Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(48)

“And they'll be plenty fresh a few days from now. She might remember more once she's cleared her head. Let me get my girl some help, and you'll be welcome back anytime. Please.”

I watched the men exchange an icy look. Finally, the detective caved, sighing as he reached for his briefcase under the table, and began to gather up his things.

“This flies in the face of procedure, Mister Wilder, but seeing how you're so well respected around these parts, I'll let it slide. Let's set something up for Thursday.”

“Of course,” Dad said simply, resting one hand on my shoulder.

I looked down. For now, I'd dodged another bullet, but the shots were going to keep coming, weren't they? So would the stress.

I didn't have a clue how I'd ever convince my parents to get me the money for Skin and his club. But I had to, if I ever wanted this to end.

If I couldn't keep up my end of the bargain that brought me home, then a few more tense discussions with the FBI and a perjury charge were going to be the least of my worries.

The next few days were a blur. Both my parents fell all over themselves offering me food, tea, and water every afternoon I stumbled downstairs after a fitful sleep. They babbled at me like I was a baby, barely able to feed myself, asking me in hushed whispers if I wanted to see a shrink today.

No. I needed my space. I had to figure out the money question before I did anything else.

Plus, the minute I told them I was fine, they vanished. Mom dove into her exercise in the gym downstairs and soap operas for more hours of the day than I'd ever seen her watching them. Dad's long nights at the office grew longer. Sometimes he didn't show up until almost midnight, creeping in and practically jumping out of his skin when he saw me at the kitchen table, picking at leftovers.

I wondered why I'd come back at all. Sure, they were happy I'd shown up alive and safe, but that was it.

The cracks in the family were deeper than ever, a thousand times more unbridgeable than they'd been when I was just a party girl with a cushy job in the family business. I'd disappointed them then.

But now, taking up space in their home as a former whore in need of serious therapy?

They couldn't handle it, and neither could I. The tense atmosphere roiled my brain, prevented me from thinking about the money my entire future hinged on.

One morning, Mom woke me up early, telling me I had a visitor. I was sure it was that stinking detective again, come to finish what he'd started earlier in the week.

When I saw Becky standing on the doorstep, looking like she hadn't changed a day since our fateful evening skinny dipping in the Smoky Mountains, I had a new shock to deal with.

She flew forward, tackling me before I could make it down the last step to the entryway.

“Oh, girl, I'm so, so sorry!” She smothered me in desperate kisses, the third person in just as many days. “Can I take you out to lunch? Just like old times?”

I managed a weak smile. “Sure. Give me a couple minutes to get my things.”

We didn't talk much in her car. She'd traded in her old Lexus for a hot pink Camaro, something appropriately showy and vibrant for my best friend.

A year ago, I'd have been completely green with jealousy. Hell, I'd have hit up Dad right after the drive, demanding my trust fund, whatever it took to land me a car even better than hers.

But all the flash didn't phase me. I stretched in the comfortable passenger seat, watching the Tennessee valleys roll by us, remembering how marvelous they'd looked on the back of Skin's bike.

He'd taken me to a world that was rough, mysterious, and often dark. But he'd also shown me a strange kind of beauty, just like he'd shown me that I was still beautiful, even when I'd believed Ricky had stolen it from me forever.

I missed him, goddamn it. Horribly.

Half an hour later, we sat in our favorite cafe in Knoxville, waiting on some big wedge salads with a side of fried okra to share. Just like old times.

Except it wasn't.

The food, the décor, and Becky's sweet little smile were all the same. It was myself I couldn't recognize.

Not when I sipped my iced tea and tasted the sweetness that was almost nauseating, the same stuff I'd drank by the gallon before the pimp. My reflection in the glass looked so plain too. The last time we'd come here, I'd been dolled up in makeup and a fresh perm.

Now? My eyes robbed all the attention from my high cheekbones and pale face, blue whirlpools that stayed dark and endless no matter how hard I tried to put it all behind me.

“I need to come clean about something,” she said suddenly, dropping her fork. “Meg, please don't hate me for this, but I'd be a bad friend if I didn't get it off my chest right away. Remember Crawdaddy?”

Shit, did I? It took me a minute to remember the plain little weasel before I nodded, the last man I'd ever kissed before the train of faceless, filthy animals who used me. Before Skin revived me, stamping his hot lips on mine, the only thing in the last six months that made me feel alive.

“We're kinda an item now.” Becky flashed me an uneasy smile. “Just wanted to get that off my chest right away! I can't keep anything from you. Best friends forever, right?”

I shrugged. “Congratulations. I'm happy for you, Becks. Really.”

I tried my best to be sincere. It must've worked because a second later she grabbed her glass and held it up, offering her cheers.