Bones: Heartbreaker MC #2

by Alexis Abbott

  We left the house moments later in silence, but once we reach the bikes, Breaker stops and rounds on me with a red face.

  “What the fuck was that in there, Bones?” he growls, stepping toward me.

  “That was me respecting Lauren’s wishes,” I fire back, holding my ground feeling my blood boil. “Unlike you.”

  “What was that?” he says, getting closer. “Because all I heard in there was you making us look divided in front of someone we need to have a healthy fear of us.”

  “And I heard you talking like a politician!” I snap. “What was that ‘let me handle it’ mafia bullshit? And you know what? I don’t appreciate the hint that I should be apologizing for something I’d do again, if I had the chance!”

  “What you did was make a scene that could turn the town against us!” Breaker shouted.

  “Because nobody else had the backbone to!” I retort.

  Breaker and I glare at each other while the others watch silently.

  “You need to blow off some steam,” Breaker finally growls through clenched teeth, pointing down the road. “Go for a ride, Bones. Alone. Meet us back at the clubhouse when you’re ready to get your act together.”

  I glare at him for another few moments, but if I stay any longer, I’ll start swinging. Without giving him the satisfaction of hearing me curse under my breath, I storm to my bike and peel away from the sidewalk, leaving a nice black streak in front of the mayor’s house.

  Through the rain, it doesn’t take me long to steer my bike to the one place I know I can rein myself in the way I need to and get my head clear.

  I ride toward Lauren’s house.

  Lauren

  I sit with my legs curled up underneath me on the sofa, flipping uselessly through the channels on my tiny second-hand television set. I picked it up at a yard sale years ago, when I first moved to the area. I’m not a girl with a lot of money to spend. I have to make it go a long way, and if that means sifting through people’s junk while an old woman watches me with hawk eyes and continually tries to recruit me for her church, then so be it. I have managed to amass most of my furnishings and decor from similarly downtrodden origins. My sofa is from a thrift store sale. My kitchen appliances were bought on auction, second-hand. My clothes come from thrift shops, too, even most of my shoes. If there is one upside to living this frugal, isolated lifestyle, it must be that I can at least claim a pretty sharply reduced biological footprint on the earth. In fact, I have gotten so accustomed to hiding that I hardly make much of an impression in the world in general. Few people know me. Even fewer know where I come from, who I used to belong to. What horrible last name used to follow my first name. I kept the first: Lauren. It’s not for his sake, but for mine. It is the only piece of proof defining who I used to be that I have carried with me all this time. It’s the only thing that truly belongs to me. And when the same evil, diabolical devil of a man has deliberately robbed me of every other little thing I used to have, a name becomes more important than you could ever know.

  “Looks like the rural community around Pine Haven is going to be wet, wet, wet for the next day or so, with large storm clouds moving in over the area. Expect heavy rains and thunderstorms until tomorrow mid-morning, when it’s projected to start clearing up. Folks, there’s no better time than today to curl up with a good book or a loved one and ride out the inclement weather,” announces the weather guy on the TV in front of me.

  I smile softly to myself, even though I change the channel. I glance out the window, listening to the soothing tap-tap of rain pattering against the glass pane behind the lacy curtains. I have always been a fan of stormy weather. Maybe it’s just because I already spend almost all of my time cooped up here, rain or sunshine, and it feels less egregious to do so when the weather would keep me trapped inside anyway. It’s the perfect excuse to do what I always do: lock all the doors and windows and be alone.

  Sure, I get lonely. Who doesn’t? It’s human nature to want to reach out, to connect. But I’ve seen too much. I’ve stood much too close to the flames to be drawn out by fire. I much prefer the rain. It feels safer. Like I’m swaddled up in a cozy, slightly dreary cocoon.

