by J. P. Oliver
A flicker of anxiety. “Okay…”
When Victor looked at me, it was a delicate look with an edge that could kill. He was nervous, and that made me nervous. Whatever came next, I wasn’t sure if I could be ready for it.
“I mean it,” Victor said.
“Victor,” I huffed, grinning despite feeling liked I was standing at the sharp end of a knife. “Just ask me already before I have a heart attack.”
Victor took a breath, squeezed the thick of my thigh, and asked:
“Did you really kill Troy?”
19
Victor
The tension ripped back through Adrian quick as lightning.
I saw it string through him, visible as it tightened its grip on his body. Where he was relaxed against the sofa, he was suddenly ramrod. I felt his muscles tense under my hand on his thigh as he looked away, off to some nonjudgmental piece of furniture on the far side of the room.
Did you really kill Troy?
It was a hard question—hard to ask, harder to answer—but one that I needed to ask. It was one thing to talk about Winston or a newspaper clipping and all its biases, but to hear the story straight from the source, from Adrian, was an entirely different beast.
Thoughts were spinning silently inside of Adrian.
I wanted to know all of them, but all I could do was hold my breath and wait.
When he turned to me again, hope flared in my chest—but his expression beat it back down into nothing. It was like it was before, when I first caught him with the article: hard, defensive. His walls were going to fly up again, this time without me inside them.
“What if I did?” Adrian asked, glaring.
It was biting; it was mean. I took my hand from his thigh and shrugged, deciding I didn’t need that. I didn’t need whatever he was doing right now. If he wanted to keep space and keep secrets, then he was allowed to—he was his own person—but that didn’t mean I had to put up with it.
“I’m just curious,” I said, standing. My laptop was resting on my desk, and while it wasn’t the most comfortable setup, it was something. I sat with my back to him and flipped it open, typing. “If we’re going to do this—if you want to pursue something long-term—then I need you to be completely honest with me, Adrian. Like I’ve been with you. Otherwise, we’re both wasting our time.”
It was maybe harsh; it hurt to say it.
The silence that followed was tense and killing me, and it only stretched on through the sound of Adrian pushing off the couch with a soft grunt. Footsteps. I waited for them to pass me, to head for the door—maybe forever—but instead they paced away, towards the bed.
I checked my email, skimming over names and messages.
The blankets shifted, the bed creaked softly, displacing weight.
I paused; turned over my shoulder to see him sitting on the bed, touching his brace and looking particularly uncomfortable. I said nothing about it; Adrian could handle himself. He was an independent guy.
With a sigh, I turned back to my laptop. This could drag on as long as he needed it to, uncomfortable as it was. My fingers brushed the keys—
“It isn’t… it’s not like how the papers made it seem.”
Adrian’s voice startled me, clear in the silence. When I turned back to him, he was watching me warily—searching for a reaction.
“Then how was it really?” I asked quietly.
It was Adrian’s turn to sigh. I made my way towards the bed, willing to bridge the space between if he was willing to be honest with me. By the discomfort in his expression, I hoped that whatever he said next would be the truth.
“It was a Friday, which meant no work the next day,” he said, voice soft, husky in the way it often was when he teased me in bed. There was no sweet lilt to him his time, though; he was all serious. “So two other guys from the club and I had a night planned. Go out to Music Row, grab a drink, and we’d ride our bikes till it was late. Music Row’s pretty safe territory. Touristy enough that neither us nor the Raptors really fuck around. We just wanted a drink.”
I nodded, encouraging.
Adrian scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. The tattoos and bruises on his forearms exposed themselves to me beneath his pushed-up sleeves.
“Yeah. I don’t even know. Everything was fine and cool until it wasn’t,” he said, eyes tracing the pattern of the blankets. “Then some Raptor punk showed up.”
“Troy Sanders,” I said.
