Page 20 of Riding the Edge
“Not no more,” I rasp.
Silently he studies me. Reading his eyes, I know he’s got more to say but before he can utter another word, I step around him. He doesn’t try to stop me and without another glance, I walk away from Jack Parrish and the only lifestyle I know. Striding down the hallway, I push past the swinging doors and clench my fists. Anger swarms through me like a fucking cancer and the need to punch something engulfs me. Rearing back my hand I crush my knuckles against the wall repeatedly. The skin wears thin and before I feel the searing pain, I see the blood drip from my knuckles.
“Jesus Christ, Wolf, what the hell are you doing?”
Pulling my closed fist away from the wall, I turn my head and find Maria standing there, hands on her hips as she peers at me through narrowed eyes.
“Did something happen with Nico?”
Wiping my bloody knuckles on the front of my shirt, I step away from the wall and drag in a ragged breath. Meeting her gaze, I watch her roll her eyes and reach into her oversized purse.
“You’re all the same,” she mumbles.
There ain’t nothing that grates on my nerves more than a person assuming the worst of you. Being a biker, I get that a lot. People sneer at my leather and think I’m a fucking animal. They see the reaper and the one percent patch and lump me with rapists and sex offenders. No one takes the time to know the man beneath the leather. I suppose I can’t get too mad about that considering I haven’t discovered what’s underneath it either.
Still, Maria’s comment bothers me. I don’t know if it's because I’m not sure if she’s comparing me to every scumbag criminal or rather every other guy who has played her dirty. Clenching my jaw, I watch her pull a silk scarf from her bag.
“You’re not going to help your son by putting holes in the wall,” she says. There is a hint of annoyance in her otherwise soft tone. She continues to wrap the silk around my hand before lifting her eyes to mine. “You better go put some peroxide on that,” she adds, releasing my hand and taking a step backward.
“What’re you doing here?”
Adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder, she smiles.
“Lauren had the baby,” she reveals. Pride and joy flicker in her eyes and strange enough, in that moment I’m envious of her. “You know what? Maybe that’s what you need,” she says, taking my good hand. “There’s nothing like a new life. I’ll take you to see him.”
“Him,” I say, glancing at our joined hands. “She had another boy?”
“Yes, little Anthony. He’s perfect.”
“I’m sure he is,” I tell her, unlinking our fingers. “Maybe later. I should get back to Nico.” Her gaze lowers as she pauses for a beat before straightening her shoulders. I may not know much about Maria Bianci, but I know enough about women to realize when they’re securing walls around themselves. Feeling the rejection, she forces a smile.
“Lady—”
“See to that hand,” she says before turning on her fancy heels. She takes three steps before I call out to her.
“Send my regards to Lauren.”
Stopping in her tracks, she looks over her shoulder at me.
“Will do.”
As she peels her eyes away, I find myself desperate to keep her with me. For that smart mouth of hers to keep giving me grief. For those eyes of hers to continue to stare at me with curiosity and uncertainty.
“Here, take your scarf,” I say, moving to unravel it from my aching hand.
“It’s covered in your blood,” she points out.
“That’s a bit dramatic, no?” I ask lifting an eyebrow.
“Maybe but would it kill you to clean it before you returned it? I mean, realistically it’s probably stained which means you ruined my favorite scarf. The least you can do is attempt to return it in the condition in which you received it.”
If I didn’t know any better, I would think she was pulling my chain, reaching for a way to see me again. Or maybe I’m the one reaching, wanting more of her, of the comfort of her presence.
“Fair enough, Lady,” I tell her, watching her walk away.
This time I let her go, knowing we’re like oil and water. I remain silent as I watch her push through the double doors and when she’s out of sight, I glance at the silk scarf wrapped around my tattooed hand.
We don’t mix.
