Free Chasing Claire (Hells Saints Motorcycle Club) by Paula Marinaro Page A

Cherry, throw something over her naked shoulders, and drag her off.
    It was too late to matter.
    “Get out of my way, Reno.” I fought to stay on my feet.
    “No.”
    “No? Jesus. Just let me go.” I needed to leave, like right now.
    “No. Babe, you’re not going anywhere,” he said with solemnness. The look on my face had sobered him up fast.
    “Not a request, Reno. Get out of my way. I’m going home.”
    “Not when you look like that, baby.” His eyes skimmed me.
    I looked down to see the remnants of small shards of glass and big wet spots of red wine soaked through my pants like spiderwebs of glittering blood. Funny, I didn’t feel a thing.
    Reno followed my gaze.
    “I don’t mean your clothes, Claire. I mean the look on your face. I know that look. You always look like that just before you do something extreme.”
    Something extreme? Was he kidding? My whole life had been an experiment in the extreme.
    I was so very, very tired. Bone tired. I felt like I had never been so tired in my whole life. But I had been, I had been this kind of tired lots and lots of times before. And every time I felt myself reaching this
extreme
level, it took a little more from me. The only place,
the only place
I wanted to be was someplace that was not here.
    Having years of experience with this particular kind of weariness, I waited for that familiar surge of contradictory power to course through my veins: fight or flight, the sympathetic nervous system’s inherent response to danger. My body released adrenaline in such large quantities I could probably bottle it and sell it.
    Escape when threatened.
    Fight when cornered.
    Really, it would be better for everyone if Reno just got the hell out of my way.
    I tried one more time to move past him and when he stopped me, I let him have it.
    “Extreme? Yeah. Well, that’s me, Reno. Miss Extreme. I
always
do something extreme. Jesus, from the time I was four years old I have found myself in situations where I have had to do something
extreme.
And you know what? I’ve survived those things. All of them. Every single last one of them. And you know what else I survived? I survived you walking out on me. Yeah, I said it.
You
walked out on
me,
Reno, and why? Because I needed a minute? If I hadn’t gone back to you that very same day and practically begged for you to understand, I wouldn’t blame you. But you took everything I said, everything I gave, and you left anyway. So get away from me, Reno. Just get away from me, I don’t need you anymore. I don’t want you anymore.”
    And then I looked pointedly in the direction that Jules had taken Cherry and said “And I don’t care who you take to your bed, just as long as it isn’t me.”
    Reno looked at me like I had shot him.
    Too bad.
    I pushed past him with as much dignity as I could muster and didn’t stop until I was in my car and almost home.
    Then I pulled over and threw up.

CHAPTER 16
    G eez, do you have any idea how much Madagascar Bourbon Vanilla or Pernigotti Cocoa Powder is going for these days?” Glory stared at her laptop screen.
    “No clue,” I said and squinted at my own computer in outrage.
    “Well, it’s a lot,” she moaned.
    As I sat across the table from Glory, I did my own set of calculations. The Pay Less Buy More website for used college textbooks had been a real eye opener. If this was the
less
, I’d hate to see the
more
.
    Glory and I were spending a laid-back Sunday at home together. The cool rain, which had started in the early morning, had lasted all day. A pearl gray veil of mist had settled on the lake, wrapped around the house, and made everything feel cozy and peaceful. Glory had proclaimed these kinds of days Sweatpants Sundays.
    Sweatpants Sundays came with a very serious set of rules. Old sweats and T-shirts, no makeup, hair in loose ponytails, underwear optional, big fluffy socks, and an exclusive diet of carbs.
    Sweatpants Sundays totally rocked.
    As I sipped the perfectly brewed coffee