He’d fucked available pussy.
I threw it at him.
He took it.
Now he was done.
This came with the territory for a biker. Groupies hanging around for that sole purpose. They didn’t care who or where or how. They got off on it.
I’d known a few of them, hung with them, shot the shit with them, and it was my considered opinion that they enjoyed it more than the guys, the notches they earned on their proverbial belts. They didn’t want commitment. They wanted fun and someone to let loose with and a fabulous orgasm (if they could get it).
I was not a biker groupie. I was an old lady. I wanted what the groupies had but I also wanted the whole package.
Though, I had to admit, I’d admired them. They didn’t care what anyone thought. They lived their lives in the pursuit of what they wanted and anyone who looked down on that could go fuck themselves.
But, again, I was not a biker groupie.
Yet Logan had just fucked me like one.
No.
Worse.
And it was worse because he didn’t even show me the respect of a cuddle or a kiss or offering me a shot after he’d done it.
What just happened was a revenge fuck.
And I’d walked right into it.
Mortified, shocked, wounded, I yanked up my panties and slid out of his bed slowly but I didn’t take my time dressing.
I hurried.
I did this thinking the Logan Judd I knew didn’t have that in him.
Men needed to earn his respect.
Women, that was another matter.
My mom, my sister, old ladies, biker groupies, whoever—he gave them respect. It wasn’t earned. It was given. He did not judge. He was never a dick, much less a complete asshole.
As Reb said, I’d obliterated him.
And I knew I had.
But I didn’t deserve that.
No woman deserved that.
But he’d treated me like that.
I pulled on my jacket and headed down the hall, moving swiftly, completely forgetting why I even came to the rally, needing to get out of there before the wound opened any further and I bled out on the floor of Logan’s tricked out RV.
I knew he was still there when I made it to the front. I felt him but I also saw him out of the corner of my eye.
But I went right to the door.
“I don’t see you again,” he stated when I was lifting my hand to open the door. “Ever again. Hear?”
Hear?
Agony.
I turned to him and it felt like I was moving in slow motion, that simple movement taking years.
And then I saw him.
Yes, craggy.
No scars.
No beer gut.
Just beauty.
An older version of my Logan but with cold eyes and a curl of distaste on his full lips.
“You’ll never see me again,” I whispered.
His eyes stayed locked to mine as he clipped, “Good.”
I felt my eyes brim with tears but I didn’t move. I stood there staring at the man I’d loved and lost and mourned for twenty years but I did it knowing I hadn’t even begun to mourn him.
Because my love for him had never died.
Now the mourning would start.
Because he’d just killed it.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?” he bit out.
“For killing it,” I replied.
I saw his heavy, dark brows shoot together but that’s all I saw before I turned to the door, unlocked it, yanked it open, and raced down the steps, the tears flowing, the pain growing and spreading.
Blindly I ran in the direction of the Trench, turned the corner that would take me out of the Chaos zone and ran straight into something solid.
I stepped back, looked up, and stared in horror at Tack Allen.
He also stared at me before his face went hard and he growled, “Fuck me.”
He hated me and even in those two seconds I knew it because he didn’t hide it.
Not again.
I couldn’t take this again.
I turned, nearly ran into the redhead at his side who I distractedly saw was not Naomi but was looking at me curiously right before her head jerked visibly, her eyes got wide, and her mouth opened.
I darted by her and raced into the night.
Tyra
“Do you know her?” I asked.
My husband didn’t answer.
He started stalking (stalking, not walking) quickly toward High’s RV.
“Tack!” I snapped, dashing after him. “Do you know that woman?”
Tack didn’t get to the RV before the door was thrown open and High prowled out.
“Brother,” Tack called.
High didn’t even look at Tack. He marched right to his bike that was parked by his RV and threw his leg over.
“Brother!” Tack shouted over the roar of High’s Harley that he’d fired up, my man quickening his steps, which meant I quickened my steps, now running behind my husband.
High revved his bike, his head turned to look behind him as he began to back it out.
“Brother!” Tack bellowed just as he stopped close to High’s bike, and I skidded to a halt at his side.
Then I didn’t move a muscle as High turned his head and looked to my man.
I also didn’t breathe.
I was close with all of the brothers. Over the years, and there had now been many, through ups and downs, births and deaths, breakups, makeups, fuckups, we were tight.
But if I was forced to list which brother I was least close to, it would be High.
He was a good guy. He was a good brother. He was nice to me. He respected me truly and did this in word and deed and not because I was the president of the Chaos MC’s old lady but because he felt that for me.