Page 4 of Angel
She climbs into my lap and kisses me like she means it, but there’s something behind her eyes that ain’t me. I try to lose myself in her, the feel of her skin, the way she used to moan my name like it was the only word that mattered, but now I feel like part of a process.
When it’s over, she rolls away too quickly and reaches for her phone. Taps something into an app before the sheets even cool.I lie there afterward, staring at the ceiling, wonderin’ when my bed turned into another battlefield.
The brothers notice, of course, they always do. You don’t run a club this long without learnin’ how to read the signs. I’m at the clubhouse, beers sweatin’ on the scarred wood table, noise hummin’ around us, cards slappin’, someone shoutin’ at a game on TV, and the low rumble of engines out back.
Joker watches me for a long second.
“You look like fucking shit.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter.
“That’s a concern, Road Captain.”
Wire leans back in his chair, glasses catching the light. “Stevie, okay?”
The question hits harder than it should.
“She’s… tryin’,” I say, which ain’t an answer.
Tank snorts. “That woman’s always tryin’. Question is, what’s it costin’ her?”
I bristle automatically. “She’s fine.”
Wire raises an eyebrow. “Angel.”
I drag a hand over my face. “We lost another one.”
Silence settles around the table and feels heavy. The kind only men who’ve buried shit together understand.
Tank’s jaw tightens. “Fuck.”
Joker nods once, slowly. “She didn’t tell Carrie.”
“No one’s sayin’ anything,” I add. “She didn’t want the club knowin’. Didn’t want pity.”
“She ever?” Wire murmurs.
Tank shifts forward, elbows on his knees. His usually smiling face is serious now. No smirk or easy grin.
“Brother, don’t let her isolate herself from the ol’ ladies. You know Carrie, Pandora, Tallulah, and April would all be there for her. Just like we are all here for you. No one is alone.”
I nod. But I ain’t got a reply in me. Because I know he’s right. And I know I’ve been lettin’ it happen anyway.
Carrie corners me two days later. Right there in the clubhouse kitchen. Polly’s on her hip. Beau’s at the table, homework spread out, pencil clenched between his teeth; she doesn’t waste time.
“What’s goin’ on with Stevie?”
I stiffen. “She’s busy.”
“Busy,” she repeats flatly. “She missed RJ’s birthday. She hasn’t been by the house in weeks. She won’t answer my texts.”
My chest tightens.
“She’s dealin’ with some stuff.”
Carrie’s eyes soften, but there’s steel underneath.
“Angel… I know what grief looks like. And I know what avoidance looks like, too.”
