by Alta Hensley
“I’ll take her home,” I offered which had every man looking at me in disbelief.
“I think you’ve done enough,” Tennessee snapped.
“I don’t think you’re the best man for the job,” Matthew said.
“Yeah, I think the last person she wants to see is you,” Prince Roman agreed.
I glared at each man who spoke as a silent warning for them to shut the fuck up. I knew what I’d done. I knew what I’d done was wrong. And I allowed each man to say and look at me as they chose without penalizing them for doing so. I was an ass, and they had every right to think so. But I did not, nor would I ever ask permission to do anything. I was my own man and made every choice on my own. Wrong or right.
“Do not be mistaken, gentlemen,” I seethed. “I was not asking for permission. I was simply telling you what I would do. And I will do it.”
“Marlowe is in a bad place,” Tennessee countered, surprising me with his bravery. I was still Harley Crow after all, and my reputation and my past had still not changed. I had killed men for fewer reasons than foolishly standing up to me or against me.
“I understand that. She’s there because of me,” I said in a calm and even tone, though forewarning was definitely present. “So, it is my responsibility to take her home if that’s what she wants to do. It’s the least I can fucking do.”
“There’s a damn hurricane outside,” Victor reminded. “Why don’t we all just sit and get a drink. Let it pass. Buy Marlowe a stiff one to calm her nerves.”
“Take me to her now,” I said to Tennessee, ignoring Victor completely.
“There’s no way she’s going to let you in that bathroom,” Tennessee continued to argue, though I could see he was losing some of that steel in his spine.
“Then you open it for me,” I snapped with venomous danger seeping through my words.
Without saying another word, Tennessee spun on his heels and began walking toward the staff room where Marlowe was. I could tell he wasn’t happy, and he never looked back at me as I followed, nor slowed his pace so I could catch up to him. I didn’t care, however. All I cared about right now was getting Marlowe home safely.
When we entered the staff room and then reached the closed bathroom door, Tennessee scowled at me as he knocked on the door.
“Marlowe? Can I come inside?” he asked as he knocked softly again.
We waited, but heard no response.
Tennessee knocked again. “Marlowe, let me in.”
Again, no response.
Tennessee went to open the door with a furrowed brow. He looked at me. “Wait right here. Let me make sure she’s decent. And like I said before, I seriously doubt she is going to want to see you.”
Without waiting for an answer, Tennessee cracked the door open just enough for him to squeeze inside, quickly snapping it shut behind him. I was losing my patience quickly, but tried to also understand that the man was only trying to put Marlowe’s feelings first.
“Oh dear Jesus,” I heard Tennessee say from the other side of the door. The man was afraid. I could hear it. Hell, I could damn near feel it.
It was all I needed for a surge of panic to pump through my veins and force me to open the door wide as I barged in.
“Marlowe…” I barely whispered on an exhale.
In my life, I had seen some gruesome acts. Bloody bodies, severed limbs, blank and lifeless eyes staring back at me. I had seen more blood covering the walls of a room than I thought could possibly come from a human body. I had seen men tortured while they pleaded and begged for their lives—their agonizing screams vibrating my bones. Nothing made my stomach clench, or forced me to ever look away. Heartless and cold were survival mechanisms that I had mastered. Callous and merciless had become my tools.
But not now.
Nothing could have prepared me for the crushing terror that attacked. No torture could have matched the agonizing misery that nearly suffocated me as I stood in that tiny bathroom.
Marlowe laid on the tiled floors with blood running down her legs and dripping on the ceramic. Her jeans were bunched at her ankles, and her pink panties were her only clothing concealing her bottom half. Slice after slice, her creamy white skin was now marred by bloody lines. A tiny razor blade lay next to her—the culprit of the crime.
“Oh, sugar. Why in the world?” Tennessee said as he went to where Marlow slumped half conscious against the wall and took her into his arms.
With long strides, I went to the sink and reached for a bunch of paper towels. I ran them under the water as I watched Tennessee rock Marlowe’s body with his as he kissed the top of her head. She appeared so broken, yet so calm.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I had to release the pain.”
Her fragile words seized my heart like a fucking vise. No punishment for my misdeeds could be worse than those soft and sorrowful words.
Bending down between her legs, I brought the wet towels to the blood on her wounds to try to clean up the area enough to see if any of her cuts needed stitches or medical care. Hopefully, they were superficial and wouldn’t require a trip to the emergency room. It did surprise me, however, that Marlowe didn’t try to hit me away or demand for me to leave. I had expected rage, but as I glanced up to look at her, I saw her looking at me with tears in her eyes. No anger. No fury like the last I had seen on her face and in her deep brown eyes when she had ridden off with Layla from my dock.
Just tears and pain now.
I much preferred the storm to the aftermath.
Although in her pain, I saw so much beauty. She had a damaged soul that I could connect to. I realized it there, that very moment, why this woman had such a massive hold over my entire being. It was the shadows that lurked behind the surface that pulled me in. I wanted nothing more but to be swathed in the warmth of that black blanket that lurked beneath her heart. I wanted that part of her she tried to hide and conceal. And right there, as she bled on the ground, I saw Marlowe Masters completely exposed… and I fucking loved it. I understood it.