  And tonight I definitely need extra comfort, because in my hand right now is my burner phone, with the name MURRAY SMYTH plastered across the top of the screen. I can’t seem to stop reading article after article about the major appeal coming up in his case. No matter how horrified it makes me feel, how far down into the depths of my wildest fears it manages to reach, I can’t stay away. I have to know what is happening. I have to be prepared. Judging from the way the article is worded, the author doesn’t appear to think Smyth will be granted his appeal for compassionate release. After all, he’s not ancient. He’s only in his fifties. Only twice my age. And he’s only been in jail for thirteen years, nowhere near as long as the bastard deserves. If it were up to me, he would never be released. Hell, if it were up to me, he wouldn’t exist anymore. I am so tired of sharing this planet with him. If I never see or hear of him again, I’ll be satisfied. But the world can’t stop pointing to him, drawing his image out of the dark. It feels like I’ve buried his body somewhere in the far-back recesses of my mind, and these articles just dig him right back up and breathe life into his filthy body.

  Sometimes, when it gets to be almost too much to bear, I imagine him dead. Those hands falling limp so they can no longer touch. Those eyes going dark so they can no longer watch. It’s the only way I’ll ever be safe from him, and I know it. But the state is lenient. As far as they know, he’s only offended once. Granted, it was an absolutely monumental offense, and I think it should be more than enough to put him away forever. But the parole board is gentle. They have mercy for the man with the entrancing eyes and the winning smile.

  I hate that I can see traces of those eyes and that smile in the mirror. Like he’s imprinted himself on me somehow. Our blueprints overlapping and clashing together.

  Suddenly, cutting through the fog of anxiety and clattering rain, I hear another familiar sound that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. A motorcycle engine revving. Getting louder and louder by the moment.

  And closer, too.

  “Shit,” I murmur as I drop my phone and switch off the TV.

  Keeping low to the ground, I pull out the baseball bat from underneath my thrifted coffee table and wield it in both hands as I creep slowly to the door. My heart is pounding. Adrenaline pulses through my veins. I stand up ever so slightly to peer out the nearby window and, to my surprise, I actually recognize the face of the man on the motorcycle.

  It’s Bones. I would recognize his face anywhere. It’s forever seared into my mind.

  I relax for a moment, acknowledging that at least it’s probably not the same guy who was watching me outside of the bar yesterday. But then I tense up again as it dawns on me that even though I have his number, I never actually reached out to Bones at all. And after he went away, I have started to have second thoughts about the dark pleasure he helped me explore. That is a side of myself I’ve kept hidden for so long, and for good reason. It felt good to let go and give in to my desires for once, but I worry it’s too dangerous. After all, I’ve spent so long trying to cage in that wild beast that lurks deep inside of me, scratching to burst free at the slightest inclination. All my hard work will go to waste if I let a man like Bones break me. I can’t allow him to see the truth of who I am. Where I hail from. It’s an indelible scar on my soul, one that will someday lay me bare before my maker and cause me to lose paradise. I know it. A girl like me can’t come from a place like that and make it to heaven in the end. My dark destiny was written in the stars long before I was even born.

  But then, still clutching my baseball bat like a lifeline, I watch surreptitiously from the window as Bones rolls to stop. He cuts the engine of his motorbike and rakes his fingers back through his hair. I am immediately smacked in the face with the sense memory of those same glorious fingers combing through my hair. Tangling in it. Pu
lling my hair to guide me as I sucked and choked on his cock. I can feel my body warming up and opening to him at just the mere thought of it. He looks devilishly sexy as he dismounts the bike, those long, powerful legs in boot cut dark jeans. He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt with a black leather jacket over it. Fingerless gloves to protect his hands from the rain and wind while still allowing him dexterity. He shakes his hair out, drops of rainwater flying everywhere as the storm clouds crackle and loom overhead. He’s dripping wet from head to toe, but he manages to look gorgeous despite it. And when he starts sauntering up the front walkway to my door, I feel like I might pass out, my heart is hammering away so hard. He raises a fist to knock at the door.

  Thump-thump-thump. Heavy and sharp.

  I pause for a moment, toying with the idea of just pretending not to be home. It’s easier than facing up to him. But then I remember that my car is parked outside. It’s obvious that I’m here right now. So, with a deep breath of trepidation, I disengage all four locks on the door and pull it open just a crack to reveal his face, slick with rain and frowning at me. He looks mad. There’s a pulsating, angry energy to him I can’t ignore, and it makes me feel flimsy and wispy by comparison to him.

