“Tell me you love me, baby,” Wyatt says on a plea. He’s gasping for air and still locked in Rig’s death grip, but I have all his attention.
“Every ounce and every breath,” I say. He said those words to me once—that every ounce of him and every breath he takes is for me and me alone. That he’d rather die than be away from me.
Wyatt grunts and then, in a massive show of his strength, shoves Rig off of him. He pulls back enough to eye up the man he considers his mentor. And then he snaps. Wyatt wails on Rig with a show of hatred he’s never exhibited before. It’s intense, the way he slams his fist into the older man’s face and ribs with absolutely no remorse or doubt. Rig fights back, and even gets in a few good hits, but for the most part he’s out-matched. They’re nearly equal in height, but Wyatt puts so much time into lifting that even with the heavy drinking and drugs he’s still a fucking killing machine—and he’s just unleashed all his rage on his president.
When Rig is good and bloody and cowering on the floor, Wyatt finally lets up. He bends down and holds Rig by his hair and hisses words of disgust into the man’s face. “You’re not my president, and you’re not my fucking brother.”
I stand motionless as I watch Wyatt kick Rig one more time and then disappear through the doors of the pleasure palace. I follow without even thinking, so desperate to have some resolution to this thing between us. I didn’t do anything wrong—not really, anyway—and I need him to do something to give me faith that he’s still the same man I fell in love with. Anything would do at this point.
But he doesn’t do anything to reassure me that he loves me and he’s committed to our son. He just strides through the pleasure palace, ignoring every woman who eyes his massive frame, and heads for one of the couches in a far corner of the room. I watch as the man I love plops down on the sofa, shoving a man without a cut out of the way, and snaps his fingers at the woman holding the small mirror flat in her hands. She lifts the mirror up for him and hands him a short, cut-up straw. He leans in, puts the straw in his nose, and sucks up one line after another. I hate that he does this. He didn’t used to. The coke is a fairly new thing for him. Everything’s changed since he patched in. Slowly but surely he’s become someone I barely recognize. Back when he was a hang-around, and even when he was a prospect, he was rarely high or drunk. He only indulged a little, and even then I could still talk to him. But now, when he’s like this, it’s impossible. I can’t help but try anyway.
“Baby, talk to me.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears. I’m desperate and needy. I hate those girls, but with Wyatt, that’s who I become.
“How long?”
“What?” I have no idea what he’s even talking about now. It’s all half sentences and coded language when he’s in a bad mood.
“How long have you been letting him fuck you?”
“Never. I told you he’s full of shit. Every night I’m at home in our bed waiting for you.”
“You let him touch you,” he says with an icy coldness to his voice that makes me uneasy.
“It was a hug and I’m sorry.” My voice is small and tears pool in my eyes. I’ve never been much of a crier, but the last trimester is really fucking with me.
Wyatt stands from the couch, wipes his nose, and stalks over to me. He grabs me behind my neck again and pulls me in close to him so our faces are as close as they can get with our son between us.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he says. His other hand palms my belly and then slides around to my ass. His hand squeezes at my sensitive flesh in ways that both pinch and burn. “Every ounce and every breath.”
“Take me to a room,” I say as seductively as I can. If I can distract him with sex, then maybe this will blow over a little quicker.
“Tell me he forced you,” he whispers.
I still, wanting to respond but not knowing how. I’ve spent my entire life around badass bikers, and there’s been no shortage of badass bikers who get fucked up and have bad temper tantrums to go with it. All six foot six of Wyatt hovers over me, pressed into me, touching me. I have to find a way to diffuse the situation and quick.
“Tell me, woman.” Wyatt’s words come out as a bark. I remind myself that this is what the coke does to him. One moment he’s gentle and sweet, and the next his eyes are a million miles away and he looks like he’s on a super-secret recon mission or something.
“Babe, nothing happened,” I say as calmly as I can. I’m not going to lie to appease him—especially not this lie. Forcing yourself on another brother’s old lady is suicide. If I say what Wyatt wants me to say, it’s an automatic death sentence for Rig. I can’t and won’t do that to someone—regardless of how displeased I may be with them at the moment.