Fight For Her (Devil's Right Hand MC #2)

Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I high-key suck at these scenes. In my last book, I worked around it because Clove and Wolf are kind of vanilla, but these guys are anything but. So bare with me, I promise they'll get better.

Brenna's POV

I have faced many scary situations in my lifetime, many more than most women my age. Usually, fear ignites an instinct inside me that makes me feel powerful and determined, that's what makes me a good fighter. However, as I stand in front of Driver's door, I only feel nervous. Not powerful. Not determined. Not confident.

Before my mind can catch up with the rest of my body, the sound of me knocking on his door falls in rhythm with my pounding heart. This is it. There's no turning back now.

Honestly, I'm not sure why I'm so nervous, but I know that whatever happens tonight will be permanent. I cannot handle the confusion any longer. As I wait for him to open the door, I feel a pang of guilt for leaving Smoke down in the bar, but I'm sure I'll be back down soon. After all, I think I know exactly how this will go: we'll argue, he'll get mad, I'll shut down, and then I'll get pushed out of the fighting ring. That shouldn't take more than 20 minutes tops.

"Who the fuck is it?" Driver yells after a solid minute of my persistent knocking.

"Open the damn door," I yell in response. Anger bubbles inside of me and I feel like a tea kettle about to blow her lid.

"Surprised you left your fuck buddy long enough to notice anybody else," he scoffs as he opens the door. The sight before me catches me off guard as he is in a pair of grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt instead of his usual jeans and leather vest.

"We need to talk," I say, my eyes still glued to his body. My god, he is one fine specimen.

"Go talk to Smoke," he growls as he tries to shut the door.

"Goddamnit, Driver, I am not doing this tonight," I yell in frustration. Finally, he realizes how serious I am and he opens the door to let me into his room.

I have no idea what I expected when I learned they all live in the clubhouse, but it was not this. This room is incredibly large, with a king-size bed, a dresser, and a small desk. Everything in the room is black, which I completely expected, and stuff is thrown all over the floor.

"You gonna talk or just judge my room?" He shoots with an annoyed expression.

"Will you stop assuming everything I do has malicious intent?! I wasn't judging it, I was just looking at it. I'm not the horrible person you think I am," I defend.

"I don't think you're a horrible person," he mumbles as his posture loosens ever so slightly.

"Then tell me why you've been acting like this. Tell me why you don't want to talk to me then freak the fuck out when I just have drinks with Smoke."

"He wanted to do a lot more than just buy you drinks," he scoffs with anger edged into his facial features.

"And why would that matter to you?" I question in frustration. I just need him to give me something, anything, so I can figure out what the fuck is going on.

"Because I don't want anyone but me touching you like that," he yells. His expression quickly turns into shock, as if he is surprised he said those words. That makes two of us.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Nothing," he mutters, trying to dismiss this entire conversation.

"No. No, you don't get to do that again. You don't get to make some damn proclamation and then dismiss it in the next breath."

"You should know by now how I feel about you," he whispers.