by Naomi West
Cutter realized that the second part was actually true. Eyes still on Cutter, Wyland reached into his pocket, grabbed a fat money clip, and began to thumb twenties off on to the tabletop. He left a small stack and walked around the table toward the three men. He stopped next to Cutter and said, in a low voice, “How's that leg, by the way? Heal up just fine?”
It took every ounce of Cutter's dwindling self-control to keep down his darker bloodier urges. He could have easily reached out and crushed Wyland's windpipe and ended things. Liona would no longer live in fear, the Vanguard would go on without him, and he'd just spend the rest of his life in prison. Everyone would be safe. Everyone else would be fine. Instead, he bit his tongue and kept his hands gripping into the back of that poor, abused chair.
“Well, anyways,” Wyland said, leaning in closer, “just remember, my cock was there first.”
The other two men were faster than Cutter, or at least more prepared. They grabbed their president by the shoulders, arms, and waist as he lunged with a roar for the smug-faced piece of shit. Squirrel even caught his fist before it connected with Wyland’s rich pretty-boy face.
Wyland didn't flinch as the two men held Cutter back. He didn't budge, not one bit. “Tell my little whore,” he said as he reached up and patted Cutter's cheek with fake affection, “that Daddy'll be seeing her soon.” Then, he turned and left, disappearing out the diner's front door as he began to whistle “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
Cutter struggled against them one more time. “Don't go after him, prez,” Squirrel whispered from behind him, his grip like steel around Cutter's beefy arm.
“Not worth it, brother,” murmured the other guy as Wyland got in his white BMW.
“Let go of me,” Cutter growled back, shaking off their restraining hands. “I'm fine.”
They released him as Wyland West backed out and drove away with a happy wave.
“I'm fine,” he repeated again, then exhaled swiftly.
But he was anything but fine. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples, the anger coursing through his body like a live wire. All the eyes of the patrons, wary and cautious, were on him. He should have done it, he should have killed him. Just broken his fucking neck, right there in the middle of the diner.
“It'll be okay,” Squirrel said, reassuring Cutter as best he could. “We got this, brother.”
“Yeah,” said the other guy. “It's cool, alright?”
Cutter nodded to them both and, with another grumble, headed back into the kitchen. The eyes followed him as he left, as worries about Liona being alone for the day filled his mind. Worries about Wyland knowing where she was, and her being left unprotected all day.
He burst back into the kitchen. “Smalls,” he said to his second-in-command, “need your help.”
“What's up?” Smalls asked as he turned from the line.
“Need you to go check on Liona.”
“Things alright?” Smalls asked as Cutter crossed to him.
Cutter shook his head. He told him about his encounter just then. “Wyland knows we have her,” he said, his voice low. “Just go stay with her, okay? But don't let her know that piece of shit found her. Alright?”
Smalls nodded. “Sure, buddy. I'll take care of her like she was my own. But, dude, you really should tell her.”
“We'll tell her, alright? But I wanna be the one to do it.” Cutter clapped him on the shoulder, squeezed his arm. “You're a good man, Smalls. Best friend I ever had.”
Smalls grinned. “You too, son. The best.”
Chapter 25
Liona
“Uno!” Liona shouted and pointed.
Smalls slapped his hand of cards down hard, frustrated. “Goddammit, girl! I was almost there, too!”
They'd been playing different games for the last two or three hours, ever since Smalls had gotten back from the restaurant. He seemed particularly keen on keeping her interested in staying with him, always suggesting a new card game or a game of pool as soon as they were finished with the current one.
“It's ‘cause you're tired, Smalls,” Liona said, laughing. “You're losing focus, and not keeping your eyes on the prize. Why don't you go take a nap or something?”
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head vigorously, maybe trying to get some more blood flowing the old noggin'. “I'm fine, I'm fine. Just a little rusty is all,” he assured as he began to draw two new cards. He swore under his breath as each one entered his hand.
“Well, you look exhausted,” Liona said, slapping down another card from her hand. “Want some coffee?”
“Maybe in a little while,” he said. “First, I gotta whip your little butt.” He normally took a nap whenever he got home the restaurant, she'd noticed, and always loudly announced his intentions.
This afternoon, though, was different. First, he'd come home early, and alone. Now, he was stuck to her like a clingy boyfriend. Yes, something definitely seemed off.
“So, how was work?” she asked.
“Fine,” Smalls said gruffly as checked his hand. He cursed and drew another card.
“Nothing out of the ordinary, then?”
“No,” he said, “not really.”
“You guys busy?”
“Yeah, had a packed house. Business was picking up.”
“Huh,” she said, slapping down a draw 4 card. “Uno,” she said.
Smalls cursed loudly, his eyes like steel as he tried to stare her down. “Goddammit.”
“So, if you guys were so busy,” she asked, unflappable, as he drew his cards, “why'd you come home so early? Doesn't Cutter need you in the kitchen, since you're short-handed?”
He pursed his lips together and made a clucking noise out of the corner of his mouth. He didn't say anything, just kept his eyes fixated on his hand.
Smalls was probably an awful poker player, she realized. “Something happened, didn't it?” she asked, her voice more insistent this time.
“Look,” he said, laying down a card on top of the pile, “Cutter told me not to tell you. So, I can't, okay? He's my president, I gotta listen to him.”
What was she? A mushroom? Something to just keep in the dark and feed shit to? She growled and tossed her cards down.
“Oh, come on, Liona,” Smalls said, “he's only trying to keep you safe and make sure you don't worry, that's all.”
Why were the men in her life always keeping things from her, or trying to control her?
Outside, the sound of a whole pack of bikes filled the air as the rest of the Farm to Fable staff came riding home. They roared to a halt in the parking lot and, one by one, the engines began to turn off, so the symphony of thunderous motors seemed to fade slowly away.
