Page 76 of The Heir

I ripped the passenger door open and threw myself in.

“Can we just take a min–?” She threw it in reverse and stomped on the gas, causing the door to clap back onto my knuckles.

“Bitch.” I roared, as the pain splintered, convincing me at once that it was broken. I kicked the damn thing back open before it could latch.

I jerked my hand inside and clutched it to my chest while staring at her like it was the first time I’d ever seen her.

She got it backed onto the road and slammed on the brakes with the same enthusiasm she’d used with the gas, then she fixed me with a look. Hatred burned in her eyes and her jaw set before she finally managed to find her voice.

“Shut the fuck up, it’s a scratch compared to what the years have in store for you with this patch you’re chasing. You want a club and an ol’ lady? You got it. I’m your ol’ lady now, just remember you assigned me this fucking role, Blaze.”

I exhaled, and shut the door, focusing my attention on the yard while she threw rocks and shot down the road. We drove in silence for several long moments.

“March–”

“Stop,” she whispered, her voice a strained plea, her lifeless eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“What do you mean ‘stop?’ We’re fuckin’ married, babe. I’m not gonna stop. Not where you’re concerned. Not ever. That’s over with. So, sling rocks on a few more corners if you need to, do what you got to do, but for fuck’s sake– Can we fuckin’ park and talk about this?” I laughed, unable to do anything else, my mind was spinning so fast, and my senses had been stretched to capacity this week.

I just needed shit to slow down a minute.

She pulled in front of an auto body shop with a gated yard. When I spotted my bike, I flopped back in the seat, defeated.

“Marchella, can we just– go to breakfast? Can we talk? Please?”

“You did all the talkin’ you needed to back at the house. All by yourself, Blaze. You spoke like a man who didn’t have a wife or any responsibility to think about, and you don’t. Why should I be surprised?”

I saw the asshole poking his head out of the shop, but I didn’t give a fuck about him, “What does that even mean? Marchella, I thought you would be happy. I– your father, your brothers, allof your family are Disciples. I didn’t fucking think, okay? I’m not some fuck boy, alright?”

She nodded like she didn’t believe a word I was saying, “Yeah. I don’t have time for breakfast. I need to take my ass to the nursing home and see if I still have a job.”

Good sense caught the curse I was about to hurl at her and it became a strangled sound in my throat.

“You know– that thing that gives us money, unless you thought my grandfather would be offering handouts for the rest of our lives?” Her voice climbed until another mechanic had joined the first.

“Jesus Christ,” I clipped, shooting out of the car, and slamming the door behind me.

She flung rocks all over the side of the shop, and like a bitch, I flinched and tried to make myself as small a target as possible.

When the dust cleared, and I looked up, both assholes were grinning from ear to ear.

“Mike Miller’s girl, eh?” one of ‘em asked.

“My girl.” I barked at him, “My wife. You got my fuckin’ bike, man. How about you worry more about your job and get that mother fucker out here already.”

I don’t even know what set me off about him. Thankfully, they exchanged a few glances and moved along, leaving me to crudely shove my hands through my long hair.

“Damn it,” I growled, under my breath and started toward the office.

Chapter Thirty

Marchella

I didn’t even know where I was going, I just tore up and down the highway a few times, letting the engine scream while my mind wandered. It wasn’t as satisfying as it was on the back of a bike, and I ended up slapping my hands against the wheel and screaming over the stereo.

I let it all out, and then I pulled over, fashioned my hair into the blandest ponytail I could manage at the back of my neck and checked my reflection in the mirror. I gripped the wheel until my fingers hurt and drove to the nursing home.

“You can do this,” I pep-talked myself, before slowly opening the door.