“I want to see him,” I say, ignoring the swilling in my stomach. It’s like there’s a bucket of water in there, all of it sloshing around. I think of the time Cecilia stood up in class and shouted at Mr. Hammersmith that she wouldn’t listen to his sexist remarks any longer. He was a history teacher in the habit of saying things like: “Of course, one couldn’t expect too much from her. After all there’s only “his” in history.” She was brave and wild and didn’t care if she got into trouble.

  “What is your name, anyway?” I snap, walking right up to Beast. He’s bigger than Rocco. I can imagine him playing a giant in Game of Thrones.

  “You know my name, Cecilia,” Beast mutters.

  “You can’t come in here like this!” Jakub springs up from his chair. I remember the way he hit on me at the hen party and shiver. He glances to Beast. “This ain’t Cecilia. It’s her sister.” He turns back to me. “You think you can just barge in here any damn time you please, just barge right in here like you own the place? What do you think this is, a hotel? Do you see any other women in here tonight? No, you don’t. When we want girls maybe we’ll call you, but until then—”

  “You better stop talking!” I snap. “If you don’t I’m going to scratch your eyes out.”

  The entire bar erupts into laughter. But Jakub isn’t laughing. His lower lips trembles. “I don’t know who you think you are—”

  “I’m somebody who’s not leaving until I speak with Rocco! That’s who I am!” I’m too far gone for reason now. I pace over to him, standing so close I can smell his sweat and the smoke from his cigar. “You can talk down to me all you want if it makes you feel big and strong, but I’m not leaving without talking with Rocco. So what do you want to do?” I stand on my tiptoes, feeling scared and strong at the same time. After over two months of working fourteen-hour shifts and vomiting almost every day, it’s good to feel strong.

  “You really are a stupid little—” Jakub clamps his mouth shut when Rocco steps from an office in the back.

  “Enough,” he says. He speaks quietly but his voice cuts across the room. “Come on then, Simone.”

  He returns to his office.

  I follow him, feeling the eyes of the Sinners on me. I don’t think about how this would’ve gone had Rocco not been here.

  He closes the door behind me and goes to his desk. The office is plain except for a photograph of Rocco and Shotgun above the desk. Rocco drops into a large chair and gestures at the smaller one.

  “Is this some intimidation-style thing?” I ask, dropping into the chair. I can imagine Beast sitting in this chair feeling very small.

  “They’re just chairs,” he says, looking at the desk.

  “Why won’t you look at me?” I ask. “Are you ashamed?”

  “Ashamed?” With a visible effort, he meets my eye. “Why would I be ashamed?”

  “For ignoring my calls for two months. For making me sick. I’ve been like a madwoman, Rocco. I haven’t been sleeping. I’ve been working too much. I’ve forgotten half a hundred things. I put on some washing and left it in the washer for five days before I ran out of clothes. I know that doesn’t seem like a big deal, but—work is driving me crazy and then I’ve got bikers following me. Demons, Rocco. I’m being followed by Demons and you won’t even return my calls! How do you think that makes me feel? I’m sorry for the phone call, okay? I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I’m scared. I’m really, really scared. I check my rearview mirror and I see them sometimes. I see them and I think about that day in the forest and at least then you were there to help me. But now it’s like you don’t even care—”

  “They’re Sinners, Simone. Goddamn.” He stands up, turning his back to me. I can partially see him reflected in the photo frame. “I’ve had Sinners following you ever since I left your apartment. They’re for your protection. I didn’t realize you’d seen them. They need to be more careful. But you don’t have to worry.”

  “They’re Sinners,” I murmur, feeling worry and anxiety drain away from me. Living two months certain that any second a Demon might bust through my door has made me slightly crazy. “But then why didn’t you just tell me that? Why put me through this?”

  “I didn’t know you were going mad,” Rocco says. “How the fuck was I supposed to?”

  “By answering my calls!” I stand up and place my hands on his desk. “That’s how you’d know. All you had to do was answer my phone calls, Rocco, or my texts, or . . . or anything! What is it?” He doesn’t turn to me, just keeps facing the photo frame. “Wait a second . . .”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “If you’ve got Sinners following me . . .”

  He sighs, and then turns. “There are Demons after you. You and Cecilia.” He tells me about the note on the car, and then adds, “We’ve been at war with these pricks for almost half a year now. A couple of weeks back we caught one who told us the Demons are watching and waiting for an opportunity. If it wasn’t for our lads . . .” He waves his hands. He looks a little unhinged himself. “Can’t you see, Simone? I’m the reason for all this. You were right to lie about me. We should never have been together. Even if it felt good, it was wrong. It’s a fuckin’ mess.”

