A vibration followed by the chirp of reality.
My phone.
I shake my head clear.
Duty calls. Literally.
“We can’t,” I say, feeling my senses return and already chastising myself for giving in to temptation.
I have a mission, a duty to my club; I can’t let myself slip like this.
I answer the phone.
It’s Stone.
He says two words.
“Clubhouse. Now.”
Chapter Seven
Adella
Again, I get close.
Again, he pulls away.
Is there something wrong with me?
Am I doing something wrong?
Why doesn’t he want me?
It makes me feel inadequate in so many ways.
If I had more experience, had the opportunity to date without every man I’m interested in having to worry that my father will take his head off, maybe I’d understand.
But, as it is, I’m left only with a head dizzy from kissing him and doubt swirling with all the force of a hurricane in my chest.
He hangs up the phone, looks at me with a look that’s so cold it’s almost shocking.
“We need to get to the clubhouse. Now,” he growls.
I look back toward the counter, toward the breakfast that I’d spent way-too-long cooking. I did this all for him; I’d hoped that taking care of him would help me break through his shell.
“Do we have time to eat, at least?”
“We can eat there. We need to go. Now.”
He waits in the living room while I run to get changed, and I have to struggle to keep up with him as he hurries down the corridors of my apartment building and out to the parking lot. He’s already fired his bike up by the time I get on mine.
I suppose I’m grateful for the rush. If I had to spend much more time with my thoughts — wondering why the heck it is that he doesn’t want me — I’d fall into even more serious self-doubt.
As it is, I’ve got no time to think.
Because the second I start my bike, I have to gun it to catch up to him.
It’s a race all the way to the clubhouse.
He doesn’t even spare a look for me as I park beside him. Instead, he hops off his bike and charges inside like he’s on some kind of warpath.
Inside, I lose him in the crowd — the comings and goings of everyone in the club, even all the old ladies, who are swirling around with agitated and concerned looks on their faces. Even Ruby’s here — she’s at the bar, cigarette in one hand and martini glass in the other, doing her best to look like she’d rather be anywhere else.
At the far end of the clubhouse, my father is making an announcement. Something about a club meeting, a decision coming for a vote, but I pay little attention, I’m too preoccupied.
“Good morning, Addie. Such a lovely way to start the day, isn’t it?” Ruby says, in the indelible mix of sarcasm and genuine affection that only she can pull off.
“Morning, Ruby,” I say, turning on my barstool and looking through the crowd of patch members and prospects, hoping to glimpse Snake. Hoping that the moment I spy him will be one where he’s unguarded, so I can get some kind of idea what’s going on in his head. “Do you know what this is about?”
She shrugs. “What is it always about with these boys? It’s the same as it’s been since the dawn of time — a man meets another man he doesn’t know, and the first thing they have to do is measure themselves to see who has the upper hand.”
“There’s got to be more to it than that. My dad doesn’t care much for those kinds of contests.”
“Well, I’d assume he’s agitated because whoever came into town caught him at a flaccid moment. Which is impressive. But I don’t expect their advantage to last much longer; I’ve seen how he wears his jeans — Stone can be a very hard man when he puts his mind to it.”
“Ruby,” I exclaim. “That’s my dad. Please, don’t talk about him like that. At least where I can hear it.”
“It’s the way of the world, Adella: war, money, status — they’re all different measuring rods men use to publicly declare how their dicks compare.”
My mom approaches from the other side of the bar while Ruby prattles away at me and she puts a plate of eggs, toast, and sausage on the counter in front of me.
“Morning, Addie,” she says.
“Morning, mom,” I answer, then I turn to Ruby. “Listen, Ruby, I love you, but I will need you to stop talking about penises while I eat my breakfast.”
“Penises? Ruby, what the hell are you talking about?” My mom says.
Ruby takes a long drag from her cigarette, puts it out in the ashtray, and sips her martini. “Just the indisputable truth that the source of so much of the world’s conflict comes from man’s incessant need to measure himself from root to tip against his fellow man.”
“Oh, that,” my mom says, then she looks to me. “She’s right, you know. It really is all about their dicks.”
I drop my knife — which was halfway through cutting into the sausage — and glare at my mom.
“Not you, too. I’m trying to eat here, and I don’t want to be thinking about wars, or conflict, or all the other horrible things that spring from penis inadequacy, while I’m eating this sausage.”
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, dear. Besides, it’s not like you’ve never had a sausage in your mouth, is it? There are many less pleasant ways to take one than being in good company with a martini and a cigarette handy.”
My cheeks color. And I hide it by bending over my plate and vigorously wolfing down