  “Bones,” I murmur by way of a greeting.

  “Lauren,” he growls back. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

  I swallow hard. I know I should turn away. I should slam the door shut and bolt all the locks. But it’s raining outside and he’s wet and he’s looking at me with those luminous, powerful eyes… so I open the door farther, letting him push into the house. He immediately sheds his damp jacket, draping it on the coat rack by the door.

  “You came back,” I mumble softly.

  He rounds on me with those eyes flashing. “I had to,” he replies.

  “And you seem angry about something,” I point out.

  “I am,” he snarls, backing me farther into the foyer. I look up at him with round eyes.

  “Why? What did I do?” I ask meekly.

  “You’re just going to let that asshole Brandon try and assault you? You told the bartender you don’t want to even press charges?” he hisses. “He deserves to be punished for what he did.”

  “No. No, I can’t,” I protest, shaking my head.

  “You have to. You can’t let this go, Lauren,” he insists.

  “No!” I say, louder this time. “I know who he is now. I know how powerful he is. His father is well-known and respected. Whatever he says, goes. Nobody will ever believe me. They won’t believe you either, Bones. You’ve got to get out of town before this bows up any bigger than it already is. We can’t face him. He’s got connections.”

  “I don’t give a damn who he is or who his father is!” Bones growls. “He tried to assault you. He fucked with your drink. I saw it happen.”

  “Don’t you understand? It doesn’t matter what the truth is,” I whisper as tears start to burn annoyingly in my eyes. “All that matters is the story, and his story will be stronger than yours or mine. I can’t let you go down for this, Bones. You saved my life. Please, listen to me: you have to get the hell out of dodge.”

  “That’s not how I operate,” he shoots back gruffly.

  I slump back against the wall, letting the tears roll down my cheeks. I know how hysterical I must look. How weak. But he doesn’t get it. He could never understand.

  “It’s all happening again,” I sniffle. “I’m cursed. That’s what it is. A curse. I keep trying to run away. I keep trying to hide. But that darkness will always follow me. It always catches up, no matter how far I go. I’m a jinx, Bones. I’m bad luck. I’ve been bad ever since I was conceived. You can’t get tangled up with me. I’ll ruin your life.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Bones demands, though I detect a note of sympathy in his voice. But not pity. At least it’s not pity.

  “You’d never understand. Just… believe me. I’m cursed, okay? I break everything I touch. It’s in my damn blood,” I sob.

  Bones softens a little and reaches for me, to pull me into a tight hug. But as much as I want to give in, to let his warm embrace soothe the fear away for however long we can keep it at bay, I know it’s better if I make as clean a break as possible. He’s already rescued me once. I can’t make him do it again. So I push him away, recoiling from his touch. I shake my head, backing away and then turning to go up the stairs. To my horror, he follows me. I can feel and hear his heavy footsteps behind me. Why won’t he leave? Why doesn’t he get it?

  “Leave me alone! I’m trying to help you!” I shout back at him over my shoulder.

  “Come back. It’ll be okay, I promise,” he tries to soothe me.

  “You don’t understand!” I protest, taking the stairs two at a time.

  “I understand a lot more than you think I do,” Bones says cryptically. “I found the clipping, Lauren. I found the article. I know.”

  My whole body freezes up and I slowly pivot around to look at him. Even though he’s a few stairs lower than me, he’s still taller than I am. I can scarcely breathe, much less speak.

  But I manage to croak out, “What?”

  His eyes lock with mine as he says emphatically, “I know about the kidnapping.”

  “The kidnapping?” I repeat in a flat, dead tone.

  He nods. “Yes, Lauren. I know you were kidnapped by a very, very bad man.”

  My shoulders slump and tears prickle in my eyes. I shake my head. “No. You don’t understand. You’ve got the story all wrong. Don’t even try to understand, alright? Just leave me alone! Please!” I whisper bitterly.

