“You’re not alone while you work through this, Ryan.” Bronx swallows hard. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“I don’t know how I did it for so long,” I say. “How the hell did I pretend with Gunter when I couldn’t stand the thought of having to get into bed with him every night, of having him touch me.” I snort out a sad laugh at how low I stooped in the name of answers. “It makes me sick just thinking of the things he’d get me to do.” I blink away the welling tears. “I was so numb; there’s no other way to explain it. How else could I whore myself out for nothing like that?”

“Ryan, you need to stop,” Bronx says through gritted teeth. “Just hearin’ you talk about that shit makes me ready to kill someone.” His fists flex in his lap, and he stares intently at the white of his knuckles, a frown marring his face.

My phone vibrates on the bar top, breaking the moment with a loud buzz. I reach over and tap the screen, bringing up the message. “He wants to know when I’ll be home.”

“You won’t.” Bronx lifts his eyes, challenging me. “Tell him.”

I stare at the screen, idly crooking my finger back and forth so the message window moves up and down while I think on the words I’ll use. My heart’s singing out to do what’s right for me and stay, to tell Gunter I won’t be going back, but the sensible side of my head tells me there’s more to it than just up and walking away. I leave in the middle of chaos like this, and I bring all hell down on Bronx and this club. I can’t live with that on my conscience. “I need to talk with him, face to face. I need to at least try to reason with the guy, otherwise he’s going to be after blood, Bronx.”

“Nothin’ I haven’t dealt with before, Ryan. You’re not goin’ back to Omaha. I don’t want to hear about it any more.”

It’s scary—I’ll admit that. Fucking up isn’t so bad when there’s somebody there to hold your hand, when there’s a person who’ll give you a pat on the back and say ‘better luck next time’. But when there’s nothing, no support system there, it’s pretty damn terrifying. I’ve got nothing if I fail here—no family to run back to. I’m on my own.

“What if Harris wants nothing to do with me?” I ask. “What if bringing Harris here screws things up for King? You think he’d want me hanging around? Where do I go then?”

“King wouldn’t have asked Harris here if he thought there was a chance of it messin’ with the club.”

“You didn’t answer my first question,” I murmur.

“I can’t speak for Harris.” Bronx fiddles with a bottle cap left on the bar.

I stare at his profile, marveling how beautiful this man is inside, as well as physically. His heart is in the right place. “What if I screw things up with us?” I ask on a whisper.

He turns to face me, sincerity clear in his eyes. “You won’t.” He gives my hands a small tug, pulling me off the stool and into his firm body. “You only fail at somethin’ if you stop tryin’.”

Panic rises to the back of my throat, and I place my hands flat on his chest, ready to push him away. But his gaze holds mine, and in his eyes I see the same fear I’m harboring—that he won’t be enough. He is. My palms relax, and the very tips of my fingers curl into the cotton of his T-shirt. Could we make this work?

“All my stuff’s still there.”

“I’ll buy you new stuff.”

“And then there’s Eddie,” I say quietly. “They’ll know it’s you. What are you going to do? Weren’t you there for a reason before I messed things up?”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, I was. I’ll figure somethin’ out. Don’t worry yourself about that.”

“Maybe I can help?”

“One thing at a time, darlin’. First, you got to let Gunter know that you’re not goin’ back.”

“You realize sending him this message is like firing a starting gun?” I ask, holding his gaze. “I tell him I’m leaving him, and it’s all downhill from there. He’ll lose his head, let Eddie know, and send a shit storm our way.”

“Yep,” he exclaims, clearly becoming agitated. “I realize that.” Bronx reaches out and pulls my phone closer. “Send the message.”

I draw in a deep breath, my chest shuddering as I fill my lungs to capacity. I always thought this day would be easy, that I’d dance to the music of their surprise when I took what I wanted and left. But I’ve been kidding myself—this was always going to be a mess.

My index finger taps out a rhythm as I carefully select the words that will not only set me free, but also condemn me to a different kind of hell. However I slice it, Gunter won’t take it well, and all I can hope is that with Tommy in his current state it does something to temper Gunter, for a little while at least.

“Done,” I announce, pushing the phone from under my hand.

“What did you say?”

“The truth. That I can’t live his life—I need to start my own.”

“How does it feel?”

“Like suicide. Like I’m setting myself free, but losing so much in the process. They might be ignorant assholes, a bunch of sexist pigs, but they still looked after me in their twisted way for years, you know?”

Bronx shifts so he’s sitting on the very edge of his stool, lifting both hands to cup my face. “But were you happy?”

My eyes glass over as I shake my head in his hold. “I haven’t been truly happy for a fucking long time.”

“So isn’t that proof in itself that things needed to change?”

I nod, my chin scrunched tight as I try to sniff away the tears. “I just want to know why they had to die,” I sob. The pain surfaces from the depths where I’ve kept it jammed all these years that I’ve been pretending to be somebody else. It unfurls, spreading its petals across my heart and showing the scared girl who’s been held captive inside. I cry openly, for the first time since I watched the firemen douse the flames from my hiding spot.

A firm hand wraps about the back of my head, tucking in beneath my hair to pull me to a warm shoulder. Bronx rubs his free hand in long strokes up and down my back, offering nothing but a safe place to let it all out. It’s all I’ve ever needed.

“I miss them so fucking much,” I tell him as soon as my tears have subsided enough to allow me to speak. “It hurt so bad every time I thought about it, so after a while, I just taught myself not to think about them at all.”

“It’s called coping,” he says. “You found a way to be able to carry on.”

“Yeah, but how fucked is it? I chose to forget my parents, rather than remember the good times we had.”

“It’s never too late to turn it around.”

I ease out of Bronx’s hold, wiping my nose with the hem of my T-shirt. “Such a lady,” I mutter with a laugh.

Bronx smiles, nodding toward my phone. “You better check that. You got a reply while you were cryin’.”

Shit. I stare at the damn thing for an age before I muster up the courage to open the reply. My stomach’s still swimming with acid, but I urge the creeping panic aside and force myself to focus on the words.

What the fuck are you talking about? Why are you in Lincoln?

“What the . . .?” I frown at my phone before it hits me—he’s tracking me through it.

I launch off the stool and tear around to the serving side of the bar, running my hands over the shelves, and ripping drawers open until I find what I need. Bronx is on his feet, confused as hell when I lean over the bar to reach my iPhone, a wrench in my other hand. I’ll question why there’s a damn eight-inch tool in the bar another time, but for now, I’m just grateful the thing’s there.

“What are you doin’?” he asks as I swing it high.

The phone shatters with a dull crunch under the steel head. “Cutting all ties.”

“Bit extreme isn’t it?”

I can barely hear him over the noise I’m making smashing the device into a puddle of plastic and metal. “He asked what I’m doing in Lincoln,” I shout. “I forgot he has the finder app on our phones. I don’t know if he paid attention to where in Lincoln I am, but he won’t be able to look it up again.”