“Yeah. Troy-fucking-Sanders.” Adrian said the name like it was the worst mistake he’d ever made, his biggest regret, a bad taste left in his mouth. “I don’t know how much you know about our clubs. Falcon Grim doesn’t fuck around with any type of outlaw shit. We stay clear of the law best we can. Sometimes we ride that line, but we’re just about riding and keeping a low profile.”
I frowned. “And the Raptors?”
Adrian’s lips pulled into a small grin, bitter. “Yeah. They’re not like us. They’re fucking notorious for starting shit: fights, drugs, a few other unmentionable things that any decent person would consider extremely fucked up. Anyway, Troy was one of them. He was a fucking piece of work.”
“You knew him?” I asked, heart tight in my chest.
“I’d heard of him before,” Adrian said, shaking his head. “But I didn’t know him. I only knew that he was sick enough that even some of the Raptors didn’t want him around. He was a prick. Our clubs are only rivals because our leaders have some past beef.”
“So he comes in with a couple buddies, a bunch of real pricks. Sees us—you know, sees the patches on our jackets—and starts making all these shitty comments, but we keep out of it. Just one drink and we’d be out of there. Then he starts harassing some women at the bar.”
I touched his ankle softly where it rested by my knee. He didn’t pull away, but he did twitch softly and take in a deeper breath.
“Clearly the girls weren’t into it. No one was stepping up, so we stepped in. Told them to fuck off to some other dive and go fuck themselves. The other guys… I think they would have left if it wasn’t for Troy, but Troy lost his shit. Started pushing at my friend, knocked one of the women over in the process.”
Adrian shrugged, and continued, “All hell broke loose. I mean, guys were swinging at each other. Someone picked up a fucking barstool, it was like some Wild West shit. In the middle of it, I caught Troy. Swung at him. He whipped out a knife.”
He paused for a long moment.
I didn’t think that he would cry or anything—he was too tough to let something like that out, even if he wanted to—but he did stop to think about it. Weigh his words, remember all the things he’d probably much rather forget.
“The only thing going through my head was, This guy’s gonna fucking kill someone. So, I did what I had to do. I tried to wrestle it away from him, ended up turning it on him.” Adrian spoke quick, clinical, like he was reading hastily off a list. “It went into him. Deep. Enough that when I pulled it out of him, we couldn't stop the bleeding.”
Adrian’s fingers pointed at himself, at his abdomen.
“The medics who came said since it was such a complicated spot—all the muscle and veins and organs there—they couldn’t save him. He bled out before they even got there.”
“Adrian,” I said softly.
He held up his hand. “Just… let me finish. I’m almost done.”
“Okay. Yeah, okay.”
“The police came. They were about ready to lock me up before those girls Troy had been fucking with jumped in,” he explained. “They told them how everything had gone down. They said we helped them, that we saved them. That Troy was the one who had a weapon. When they searched us, we didn’t. Self-defense. Just like the paper said.”
I huffed, thumb brushing patterns into his bare ankle. “Not exactly like the paper. I think they missed a few important details.”
“That’s it.” Adrian shrugged. “That’s everything. I’m not here for some extended vacation or to help out my folks.
I’m here because we were told to lay low for a while. Let the dust settle and the Raptors cool off. The last thing I was looking for was to be made an example out of for stopping a piece of shit like Troy from hurting someone.”
I nodded slowly, letting all this information sink in.
Mostly, I felt… relieved. The truth was that Adrian had been the one to do it—to kill Troy Sanders—but it wasn’t as clear or petty as some biker rivalry. Adrian had saved people. It hurt me to know he had to do it, that he would live with Troy Sanders’ death on his shoulders, but it also sparked something else within me: just a little touch of pride.
“Adrian,” I said, sliding closer to him. “You’re a good man.”
I touched his chin and he looked away.
“Right.”
“No. I really, really fucking mean it,” I whispered.
Green eyes met mine, filled with their own relief. I felt him relax again, hand resting over mine. Our fingers slotted together, fitting perfectly against his cheek.
“So, that means you’re not breaking up with me, right?” he asked, smile small and teasing.