  “A mess?” I walk around the desk and place my hand on his cheek. His beard has grown since the last time I saw him. It’s tangled and deep black now. I stroke it, looking into is eyes. “Is that really how you want to describe it, Rocco? Sure, I bet you’ve had the same thoughts as me. We hardly know each other, why am I thinking about him so much . . .” I raise my eyebrows. He nods. “But just because it doesn’t make sense doesn’t mean it isn’t right. We both felt it. I think we’re being silly. I think we need to just give into—”

  He steps away. “Give into what? Give into letting the Crooked Demons kill you when they see us together? Do you wanna know the truth, Simone? I’m almost certain that they could’ve taken me out half a dozen times by now. That note . . . and there’s other shit, too. I came back to my apartment one day to find my door unlocked and my TV smashed in. Just ’cause they can. This is a war, and they’re winning. Three more of our guys are dead, none of theirs. They see us together and it’s your funeral I’ll riding to this time. So yeah, maybe in a perfect world we’d just give into what we want, but this ain’t a perfect world.” He pauses, and then mutters. “I was a damn fool for ever thinking I could have anything like this, anyway. It’s a joke. Me, Simone, the kid who hides at the top of the stairs praying to God the next bastard won’t come with the belt or the fist; me, the kid who’s never had a normal family and never will. I tricked Angela into thinking I was a normal person and look where that got her. No, fuck no. I won’t do the same to you. I care about you too much for that.”

  “But that’s just it!” I take another step forward, grabbing his face with both hands now. For the first time in weeks, I’m not sick or scared. “If you care about me too much for that, surely you see that you’re not tricking me. The only way you’d be tricking me is if you didn’t care.”

  I kiss him before he can answer, the taste of his lips triggering something inside of me right away. He kisses me back for a moment, but then takes me by the shoulders and shoves me away.

  “No,” he says. “I won’t put you at risk.”

  “I’m already at risk!” I protest, wanting to kiss him again, wanting to wrap my legs around him and be lifted onto the desk by his strong arms.

  “That doesn’t mean I have to put you at more risk, does it? You’re protected. Maybe once this is over . . . but you need to go, Simone. Lie low. Be safe. But don’t come here again.”

  “Tell me you don’t miss me!” I hiss, anger making my voice scarily like Mom’s. “If you look me in the eye and tell me you don’t miss me, I’ll leave and never come back! Go on!”

  “What you said is true.” He looks down at my feet. “We hardly know each other.”

  “Then tell me you don’t miss me. It should be easy if you don’t care.”

  He looks into my face. He seems more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him. He seems half broken. Just by looking at him I know he’ll never say he hasn’t missed me. He looks like all he wants is to take me in his arms. His hands shake with the effort of restraining himself.

  “I can’t say that,” he says. “But you need to go all the same. Think about your sister. She thought she could handle this life and look what happened to her. But at least she’s alive. At least she’s rebuilding her life. If something happened to you . . . I’m dangerous. I’m no good. Just stay away from me.”

  “What if I don’t?” I snap. He’s right, I reflect. Cecilia will always be a warning signal I can’t ignore.

  “I’ll order the men to remove you from the clubhouse every time you try’n come in. That’s what.”

  I walk around the desk, gripping the edge of the smaller chair. “It seems like all we do is push each other away. We get close and then we push each other away. It’s not fair. Sometimes when I’m driving home, sick and tired, I see couples walking to the movies together. There’s a theater just around the corner from my office building. They look happy. They look bored, too. Why can’t we be bored and happy together for a little while?”

  “Because I’m who I am and you’re who you are.”

  “Maybe I’m tired of who I am. Being with you was the only exciting thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Excitement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You know that. You must know that.”

  He’s talking about the forest. “You’re right,” I mutter. “But it’s not the same.”

  “It was my fault . . .” He sighs. “We’re going in circles. Please go, Simone. Don’t make me ask again.”

  I want to linger here and talk some more, talk all night. I don’t want to go to my apartment and hunch over the toilet bowl and . . . Oh my god . . .

  “I’m an idiot,” I whisper. “I’m the biggest idiot in the history of idiots.”

  “What is it?” Rocco asks.

  “You’re right. I need to go.”

  I dart from the office before he can say anything, pacing across the bar and then running across the parking lot, cursing myself every step of the way: idiot, idiot, idiot.

  I start my car and screech out of the lot, almost struggling to believe that I’ve really been this scatterbrained.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rocco

  I slump down at my desk after Simone leaves, feeling like there’s a hole in my chest. For weeks I’ve been building up my defenses, telling myself I don’t care about her, telling myself I’m protecting her but I’m done wanting her. I won’t think about her in a romantic way. I won’t fantasize about the times we’ve spent together. I won’t, I won’t . . .

  And then she comes in and breaks it all down in minutes. When she kissed me, I thought that was it. I thought I was done. I wanted to grab her ass and lift her off her feet, carry her to the desk and take her right there. I almost snapped just like that. I lay my head in my hands, telling myself over and over that I can’t be with her. It’s too dangerous.

  I go to the bar and call to Jakub, “Office.”

  He enters half a minute later, his face red from whisky. “Boss?” he asks.

