Chaos series by Kristen Ashley
Only then did I collapse, my face in my hands as I burst into tears.
Chapter Seven
You Are Not Leaving
One month later…
Shy walked out of his apartment, locked the door, and headed to the stairs.
These days, he stayed there, seeing as Rosalie cleaned it and also seeing as, since he didn’t have Tabby’s cupboards to fill anymore, he hauled his ass out and bought groceries for his own damned house. He also stayed there because Rosalie was not the kind of woman you banged in a bed in a biker Compound while men were raising hell in the common room or tapping ass in rooms down the hall. She was the kind of woman you banged in an apartment that was two steps up from shithole that she kept clean.
He jogged down the stairs, moved into the sun, and saw Roscoe sitting astride his bike. His brother was there because they had some Chaos business to see to.
Shy tipped his chin up, Roscoe tipped his back, and Shy moved to his bike.
He threw a leg over and was starting the ignition when Roscoe spoke.
“Sucks, man.”
Shy turned his head to Roscoe. “What sucks?”
“Tab takin’ off to Cape Cod.”
That burn hit his chest encroaching dangerously close to his heart. A burn he hadn’t felt for four months. A burn that, over the last month, smoldered deep. Now it fanned to life and singed his lungs.
“Say again?” he asked and Roscoe’s eyebrows knitted.
“You didn’t know?” he asked back.
“No, I didn’t f**kin’ know,” Shy bit out. “Tabby’s goin’ to Cape Cod?”
“How can you not know? You two are tight. You’re not bangin’ Rosalie, you’re up in Tab’s space.”
“I didn’t know, Roscoe,” he clipped. “She’s goin’ to Cape Cod?”
Roscoe nodded. “Yeah, brother. Some doctor at work was up in her shit, she couldn’t take it anymore, so she quit her job. She’s packin’ up her shit, storin’ it up at Tack and Cherry’s, and headin’ out. Some traveling nurse’s program, six-month contract.”
Shy’s vision went hazy.
He could not believe this shit.
That bitch.
That f**king bitch.
She was leaving.
Leaving her family, leaving him, leaving people who had taken her back for a f**king year.
Leaving.
Leaving him.
“Not doin’ this,” he growled right before his bike roared to life.
“Doin’ what?” Roscoe shouted over the pipes and Shy looked to him.
“This. Our gig. You need someone at your back, call Tug or Snapper. I got shit to do.”
Before Roscoe could say anything, Shy backed out and roared out of the parking lot.
On his way to Tab’s, he did not make one single effort to calm his ass down. He’d need everything he had not to wring her pretty neck when he got there and lit into her.
Leaving.
Leaving him.
Fuck!
Ten minutes later, he pulled up outside her apartment, parked, switched off the bike, and scanned for rides he knew.
Tack’s bike wasn’t there, neither was his Expedition. Cherry’s Mustang wasn’t there. Tab’s girl Natalie’s ride wasn’t there either.
But Tabby’s electric blue ride that she took care of like it was her baby was gleaming in the sun.
The way clear, Shy swung off his bike, jogged to the steps, took them two at a time, and didn’t hesitate to pound his fist on her door the instant he hit it. He also didn’t stop pounding until he heard the locks turn and the door was thrown open.
“Jeez, Shy, what’s the deal?” Tabby snapped, staring up at him.
He hadn’t seen her in a month.
This meant that was the wrong greeting.
The way wrong greeting.
Making matters even worse, behind her everything but the furniture was boxed up.
Fighting back his need to explode, he prowled in and Tabby had to jump out of his way. Once in, he turned on her.
“Shut the door, Tabby,” he ordered.
“Shy, what—?”
“Shut the f**kin’ door, Tabby!” he roared and watched her face pale as she shut the door and turned to him.
“Okay, Shy, calm down. We’ll talk,” she said gently.
“You leavin’?” he asked.
“I…” she hesitated, licked her f**king lip and, Christ, that hit him straight in his dick like that always hit him straight in his dick. “Yes, Shy,” she admitted. “I was gonna call you next week. Talk to you. Tell you what’s—”
He cut her off, “You’re not leavin’.”
Her head jerked then she told him, “I am, Shy. I need space to get my head together. The contracts are signed—”
“You,” he interrupted her again, “Are. Not. Leaving.”
She shut her mouth and stared at him.
He kept talking.
“You gotta get your head together, you do it here where I can get to you, not somewhere where I gotta haul my ass on a plane to get to you. Are you comprehending me?”
“But, Shy—” she started.
She was not comprehending him.
“You’re not leaving,” he repeated.
“I have to, the—”
He leaned toward her and growled, “You are not leaving.”
Suddenly, she lost it, throwing her hands out to the sides, she asked, “Why?”
“This is why,” he clipped, stalked the three steps that separated them, snaked an arm around her waist, drove a hand into the back of her hair, and hauled her into his arms.
He slammed his mouth down on hers.
Then he thrust his tongue between her lips and there it was.
Christ, there it f**king was.
That taste he’d had on his tongue for f**king years.
Sweet, God, so f**kin’ sweet.
Beautiful.
He took more and she gave it, her body melting into his, her feet coming up on her toes, her arms circling his shoulders, holding on to him, one hand sliding up into his hair, holding his mouth to hers.
She kept giving it so he took even more and Jesus, the taste of her, the feel of her pressed close, the world melted away. It was more intoxicating than any liquor, a high better than any f**king drug.
Phenomenal.
Better than he would have guessed. Better than years of wondering how good it could be.
The best he ever had.
With just a f**king kiss.
He broke his mouth from hers but felt her short, excited pants against his lips when he said yet again, “You are not leaving.”
“Okay,” she breathed, and he closed his eyes, dropped his forehead to hers and sucked in a breath to gain control over the burn in his chest.