With a chuckle, I answered, drawing him softly into a kiss.
20
Adrian
“Halle-fucking-lujah.”
I tossed the brace into the garbage as we lingered in the kitchen, dressed to go out. Finally, I was free of the fucking sweaty, constricting thing. It was beginning to smell weird. I was a free man once more.
Victor chuckled, leaning against the counter. He looked too sexy in his button-down, the sleeves rolled to reveal his lean muscle and tats. I ran a hand across his chest and kissed him until he was laughing, grabbing me gently by the shoulders, and pushing me back.
“Hey, hey,” he chastised. “Save some for when we get back.”
“We don’t have to go out,” I said, sliding my arms into my leather jacket. “We could just stay and you could fuck me till I literally can’t walk right again.”
With a kiss to my forehead, Victor smacked my ass and took my hand.
“You still can’t walk right, anyway,” he teased as we made our way out to his car. He had to slow his stride a touch. I was without the brace and crutches, sure, but I definitely had a limp. A shattered knee could only heal so well after six weeks after all.
“Not forever,” I huffed, arm around his waist. I leaned my weight into his side. “Once I start physical therapy, though, I’ll make you eat your words.”
“Oh,” he laughed, detaching and going around to the driver’s side. “Is that the only thing I’ll be eating?”
I shot him a sly look over the car. “Hopefully, not.”
I hadn’t been out on the town since I took that beating from the Raptors.
The first week and a half was hell in the way that never getting to leave home could be hell. Lazy days were only great when they were once in a while, not forced. I was going stir crazy, but moving around in the brace with the level of pain I was having made riding and trailing down into North Creek a hassle. I didn’t even go down to the clinic; Curtis would make one of his many famous house calls just for little old me.
After that, I started working on the mobility, bit by bit. I got better with the crutches. I went out in the yard, took the occasional ride down to the grocery store or some shit with Victor. Zach and Curtis, Beth, a few other friends and Savage-Cross family members made their way up the hill to have dinner or a beer or watch a movie with us.
Victor’s place became a revolving door of people.
But it wasn’t quite enough.
Tonight, I was free, so he was taking me out on the town—and by that, I meant we were going down to have drinks with Curtis and Zach at the Speakeasy. As soon as we got in, they waved us over to a table on the far side with a little privacy and a cushy booth.
Victor touched my back and kissed my cheek.
“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll catch up. I’m just gonna use the bathroom.”
I shimmied carefully and limped my way across the Speakeasy, packed on this fine Friday evening. I didn’t even care that it was crawling with every local and tourist in North Creek; it was everything I was looking for. A little atmosphere, a little life. The music thumped in the speakers overhead, glasses clinked against one another and people chatted, laughed, argued, bet, muttered, shouted.
Zach nodded to me as I lowered myself into my booth, carefully about my knee. Taking notice, he lifted his soda bottle at me and said, “Now you know how I feel.”
I rolled my eyes. “It sucks, man. I don’t know how you put up with this limping shit.”
Curtis’s hand folded into his.
“You get used to it,” Zach chuckled.
“Where’s Victor?”
I shrugged out of my jacket, the air in the bar thick and warm with the amount of bodies.
“The little biker’s room,” I said.
“Ah,” Curtis laughed. “Him and his weak bladder.”
I raised a brow and signaled for the waitress. “That actually true, speaking as his doctor?”
Zach nudged Curtis, goading. “Yeah. That for real?”
Curtis covered his mouth and shrugged. “Doctor-patient confidentiality.”
Zach and I groaned in unison.
“Come on,” he laughed.
“A little dirt, please,” I said. “I’m practically living with the man. I need to be able to surprise him with some knowledge like that. Especially after he’s seen me all hopped up and loopy on painkillers.”
“Yeah, how’s that going by the way?” Curtis asked, sipping from Zach’s soda.
I waved at the waitress, who looked at me and then pointedly looked away. With a groan, I sank back against the vinyl, muttering, “This waitress fucking hates me, I swear.”