Not being able to look into her eyes any longer in fear that I would cross the line and make her shut me out, I continued to dab at her cuts, feeling relief when I realized the blood was far worse than the actual wounds that caused it. It appeared that the ten slices were not deep enough to give me reason to seek medical care. Clearly, this poor wounded bird knew what she was doing. She had clearly mastered this skill.
“They’re shallow cuts,” I informed Tennessee who watched me with worry as I cleaned and examined.
Marlowe tried to close her legs then to hide the evidence of her sorrow, but I wouldn’t allow it. I wanted to get her as clean as I could. Maybe if I wiped the blood away long enough, I could wipe away the cuts and the torment that had caused them.
Tennessee still held Marlowe close. Her head rested on his chest as she watched my every move.
“Girl, I don’t know what the fuck you were thinking. I swear to God, child, if you ever pull a stunt like this again…” Tennessee’s voice cracked, and I saw his eyes glass over. “I will beat your Latina ass until—”
“You should have used that razor on me,” I said softly, locking eyes with Marlowe again. “Not you.”
Her expression didn’t change. She only stared at me with zero anger in her eyes. I was so close to her, yet so very far away. I couldn’t read her. Had she run away from the connection I was positive we had shared? Was she gone? I wasn’t sure if it was possible to chase her down, but I damn well would try.
I stood from my crouch and threw away the bloody towels. Reaching down for Marlowe’s arm, I said softly, “Let me take you home.”
I expected outrage and a slew of curse words, but was surprised when all I got was a slight nod of her head as she reached down for her pants to pull them up.
Both Tennessee and I assisted her in standing and covering her lower half. She had lost enough blood that I worried her standing too fast would cause her to faint, so I kept a firm hold of her arm, pulling her agai
nst my side to lean on for support. Again, I was happily surprised that she didn’t try to fight me off.
As she buttoned her jeans with her tiny fingers, she looked up at me with her big wide eyes. “Why?”
Why what?
Why was I an asshole?
Why did I do the awful things I did?
Why was I even in this bathroom thinking I had the right to breathe the same air as the most incredible woman I had ever met?
Why was I feeling the way I was?
Why was my heart beating so hard that its beat ricocheted off my inner ears?
Why did I want to cradle this woman in my arms, never to let her go?
Why did I want to protect her?
Why did I never want her to feel fear and pain again?
Why did, for the first time in my life, I want to be a better man? A man deserving of Marlowe Masters.
Why?
Why?
“I have no excuses worthy of an answer,” was all I could say as a thick lump formed in the back of my throat. If I could have ripped out my heart and placed it on her delicate palm, I would have.
“Are you all right with going home with Harley?” Tennessee asked as he held her free hand in his. I could see that Tennessee had let go of the majority of his anger and disgust with me that I had read on him earlier.
She nodded as she looked at Tennessee and then the bloody floor. “I’m sorry. Let me clean—”
“Just go home,” Tennessee interrupted. “I got this. Go home and heal. Heal however you need to.” He reached for her chin and squeezed gently, forcing her to stare at him directly in the eyes. “Never again. Do you hear me? Never again. You battle those demons in another way.”
I wanted to pick her up and cradle her softly in my arms, but I also knew that she wouldn’t want the unwanted attention from others as I carried her through the club. So cautiously, preparing for her to completely unleash on me at any moment, I guided her out of the bathroom, the staff room, and Spiked Roses without saying goodbye to anyone. At this moment, no one and nothing mattered except Marlowe. I didn’t deserve her forgiveness nor did I expect it, but I did want to make sure she was safe and comfortable. Maybe it was possible to somehow take away the pain and hurt I had caused.
Fuck! If I had only realized how much pain I would cause. This had nothing to do with fear, control or dominance. This had nothing to do with the Tasting. I’d damaged an innocent girl who deserved so much better.
Like the emotions storming inside of me, walking outside was the same. The wind pounded against us with so much force that it caused Marlowe to stumble back, forcing me to wrap my arm tighter around her as we ran toward the waiting town car. I felt bad risking the driver’s life being out in this mess, but he had insisted when I offered to drive the car myself. He had worked for me for many years, and he didn’t consider this mission any more dangerous than the others he had driven me to and from.
Once we were in the safety of the back seat, I turned to face Marlowe. Her long hair was tousled from the storm, but her eyes were steady and collected. She was no longer the woman who had raged at me near my pool after learning of the betrayal.
“What’s the address to your place?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to go back there.”
“You don’t? Why?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t. I don’t feel like facing the other girls and Marie. I just don’t.”
Glancing outside to see that the storm was picking up speed with each passing moment, and knowing we didn’t have a lot of time to sit and chat about where we would go, I offered, “My house?”
She nodded, though appeared sad with that decision. “Do we have time to get there by the boat? Will we be safe?”
