Unbeautifully (Undeniable, #2)(63)

No, he wanted to take her to bed and f*ck her the way he used to, feel the way he used to feel when he was inside of her. Not like this, never like this. This shit was nothing but an outlet for empty rage and bone-crushing heartache.

He wanted to cry.

Instead, he came.

“Fuck!” she screamed, shoving at him. “Get out of me! Ripper, pull out!”

He stumbled backward, bent over, groaning as he continued to finish.

“You f*cking *,” she hissed, kicking him in the calf. “You came in me!”

“Sorry, bitch,” he gritted out, glaring up at her as he straightened out his body. “Didn’t mean to piss all over Z’s territory.”

He should have expected it after the way they’d just f*cked, that one wrong comment and she was going to go ballistic, but he was still in shock from finding her in his shower, from f*cking her and then coming only seconds ago.

The moment she barreled into him, her nails going right for his face, his feet slipped out from under him and they both went down hard. Cursing, he tried to grab her, but she was flailing, soaking wet, and he couldn’t get a good grip on her. Finally he just gave up, lay there on the bathtub floor, trying to shield his face until she tired herself out.

At least that had been the plan until something she said in between her bouts of cursing and hysterical nonsense shocked the ever-loving shit out of him.

Renewed strength born from heart-stopping rage had him grabbing her, throwing her carelessly over the side of the tub, and following her over. Pinning her arms above her head, he straddled her and grabbed her chin hard enough to bruise, forcing her to look at him.

“What the f*ck did you say?”

“That I f*cking hate you!”

He squeezed harder and she whimpered.

“Answer me,” he growled.

“I was pregnant,” she hissed. “And I had an abortion. Happy?”

Was he happy? Was he motherf*cking happy she’d killed his kid? Never once during the five billion psychotic voice mail messages she’d left him had she mentioned being pregnant or having an abortion. He would have come home. He would have come the f*ck home.

Releasing her, he got to his feet. “Get out,” he snarled. “Get the f*ck outta my room!”

Trembling with rage, Danny rolled over and jumped to her feet. “You left me,” she vehemently accused. “You f*cking left me!”

“All that cryin’ you f*ckin’ did, callin’ me all the time, and not once did you mention bein’ pregnant! Not once!”

“You left me!”

“Is that all you know how to say?” he yelled as he bent down to grab her clothing. Shoving it at her, he pushed her backward, out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. “GET OUT!” he roared, then slammed closed the bathroom door.

He waited until he heard his bedroom door open and close, then sank to his knees. Pregnant. Pregnant. She’d been f*cking pregnant. And she’d killed it. She’d killed his baby.

His baby.

Jesus, he was going to throw up.

Staggering to his feet, Ripper sent his fist into the bathroom door, then his boot, then his fist again and his boot again, and again and again until he was tired of beating on the door and spun around only to be greeted with his f*cked-up reflection in the mirror.

“FUCK YOU!” he roared as his fist shot out. The mirror shattered on impact.

Shattered.

Just like his f*cking life.

He’d stay for the wedding but afterward he was putting miles of road between him and anything to do with Danielle West. And this time when he left, he was throwing his cell phone in a lake and making sure no one, not even Deuce, would be able to find him ever again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Deuce wasn’t gonna lie. With his hair pulled tightly back, dressed in his leathers, a clean white tee, and his Horsemen cut, standing there in the middle of a motherf*cking gazebo decorated with motherf*cking flowers, he felt damn uncomfortable. Didn’t help that Mick, Cox, and Ripper were laughing at him, and standing across from them was Kami, Danny, and Dorothy, all dressed in matching black dresses, also laughing at him.

Yeah, real f*cking funny. Bet they wouldn’t think it was funny if he pulled out his Glock and took out their knees. Except for Danny. He wouldn’t shoot his baby. Just glare at her until she ran away. Which she wouldn’t because she never did, because she wasn’t scared of him. His feisty little girl, during this past year, had developed her mother’s tough-as-nails personality. Funny that Danny being the way she was didn’t bother him nearly as much as Christine had.

Nostrils flaring, shifting uncomfortably, he glared at the minister, an older woman with long white hair dressed in white and purple robes, smiling serenely back at him.

He caught himself before he growled at her.

Why the f*ck was he getting married?

Again?

Because he sure as hell f*cked it up the last time. He didn’t know the first thing about how to be a husband. All he knew, all he’d ever known, was how to be a provider. To make sure the people he loved were safe, well fed, and warm, and in Danny’s case and now Eva and Ivy’s, spoiled shitless too. Although, he figured the giant shoe pile of Chucks in his foyer was a pretty good trade-off for the woman he had in his bed.

But a husband…

He didn’t do husband. What the f*ck did husbands do, anyway? He sure as hell didn’t do it right with Christine. She had wanted so much more from him than he’d been willing to give. Then he’d known how to give. She’d wanted to bend him to her will, own him even.