I could do this. I could go out there and look at Puck and smile and serve him and his friends. I’d hold my head high while I did it, too—I didn’t have a choice. Callup was a small town and unless I decided to leave, I’d run into them.
Of course, I could leave Callup.
Like every other time I’d considered moving, my mind instantly rejected the idea. I loved Callup and I felt safe here—that hadn’t changed.
The cooler door opened.
“You okay?” Blake asked. “Anyone I need to kill?”
I smiled, because I knew he wasn’t entirely joking. He was the reason I needed to pull myself together and go back out there. Him and Danielle and Regina and Earl and everyone else who made up my world. So what if Puck hated me?
I’d been hated before.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I told him. He reached out and caught my hand, pulling me to my feet.
“Teresa’s asking where you are,” he told me. “I said you were grabbing fresh lemons.”
I glanced around, finding the clear plastic container of sliced lemons on the shelf and grabbing it. Blake smiled at me, his face reassuring.
Holding his hand, I walked back out into the bar.
EIGHT
PUCK
My hand gripped my pint glass so hard it was a miracle the damned thing didn’t break.
“Thank you for bringing me to Idaho and saving my life.”
Becca’s words kept running through my head. For a while last night—the first hour after she called me a rapist—I’d wanted to kill her. After all I’d done for her, all I’d given . . . Then I’d finally had her right where she needed to be and she pulled that shit on me.
Crazy bitch.
It worked, too, because deep down inside I still felt guilty as fuck about that night. I felt even guiltier because I’d spent the last five years trying to figure out ways to make it happen again. I’d watched her over in her apartment after our fight—close your goddamned shades, Becca—working away on her fucking sewing machine. There I was, my soul ripped right the fuck apart, and Becca was making some bullshit craft project.
That’s when I’d grabbed my keys and took my bike out along the river until I hit the highway. I’d stopped there, looking east toward Montana, wondering if I should just start riding in that direction. I could leave all of it behind. The club, Becca, everything. I’d take my bike and fly with the wind until life made sense again.
I didn’t, of course.
I still wasn’t sure why.
Becca walked by carrying a heavy tray, ass twitching in a way that cried out for a smack. Christ, but I still wanted to fuck her. She was serving those academy fucks, all crowded around two tables along the wall. The girls acted like self-centered little twats, playing at being grown-up. I saw one flipping Becca shit, which pissed me off.
This made no sense—I was still pissed at her myself, so why I would care about someone else treating her right I couldn’t imagine. I guess deep down inside there’d always be a part of me that considered her mine?
Fuck if I knew.
While the girls gave her crap and whined about their drinks, the boys were checking her out like she was a stripper working a pole. I half expected one to tuck a dollar bill into the front of her low-cut T-shirt.
Hmm . . . If that happened, I’d have to take the little cocksucker out. No help for it.
“Think you should handle things with Malloy,” Boonie said, startling me. “He wants to talk. Can’t make it too obvious.”
I glanced over at him. Deep had pulled Carlie into his lap, and was making a show of feeling her up. She eyed me, maybe wondering if it’d make me jealous? I ignored the look, because Deep had plans for her, even if she hadn’t figured it out yet.
“Let’s go to the restroom,” Darcy said, catching Carlie’s arm. Carlie nodded, slipping out from behind the table. Then the two women disappeared down the back hallway, leaving us free to talk business.
“So why do you want me handling it?” I asked Boonie quietly, leaning forward.
“Makes more sense, you’re closer in age,” Boonie said. “Kid like that steps out to talk with an old man, people will be more likely to notice. Want you to feel him out, tell me what you think.”
I shrugged. I didn’t quite buy the excuse, but Boonie obviously had his reasons. Hell, anything that got me away from Becca for the moment had to be good, right?
“Okay.”
Ten minutes later, Rourke stood and worked his way toward the front of the bar, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
Fucking great.
Now I had to go out there and pretend to smoke. Deep smirked at me, and for a moment I wondered if they were setting me up just to fuck with my head. Then Boonie nudged me with his boot, and I caught his gaze again. The man was all business—nope, he wasn’t fucking with me.