“Want a sip?” Zach asked.
“After you two have been backwashing in it all night?” I asked. “Uh, hell, yes.”
I took a swig after he passed it to me, surprised by the sticky sweetness of it.
“Fuck,” I laughed, looking at the label. “Just root beer?”
Zach took it back, shrugging. “I don’t really drink.”
“Ah. Gotcha.”
“Don’t ignore me,” Curtis laughed, nudging my foot under the table. “How’s it been going with Victor lately? You two have been spending a lot of time together.”
I shifted; honestly, it was going great. Amazing, actually, and for once I wasn’t completely freaked out by that. I didn’t feel like I was waiting for something to go wrong or explode with Victor. I liked him; I trusted him; I thought he was hot and reliable and just generally great to be around. The best boyfriend I’d had in, well, ever.
All of that translated to a small shrug and, “We’re doing fine.”
Curtis and Zach looked at each other in that way close married couples looked at each other: like they were communicating telepathically. It was freaky as fuck.
“Zach and I were wondering,” Curtis teased, “when you two are finally going to get married.”
I laughed, arms crossing on the tabletop. “That’s a big question, man.”
“But it is a question,” Curtis said.
“It sure is.” I shrugged. “I don’t know is the answer.”
Curtis rolled his wrist as Zach put an arm around his shoulders. “I’m sensing a but here, though, right?”
“Sorry,” Zach laughed. “He’s persistent.”
“I don’t know,” I repeated, grinning, a bit warm—and not because of the bar. “It’s not like I haven’t thought about it. I mean, your brother’s fucking great. I just don’t want to spook him off.”
Zach and Curtis both grinned at me like they knew something I didn’t. More of that married couple bullshit. I groaned and waved them off.
“No. It’s too soon, right? We’ve only been together a few months.”
“So?” Zach asked. “You know when you know. That shit doesn’t matter. You’re not on anybody else’s schedule.”
“Well…” I
trailed off because I had no answer to that, and it made sense. With a wry grin, I shot back, “Isn’t the older guy supposed to ask?”
We all laughed.
The sound of the bar rose around us; high tide and happy hour.
“Look, I don’t mind taking it slow with him,” I said. “I think we both could use something slow for once. Plus, the second we get married, my folks are gonna be back on my ass about us adopting kids. They’ve already asked, like, three separate times. They don’t need any more fuel for that fire.”
“You should,” Curtis said, grinning. He looked up at Zach and slapped him lightly in the chest. “We should. There are too many kids out there who need good parents.”
Zach took his wrist and laughed, and I laughed, too, because as classic a married couple as they were, it suited them both. The little looks and teasing. I thought of Victor, and wondered if we’d be like that, too, if we ever exchanged vows.
“What’s so funny over here?”
I snapped up to find Victor pushing through the crowd, a drink in either hand. He passed one to me as he slid into the booth, his hand around a frosty beer bottle.
“Oh, nothing,” Curtis sighed loftily.
“Zach?” Victor asked.
Zach shrugged. “Nothing at all.”
Curtis turned to me for confirmation, only ever getting a small grin.
Victor leaned back, and his hand brushed easily—familiarly—over my thigh and my bad knee. His touch was light and soothing. With all this talk of marriage, I felt my heart pick up just a bit.
“You know, you guys ought to consider joining the town gossips,” Victor said. “I hear they meet up every Sunday.”
“Please.” Curtis snorted. “We are the club.”
“Mm.” I raised my bottle and we all met in a small cheers. “Let the meeting begin.”
The night was relaxing.
We really proved that we probably could form a town gossip club, trading stories of what was going on with everyone we knew in town. Zach had secondhand stories from Dominic and his mother, I’d heard a thing or two from my mother, Curtis, while never getting too unprofessional, had a thing or two to say about some of the tourists that breezed in through his clinic after getting way too drunk—and all throughout it, Victor was touching me.