  Bones reaches to take my wrist but I manage to pull away and dart up the rest of the stairs. He’s hot on my trail as I fling open my bedroom door and dive inside, slamming it shut behind me. Just as his hand starts to turn the knob, I engage the double lock, and he can’t get in. He tries the door a few more times.

  “Come on, little girl. Open up. I’m here to help you,” he insists.

  “No. Go away,” I sniff, wiping at my eyes.

  There’s a silence. A few moments turns into a minute. A few minutes. I hear his footsteps dissipating down the hall and I throw myself down into my bed, burying my face in my pillow. My whole body is wracked with sobs. I’m alone again. Just me and my past, facing up in the arena once again. I’ll never be free of it. That darkness will follow me until my dying breath.

  I’m so exhausted and stressed out that I start to doze a little, assuming that Bones has let himself out of the house and gone home. But a couple hours later, my eyelids flutter open and I look at the big bay window. It’s after sunset. The sky is still stormy, but much darker than before. And then something else hits me—the smell of something delicious cooking. It’s a strangely comforting fragrance. Butter and potatoes. Herbs. Sizzling meat.

  My stomach growls plaintively and I sit up in bed, trying to figure out where the delicious smell could be coming from. I don’t do a lot of cooking, myself, and the nearest neighbor is way too far off for me to ever smell their cooking. It dawns on me that someone must be here. In my house. My kitchen, to be more precise.

  I gasp and rush across the room, unlocking and opening my door quietly. I stand there frozen in place for a moment, listening. I can hear the faint scrape of pots and pans downstairs, and the scent of cooking is much stronger now. My mouth waters and I realize I can’t resist any longer. I quietly pad down the stairs and around the corner into the kitchen, my eyes widening at the sight of Bones dutifully cooking up some of the food I’ve had in my fridge and freezer all week. There are fluffy golden potatoes whipped with rosemary and butter. There are two steaks seasoned with black pepper and sea salt, sizzling in my one and only cast-iron skillet. Bones is holding a spatula in one hand, a steak knife in the other. Even though the sight of a mostly-strange man in my kitchen wielding a knife does frighten me, the softness in his eyes is enough to placate me for the time being.

  Well, that and the tempting smell of a home-cooked meal.


  “You look like you haven’t been eating well,” Bones says.

  I hang my head, blushing. “I guess I’ve been too anxious to eat.”

  “You shouldn’t skip meals,” he chides me gently. “Sit down. It’s ready.”

  I obediently take a seat at the quaint, two-seater table I picked up at a rummage sale at some backwoods church months ago. Bones brings over two plates heaped high with juicy, medium-rare steak and piles of whipped potatoes. I can hardly hold myself back at all. I hungrily rip into the meal while Bones watches me quietly. I can tell he’s contemplating something. I still don’t know why he’s being so kind to me, but I can’t deny how good the food is.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you and locked you out earlier,” I tell him softly.

  He shrugs. “I understand. You were afraid.”

  “You can’t possibly understand,” I sigh, setting down my fork and knife. “But that’s not your fault. I haven’t given you a fair chance to understand.”

  “Okay. Try me,” he says.

  I take a deep breath, dread leaking in at the edges of my resolve. “You said you saw the clipping. The one about Murray Smyth,” I begin, hating the way his name feels in my mouth. “And you assumed I was the girl he held hostage. I can see why you might think that. But that’s not the truth.”

  Bones leans in closer, his brow furrowed. “Then tell me: what is the truth?”

  Biting my lip, I admit the one thing I have been hiding all these years.

  “The truth is…” I sigh, “I am Murray Smyth’s daughter. I’m the one who turned him in.”

  Bones

  Lauren’s confession hits me like a sack of bricks, and I can only just stare at her in disbelief. My jaw doesn’t go slack, I don’t go pale, and I don’t break down worrying and fretting over her. I just meet her gaze and feel the weight of the words as she spills them. Goddamn, I’ve never thought of myself as an empathetic person, but something about the hollow look in her eyes when she says it tells me she’s being honest. There could be no mistaking that.