It was around his heart.
She never called to use his space.
She never called at all.
And he never again saw her at Fortnum’s.
* * *
Six months later…
Shy sat outside the Compound on top of one of the picnic tables, feet on the seat, legs spread, elbows to his thighs, bottle of beer held loosely in his hands, watching.
Tabby was on Chaos for the first time in nearly a year. She was walking out of the office and down the steps, Rider’s hand in hers as she steadied him while he struggled to get his little legs to negotiate the stairs. She had Cut on her hip, and Shy could see Cut was slamming his little fist into her cheek as she walked.
She got them safely to the bottom of the stairs but stopped, and Shy watched as she turned her head, jerked it forward, and captured Cut’s fist in her mouth.
He squealed. Tabby let his little fist go, and her peel of musical laughter shot across the forecourt and hit him straight in the gut so hard it was a f**king miracle he didn’t grunt.
Then it happened.
Rider tripped and Tabby bent to right him and on her way up, her eyes moved through the forecourt, across the Compound, straight through him.
Through him.
Like he was f**king invisible.
Jesus.
Fuck.
Jesus.
There was a time, he caught sight of her, her eyes would shift away quickly and he knew she was watching him. Anytime she’d been around before he did what he did that night, if he saw her, her eyes were on him.
Now he was invisible. It was like he didn’t exist.
She moved the kids to her car and strapped them in the car seats in the back, and Shy kept watching, his gut tight, that burn searing his heart.
She had a great ride. Her dad gave it to her when she was sixteen, and she took care of it like it was one of her little brothers. Its electric blue paint gleamed, clean and pristine, in the August sun.
Sweet ride but Tabby, wearing one of those flowy, flowery, loose dresses that went all the way to her feet, so much f**king material, you couldn’t begin to guess what lay underneath it, didn’t look like she belonged to that car. The dress was saved by being strapless, the top essentially an elasticized tube top covering her tits, but still.
It wasn’t cutoff short-shorts and rocker shirts like she used to wear.
And her hair wasn’t down and wild. It was braided in thick plaits close to her skull on either side to flare out in a mass of hair at her nape that only hinted at the dense, glossy mane Tack’s good genes had bestowed on her.
Yeah, he’d made his point.
Fuck yeah, a year ago, he’d really f**king made his point.
She got the kids strapped in and Big Petey exited the office, lumbered down the stairs, and Shy watched Pete and Tabby engage in a playful argument he couldn’t hear. Tab lost, and she faked being pissed as she handed over her keys and stomped around the car.
Pete had one child, his daughter, now under dirt. When he came back after her funeral, he was shattered. The man was not young, but after he lost his daughter and returned to the brotherhood, he looked a thousand years old.
Now, Shy saw, he was grinning as he folded his huge beer belly behind the wheel of Tab’s car and adjusted the seat.
Tab did that. Tab brought him back. Tabby put together those pieces and gave Pete something to grin about.
The Tab who looked right through Shy like he didn’t exist.
Petey pulled out and he, Tab, Rider, and Cut took off, where, Shy had no clue. Shy’d heard Cherry and Tack talking about it enough to know that Rider and Cut’s big sister doted on them and spoiled their asses rotten. So he figured ice cream, park, but whatever it was, it was filled with their sister’s love.
He watched the car until he couldn’t see it anymore.
Then he jumped off the picnic table and walked inside.
In the cool dark of the Compound, he stopped in the common room and stood, staring at the Chaos flag mounted on the wall at the back of the room.
Cool and dark while his gut still twisted and his heart burned.
He lifted his bottle and with his arm slicing through the air in a sidearm throw, he sent the bottle sailing across the room to smash in a foamy explosion of beer and brown glass on the wall opposite the door by the Club flag.
“Jesus, brother, what the f**k?” he heard rumbled from the side of the room. He turned and looked to see High sitting on a stool at the bar with Snapper behind it.
Shy didn’t answer. He prowled behind the bar and nabbed a bottle of tequila.
On his way back around the bar, heading to his room, he ordered Snapper, “Clean that shit up.”
Then he disappeared into his room.
* * *
Seven months later…
He rolled his truck to a stop behind the electric blue car on the side of the road.
Shy had gotten his first Tabby Callout in eighteen months.
She wasn’t out on the prowl.
She had a flat.
She was standing, jean-clad h*ps against the side of her car, thermal-covered arms crossed over the poofy vest she was wearing, low-heeled booted feet crossed at the ankles, head turned to him, eyes hidden behind a pair of mirrored, wire-rimmed shades, face vacant.
He’d seen her once since she took off with Petey and her brothers, and that was at the Chaos Christmas blowout at the Compound. He’d shown with a woman on his arm. She’d left fifteen minutes later.
That was it.
Now, as he angled out of his truck and moved toward her, she didn’t twitch. Just watched him.
When he got close, even though he hadn’t spoken a word to her since they saw each other at Fortnum’s over a year ago, she announced sharply, “I know how to change a flat, but I can’t get the lug nuts to move.”
He stopped a half a foot away from her, looked through his shades down his nose at her and growled, “I’m doin’ fuckin’ great, babe. Thanks for askin’. How the f**k are you?”
Her head jerked and her shoulders straightened like a steel rod had been jammed down her spine. “Pardon?” she asked.
“Nothin,” he muttered. “Do me a favor, step away from the car. Don’t need it sliding off the jack while I’m dealin’ with your tire because your ass is leaned into it.”
She pushed away from the car and Shy headed to the flat. She’d pulled out the spare, had the car jacked up and the lug wrench lying on the tarmac. Shy crouched to it and was grabbing the wrench when she spoke.
“Roscoe phoned. He’s ten minutes away. If this is biting into your schedule, he said he’d be able to help out.”
“Take me ten minutes. Then you can disappear again,” he muttered, putting the wrench to the nut and finding she was not wrong. Those bitches were on there tight.