Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
His eyes searched mine, yet the vision wasn’t crisp since mine were murky with tears.
“Which is where you’re going to be for the rest of your fuckin’ days, Rosie. And despite your penchant for taking bullets for those you love, there’ll be a lot of them. Because you want to be the shield for people? Fine. But the thing is I’m your shield. And whatever shit you face, it’s gotta go through me first.”
“But I want to be your shield,” I whispered, tears running down my face.
He wiped them away. “Okay, we’ll be each other’s,” he murmured back. And then he took away any more words I could use as excuses or escapes and he kissed me. Reminded me of the one thing that mattered. The one thing I could control.
Not the bullet with my name on it. Or his.
But us.
And maybe it was going to be a big Rosie Fuck-Up. But it was going to be for life.
Two Days Later
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ shittin’ me,” Cade spat, his shades directed to the parking lot.
Luke’s own shades focused on Cade’s glare, visible even beneath the dark glasses he wore, because he wore that glare in his entire body. Luke instinctively yanked me closer to him, obviously expecting a threat.
And he wasn’t wrong.
My mother climbed out of a beat-up Camaro, her leopard-print heels hitting the pavement unsteadily at first. Then she righted herself, yanking off her knock-off sunglasses so we could see the streaks of makeup running down her face.
“My babies!” she screamed.
Yes, screamed. In the parking lot of a memorial.
Today marked a year to the day since Scott’s death. I wasn’t there for the funeral, which I was kind of glad of. I hated burying people. It was something we did for all the fallen brothers, but it meant a lot more to me, because I didn’t get a proper chance to say goodbye.
Not just to Scott but to the person I was. To the demons I’d entertained after that day.
But there was my mother.
Screaming.
At a memorial.
Granted, it was a Sons of Templar memorial, so there would likely have been screaming at some point in the night once the bottles were empty and hearts were a little lighter. Or heavier.
But not now.
And not from her.
She went for me first, because I was always the easier one. I was always the one who forgot for a moment, that I was meant to be angry at the mother who abandoned me because I’d slowed down her party. Because I would always react as a little girl, even as a woman, I’d instinctively want my mother’s embrace.
Wanted to pretend that she wanted it too.
But that time it was different. Because I was being held by someone who definitely wanted me, someone who wasn’t letting me go.
Mom dropped her knock-off bag at our feet, arms open as if to hug me, glancing at Luke in a gesture for him to let me go.
Luke knew our story with Mom. Therefore, he did not let me go.
She awkwardly leaned in and kissed me sloppily on the cheek, her cheap perfume embracing me even though her body didn’t.
“Oh, Rosie, baby,” she cried, pretending that the moment hadn’t happened when she leaned back. “I came as soon as I heard you were home, that you’d lost another one. This is just horrible. Horrible. I knew my babies would need their momma to get through this.”
Cade snorted. Actually snorted.
All eyes went to him.
Not just because such a sound was foreign and never before heard. Gwen was gaping.
“Bullshit,” he said. “You came because you’re outta money, too old to get the attention you want, and too fuckin’ washed up to hide your crazy from whatever guy is stupid enough to fuck you. You came back here because you’ve got nowhere else to go, not because we need you,” he growled. “Clue in. You weren’t here when we buried our father. When Rosie went to prom. Graduated. When she lost one of her best friends. When my daughter was born. My wedding day. My son’s birth.” He listed them off like bullets, aiming to hurt and maim the woman who birthed us. “We sure as fuck don’t need you or want you,” he spat. “You have any fuckin’ respect for this club and for your children, you’ll get back in that piece of shit and never come back here again.”
Mom was gaping at him, with the audacity to look appalled. Hurt.
The truth did hurt. Especially when it was ugly. Especially when it showed you how ugly you were.
Mom wasn’t. The years hadn’t been kind to her, shown by the deep lines around her mouth and forehead, the makeup she slathered on sinking into the creases. Her eyes were a little sunken in, bloodshot. But she was still beautiful, under it. Or at least she had a shadow of something that told the world she used to be beautiful.