“Yes, we have time. And yes, we will be safe. I’ll make sure of it.” I reached for her hand and held it in mine, again waiting for her to pull it away and was pleased when she didn’t. “Are you sure? I can get you a hotel room or something.”
She looked down at our intertwined hands, and then out the window at the entrance of Spiked Roses. The purple and green flags whipped around, shredding slightly with the force of the wind.
“I just want to feel safe. And for some crazy reason, you make me feel safe,” she said as she continued to stare out the window emotionless. “Your house makes me feel safe.”
For the first time since the revelation of my sinful act, I felt a ray of hope. Maybe, just maybe, I could fix what I had so royally fucked up. She held my hand rather than punched me with it. She sat next to me rather than ran. She was talking rather than screaming. And she wanted me… even needed me, to make her feel safe.
I knocked on the glass that separated us between the driver and issued the destination, still refusing to release her hand. If the connection were to be broken, it would have to be Marlowe’s choice, for if I had it my way, I would never let go of her hand again.
Chapter Twenty
Marlowe
I’d hated my mother sometimes while growing up. Or at least at the time, I’d thought I did. I couldn’t understand why she would forgive my father for all the shit he put her through. Drunken fights, drug and booze parties being held without notice at all hours of the nights, indiscretions, disappearing for days with no explanation as to why, and so many other things that would make any sane woman pack her bags and leave. But not my mother. She always stayed. She always stood by his side, offering complete forgiveness even when the bastard never offered an apology, nor a promise to change. I’d thought she was weak, and it had made me hate her.
I had become my mother. I was weak—far weaker than she had ever been.
Any sane woman would never forgive a man who did what Harley had done. His cruel act deserved no redemption. That same sane woman definitely wouldn’t hop in a car, and then a boat, and then walk back into the exact house where the awful act had occurred. And yet, there I was. Back in Harley’s entryway, kicking off my shoes by the door as if we had just hit the restart button, about to reenact a new version of our reality.
Was that even possible? Could I just hit the restart button? Did one even exist? Maybe my mother had found that button. Maybe that restart button was called love.
Love.
Fuck love. Fuck trying to define what that really meant and how it looked.
Did I love Harley Crow?
Who cared? Did it matter?
I was there—standing in his isolated house in the bayou willing to forgive.
Love?
I had also hated my best friend in high school, Veronica Smith, sometimes because she always fell in love—so easily and so quickly. She could go on one date and then come to me gushing about how she knew the boy she had just met was the one. Insta love was about as real as a damn unicorn, and I’d hated that she was foolish enough to believe in it. Love didn’t happen at first sight. Love didn’t happen because of one night. Love didn’t happen over a weekend. Love was something you had to work your ass off for, and maybe never actually truly feel in a lifetime. Or at least that was what I’d once believed. Insta love made you foolish, just as forgiveness made you weak.
My mother was weak.
My best friend was foolish.
I’d hated these women at times in my life for possessing those traits.
Yet, I was now both. Weak and foolish.
“Can I get you something to drink? Wine?” Harley asked, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I glanced around as if expecting to see some change in his house. The only difference was the violent storm outside the large picture windows of the living room.
“Yes,” I answered, realizing it was the first word I had spoken since leaving the car. I had remained silent the entire boat ride.
Contemplating. Contemplating what the weekend had meant, and what it would mean for the future. Harley was there with me. He’d driven that boat and taken me back to his place as if that were the only option. He had cleaned up my blood as I had laid destroyed on th
e bathroom floor. And I realized that it was at that very moment that I’d forgiven him.
One look was all it took.
One look from Harley Crow, and I was willing to be weak and foolish for the man.
As I’d sat there with my legs spread, blood dripping from my cuts of release, and allowing a darkness to return that I had believed I had vanquished away forever, Harley’s eyes had connected with mine. He had looked at me with compassion and understanding rather than pity or repulsion. If anything, it appeared as if he welcomed my demons rather than shaming them away.
My demons danced with his. A morbid tango of torment and terror had occurred that very moment our eyes had locked. He got me. I got him. Flawed in the worst of ways, yet our darkness blended so perfectly.
I would forgive Harley Crow because it was the only way to forgive myself.
Harley walked over to his bar like he had done a few days ago. Reminding me again of that restart button. I wondered if it were truly possible to hit it like my mother had done so many times. And if I did restart from the beginning, what would I do differently? Well… definitely not fucking get kidnapped. That was for damn sure. But then it dawned on me that I wouldn’t change what I had done with Harley or take away the conversations we had had. I wouldn’t have altered one thing about the intimacy and the connection I knew we had developed in such a short time. I wouldn’t have changed my deep feelings for this man before me.
What about the game? Harley claimed he was sorry and would take it all back if he could. But would I, if I had the power of the restart button?
Did the fake kidnapping make those intense feelings I had for him happen? Would that connection we had formed even have existed had it not been for reaching the brink of insanity but then having someone pull you off the ledge?
Would I change a thing, or simply allow exactly what had occurred to happen again?
