t even a real person. Did it really matter that Puck hadn’t planned to let me kill Teeny? That was a side issue. Ultimately, this was about my mom screwing me. Again.
She might as well be dead to me.
Rolling off the bed, I walked into the bathroom, washing my face with cool water. That felt better . . . When Puck got back, we’d have a real talk. He needed to know I wasn’t going to be an old lady like he thought. I wanted to be with him, no question. But I’d never be happy as one of those puppets who nodded and smiled whenever her man said to.
My stomach growled and I bit back a smile. So what if my world had crashed down around my ears—apparently I still had to eat. I walked over to the window and looked out to see a Denny’s on the far side of the parking lost. Maybe I’d treat myself, see how much fourteen bucks could buy at a place like that. Grabbing my burner, I dialed Puck’s number.
“Hey,” he said, answering on the first ring.
“Hey,” I said back, feeling awkward. “Um, I’m sorry to bug you, but I’m kind of hungry. You mind if I walk over to Denny’s? It’s just across the way.”
“Yeah, I can see it,” he answered. “Okay. Go grab something and then head right back. Call and let me know when you’re back in the room. I might be a while.”
“Sure.”
I grabbed my purse, checking to make sure the little gun Earl had given me was still inside. Not that I expected to need it, but after all that’d happened anything seemed possible.
As it turned out, fourteen dollars was enough to buy quite a bit at Denny’s.
The food improved my mood. Enough that I was starting to feel some serious guilt about the way I’d taken my anger out on Puck. Not that I agreed with him on everything. I didn’t. But it was time to face reality—I had an anger management problem and if I didn’t figure out a better way to communicate with him, sooner or later it would drive us apart.
The waitress brought my bill and I counted out what I owed plus a thirty percent tip. That left me with exactly one dollar. I shook my head and dropped it on the table, because why the hell not? Then I hit the bathroom. Another woman walked in and took the stall next to me. I finished my business and set my purse on the counter to wash my hands. I’d just reached for a paper towel when I caught a glimpse of her stepping out of the stall.
It was my mother.
At the gas station I hadn’t really looked at her. I’d been too startled. Now I took in every wrinkle around her eyes, the gray at her temples, the tremor in her hand . . . Mom still dressed like a biker babe, but she’d taken on that tough, dried-jerky look that comes from too much hard living.