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Mason let out a furious, devastated yell that made me instinctively flinch. He kicked his bike, probably pretending it was me, shoving it until it fell over. The sight of a man uncaring about breaking a vital part of his life was profoundly heartbreaking—a brutal display of grief for a fallen brother.
Abruptly, Jackson put his gun away and turned away from Knox.
I lunged forward, helping him up. It wasn’t a graceful process. He staggered to his feet. His face was mottled with blood and bruises. When he flashed a weak grin, his teeth were stained red. His teeth must have bit into his cheek when Jackson punched him.
“I’m peachy,” he rasped.
Suddenly, all I wanted was to be alone with him so he could hold me like he held me just hours ago.
But what if the smile was just an act?
Knox had to hate me. He had to blame me, just like the other Devils.
What if he chose his MC over me, and was about to listen to Jackson’s unspoken order to ditch me and not betray the Devil’s Luck? What if?—
“Get her out of here.” Jackson’s voice was strained, like he could barely get the words out. He had his back to us. “And stay away until the funeral.”
Knox’s jaw clenched like he was barely keeping it together, and he jerked a nod.
Grant moved first. He disappeared inside, coming outside a second later with keys and a wallet. He shoved them at Knox, casting me a dead-eyed look. “Take one of the bikes I’ve been working on. There’s helmets in the garage.”
Knox nodded again.
Just like that, it was over—for now.
I guided Knox inside. He tried to aim for the garage, but I forced him into the bathroom to do at least a cursory cleaning of his face.
“Generally,” I said roughly, “no one should drive with blood smeared across their face.”
“None of it got in my eyes,” Knox weakly protested. There was no smile or forced humor this time.
Soon, we had helmets on and were driving away.
It was all so fucking surreal.
I had no idea where Knox was planning to go until the limo service arrived. But after being on the road for a while, it felt aimless. From where I sat behind him with my arms around his torso, I knew that this was something Knox needed. He was driving aimlessly, like this was his way of blowing off steam.
Somehow, it was instinct to wrap my arms tighter, squeezing, hoping he could feel me trying to hold him together.
How odd. I never had to comfort someone before.
Then Knox rested his hand on my knee, and I knew it worked, even if by a fraction.
My wound-tight body was able to relax just a little, and I thought, He doesn’t hate me.
Finally, Knox pulled into a modest hotel whose name I barely registered. It wasn’t much. Simple, clean, middle-of-the-road motel. There were a hundred of them in Reno, each one just as bland as the next. Still, it was a miracle they let us book a room, considering we shouldn’t have been able to book one at all. But it was Reno, and lots of weird shit went down.
The room we got was on the third floor with a view of the swimming pool down below. It had two beds and a decently new TV bolted to the wall. The AC was cranked to arctic freezing. I went to turn it off. But the time I turned around, Knox had already gone into the bathroom. I heard the shower turn on.
Well, okay, then, I thought with surprise, a bit miffed by the desertion.
I considered turning on the TV and waiting for him to return. That would be the normal thing to do. Or I could sit on the balcony and watch the minimart parking lot across the street. I was also starving, so I could order room service.
But I did none of those things.
I was not going to sit around twiddling my thumbs, ditched by the grieving bastard.
I opened the bathroom door, steam billowing out. The shower curtain was open. Knox stood under the water, motionless, head bowed, letting it beat down on him like he couldn’t feel a thing.