  “If you ever talk to Simone like that again—if you interrupt me I’ll snap your fuckin’ neck.” He closes his mouth and I go on, “If you ever talk to her like that again, there’ll be hell to pay. She might not be my lady, but she’s a lady all the same, and she deserves respect. I don’t reckon you’ll have any cause to talk with her again, but if you do, you’ll show some courtesy.”

  “Courtesy,” Jakub repeats, like he’s never heard the word before.

  I walk around the desk. “Is that gonna be a problem?”

  His face turns a darker shade of red. He nods quickly. “No, boss. It won’t be a problem.”

  “Good.”

  He returns to the bar and I return to the desk, clenching my fists together and wishing I could just let her go. It’s damn hard, though. I haven’t gone to sleep one night without Simone on my mind, her naked body writhing, her ass bouncing, her face looking beautiful and oddly peaceful as the orgasm tears through her. Most of all I remember holding her the last night we were together. She was asleep and I wrapped my arms around her and brought her close. At first I wanted to press my hard cock against her ass, but then I just held her instead, listening to her breathing.

  I push the thought from my mind. It’s not right for a president to think about this type of shit when there’s a war to be fought.

  After an hour or so of going over accounts—the boring part of being president—Beast knocks on my office door. “Boss,” he says, entering.

  “What is it?”

  “Our bikes. Come see.”

  In the parking lot, almost all of our bikes have been spray-painted with Demon horns, red and dripping blood. “They’re toying with us,” Beast says quietly. “They must get a thrill out of it.”

  “Get the pledges to paint over it,” I say, walking back to the clubhouse, blood boiling.

  Every time I meet with Simone, something bad happens. It’s like we’re cursed. The first night in the booth it was Shotgun being killed, and then Simone being taken into the forest, and then the note, and now this. Graffiti is by far the lesser of everything else, but it still seems like a sign: stay away from her; we’re no good together; only bad things can come of it. If I was a religious man, I might even think there was someone in the sky trying to tell me something.

  Later, lying in bed and drifting slowly and fitfully to sleep—sleep has never come easily to me—I promise myself that I’ll banish Simone from my mind. I won’t let the memory of her hound me anymore. I won’t be consumed with thoughts of her anymore.

  I fail.

  I fail so hard that I end up outside in the pitch dark at three a.m., riding my bike in low gear so it doesn’t make much noise.

  I stop outside Simone’s apartment building, staring up at it and imagining how she must look right now, curled up in bed, cute and waiting for me. I wonder how she’d react if I went up there now. I reckon she’d kiss me again, and this time I wouldn’t stop myself. I’d fuck her, hard. Both of us would let all our anxiety and pain and loneliness out in a series of panting moments. Her hands in my beard, her hands on my cock, my fingers deep inside of her, and she’s wet for me, always wet for me . . .

  I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thoughts. I think instead about the bizarre way she left, muttering to herself. She called herself an idiot. Maybe she finally agreed with me. Maybe she thought she was an idiot for coming to the clubhouse, or wanting me, or ever giving me a second of her time.

  I’m not sure if that’s the truth, but it’s the only way I’m able to ride down the street, leaving her behind.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Simone

  “Certainly, Mrs. Ericson, Dubai is lovely in the summer, of course.”

  We sit in a fancy restaurant with fancy waiters and everybody is dressed in a fancy way, smiling with pearls glittering around their necks and silk gloves. If somebody sneezed in here, the civilized patrons would glare at the offender until the sneeze jumped back up their nose. Mom and Dad nod seriously at Markus Underwood’s words. Markus Underwood, the man I’ve been on four dates with, and the man I’ve hated being on four dates with. He talks with a snooty Old Money voice that never bothered me much before I grew to love Rocco’s harsh growl.

  “Most places are better in the summer,” Markus says, holding his champagne in a dainty way. “Except ski resorts, of course.”

  Mom and Dad titter and smile. Mom shoots me a look. I open my mouth and say, “Ha, ha, ha. That’s true. Ski resorts really are better in the winter. What an astute observation.”

  Dad and Markus take it at face value, but I can tell by the look on Mom’s face she knows I’m being sarcastic. I tune out for a few minutes as the three of them talk about interest rates. Markus is a banker in a top firm and should be everything I want. He has money and good parents and a trajectory in life which isn’t clouded in violence. He is good-looking enough in a business type of way. He is kind and not pushy at all. We’ve been seeing each other for three weeks—a date a week—and he hasn’t pressed me for so much as a kiss. Which is good, because I have no interest in kissing him. I think about the sickness, the test . . .

  Rocco’s baby is inside of me, and it changes everything. I can’t think about anybody else now that I know I hold his life in my belly. A boy or a girl, I wonder. Rocco’s dark eyes or my bright eyes, or something halfway between? I wonder if he or she will like riding bikes, or will be more focused on academia. I think about what he or she’ll look like as a grownup, which is absurd since the baby’s not even born yet. I touch my belly, wishing I could talk to him or her, just say hello, explain that their father isn’t this man. He’s someone else. He would never drone on about interest rates for the better part of ten minutes.