Page 59 of Hell On Heels
Vicious held up his hand, cutting him off.
“It’s life. It goes on, and we deal with the fallout the best we can.”
They sat in silence, both watching Shannon decorating the window across the street. Each lost in their own thoughts, running through different versions of the same problem, playing out their own lives.
Somewhere in the quiet space between one truth and another, they found their footing again, no longer just VP and brother in crises, but what they’d always been beneath it all.Brothers.
Chapter Thirty-Four
After talking with Vicious about Shannon’s claim that she was carrying his child, Razor knew what he had to do. The realization had settled in hard and ugly, like gravel in his gut.
He’d called Lottie before riding over, asked if he could stop by. She hadn’t questioned it. Just told him to come.
Now he stood outside her apartment, the door cracked open behind him, a cigarette burning low between his fingers—a habit he’d almost kicked but found himself reaching for anyway.
He lingered at the top of the stairs, forearms braced against the railing as he stared out over the small backyard below. Evening had settled in, the sun sinking low enough to cast long shadows through the patchy grass, painting everything in muted gold. Humidity hung thick in the air, heavy enough to cling to his skin.
His bike sat parked at the bottom of the stairs, engine long cooled, dark paint catching the last of the dying light. He hadn’t touched it since pulling in. Hell, he hadn’t event taken off his cut. It stretched across his back like armor he wasn’t ready to peel away.
Because once he walked inside and said the words out loud, everything between him and Lottie could change.
Hell, he hadn’t moved much at all. Just paced the narrow landing a handful of times, boots thudding against weathered wood while he argued with himself. Walk away. Get on the bike, leave this alone for one more night.
Except no matter how many times he tried to justify it, he couldn’t talk himself out of doing the right thing. Because keeping it from her would be worse.
Lottie deserved better than half-truths and buried shit coming back to blindside her later. Better than secrets whispered behind closed doors. Better than finding out from somebody else.
He scrubbed a rough hand down his face, jaw flexing hard before he let out a slow breath that did nothing to ease the pressure sitting in his chest. Then he turned and stepped back inside.
She was in the kitchen, barefoot on the cool floor, hair piled up in a loose knot that had started to fall out around her face. She was stirring a pot that simmered on the stove. Something rich and fragrant wafted toward him. The scent of garlic and butter hung in the air, warm and domestic, cutting clean through everything Razor had walked in carrying.
When she glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him, it hit him—how much he didn’t want to hurt her. But wanting didn’t change the facts.
“Hey,” she said lightly, raking her eyes over him. “You hungry?”
“Not really,” he replied, his voice came out rougher than he meant it to be.
That was enough to make her pause. She turned fully then, spoon still in hand, letting it hover over the pot as her eyes locked on his. Whatever softness had been there a second ago sharpened into a quiet attention. Lottie reading him the way she always did when something was off.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Razor exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand to the back of his neck like he could physically hold himself together. “Can we sit down?”
Her expression shifted, barely, but enough. The smile faded completely. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Sure.”
They moved into the living room. Lottie tucked one leg beneath her as she sank into the corner of the couch, eyes never leaving him. Razor stayed on the edge of the cushion, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, searching for words that wouldn’t destroy everything.
“I went byThe Red Doortoday.”
“Okay…” she said slowly, brows knitting just a little.
“Shannon was there. Waiting on me.” He saw it land.
A shift in her expression—small, but sharp. Not quite understanding yet. Not quite dread. Something in between. She didn’t speak. Just gave a small nod, steady and quiet, like she was bracing herself without letting it show. “Go on.”
“She wanted me to know she’s pregnant.” He hesitated, forcing the words out, “And says it’s mine.”
Lottie blinked once. No gasp, no flinch—just a slow exhale, her body going very still. That guarded calm cut deeper than anger ever could, twisting something sharp in his gut.