“Well,” she said, giving Smalls a narrow-eyed, angry look, “I guess I'll just have to ask the president himself, won't I?”
“Look,” he said, “I wanted to tell you right away, but he said I should wait for him.”
She exhaled with frustration and rolled her eyes. She tossed her last card on the pile. “I'm out,” she said, her voice sounding almost as dejected as she felt.
Smalls looked like he was about to crumple his remaining cards in his hand. He slapped them down on the table, face down, cursing the whole while.
“Sorry,” Liona said as she crossed her arms, “Granny Copeland loved her card games.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Smalls said, “I'm sure she was a sweet ol' lady.”
“Nah,” she said, “she was a real bitch, never let any of the grandkids win.”
“Look,” Smalls said in a lowered voice as he began to jog the cards together and straighten them, “don't hold it against him when he gets in here. He has good reason for doing what he did.”
Liona sighed. “Fine.”
Soon the door flew open and all the men were bustling in. Most of them collapsed down in the rec room, bringing the decibel level up to a dull roar, while a couple of the guys made a bee line for the kitchen and the ice-cold beer stored there.
Cutter bro
ught up the rear, his face downcast and torn. “Hey babe,” he said, his voice matching his visage. “We need to talk.”
She was still a little pissed that he'd instructed Smalls to hide something from her, even though she didn't know exactly what it was. “You don't say,” Liona said.
The president of the Vanguard shot a look to his second-in-command.
Smalls raised his hands in a ‘don't shoot’ gesture. “I didn't tell her nothing.”
“He didn't,” Liona confirmed, feeling a little bad for the older man, but still pissed.
“Come on,” Cutter said, his voice emotionless, “we'll talk in my bunk.”
She slowly pushed back from the table and got up. She followed after him, her feet light on the floor as he clomped and stomped through the clubhouse. They got to his bunk and he held the door open for her. She stepped past him and he closed the door after her. “So, what happened?” she asked as she sat down on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap.
“Wyland showed up at the Farm to Fable,” Cutter said as soon as the door was shut. His eyes were searching around the room, and his brain was clearly working double-time. “He, uh, knows where you are.”
A cold fear gripped her immediately. The bottom of the world seemed to fall out, like the little piece of sanity she'd lucked into, was all just an illusion that was about to be brushed by her ex-fiancée. She felt the blood leave her face, her palms go clammy, as she thought of all the torment he'd put her through. As she remembered the pain and humiliation he'd caused her, inflicted on her.
“But,” he said, sitting down next to her and putting an arm around her shoulder, “we're going to protect you, okay? We're going to find a way to keep you safe. You have my word.”
She nodded silently, trying to believe Cutter, to really listen to his words and internalize them. The Vanguard had managed to defend her so far, hadn't they? She nodded again. Yes, they could keep doing it.
“And, if it really comes down to it,” Cutter said, rubbing her shoulders, “we'll get you out of here, okay? You and me, I promise. But first I'm going to make sure he pays for what he did to you, babe. He'll never have you again, alright?”
She nodded again, trying to fight back the tears. Her eyes were already watering, and her shoulders were already shaking. She turned to Cutter and smothered her face against his chest, and he pulled her against him as she began to cry. “I should just leave,” she sobbed out. “I'm bringing this all upon you guys. You and Smalls and the others, you don't deserve this.”
He stroked her hair, kissed the top of her head. “Go where?” he asked. “Your parents can't protect you, babe. Your father's a good man, but he can't do anything but call the cops.”
“Then what?” Liona sobbed. “What should I do?”
“Stay with us,” Cutter replied. “Simple as that.”
Liona tried to wipe away her tears as she nodded. “This just doesn't seem fair to any of you guys.”
“Life ain't fair, babe,” Cutter said. “And no one's ever claimed otherwise.”
# # #
For dinner that night, Cutter requested a grilled cheese and with tomato soup. He insisted, though, that she make him one.
“Oh, come on,” she said, rolling her eyes, “you had my eggs this morning. You know you're a way better cook than me.”
“Well, yeah. But, I've had more practice than you. Besides, I want to see what you can do with one.”
She laughed. It had been a while since she'd made one, years since Wyland had decided one day out of the blue that he didn't like them anymore, but she felt like she might be up to the task. Of course, it wouldn't be as amazing as the ones Cutter had been making for her.
“I don't care how amazing it is,” he said. “I just want you to make me one.”
He stayed with her in the kitchen while she cooked, helping out with little manly things like opening the jar of tomato bisque or reaching utensils and dishes that were high up on a shelf. Other than, he stayed out of her way. She could tell it was a trial for him, too, to not offer guidance on everything. When she was finished, she set the cooked and halved sandwich down in front of him with a flourish.
His eyes widened in surprise. “It looks delicious,” he said with a grin as he picked it up and took his first bite. His eyes closed as he chewed contentedly.
She knew that somewhere, deep down inside her, she needed him to like it. Not because he was a man, or because she was sharing his bed. She needed to feel accomplished, needed to feel like she could be her own person. “Well?” she asked expectantly as she wiped her hands clean on a dish towel, her eyes fixated on the slow, chewing motion of his mouth.
He nodded as he gave a slow and steady thumbs up. “Excellent,” he said around a mouthful of grilled cheese.
Something welled up inside her chest. Whatever it was, it felt like a new, unfamiliar emotion. An emotion she hadn't experienced in so long, that it felt completely foreign to her. Like it was from someone else, someone who'd had a better, easier life than she had.
As she watched Cutter tear into the sandwich, she slowly began to realize what the feeling was. It had been gone so long from her life that she'd nearly forgotten. Pride, a sense of accomplishment. A tiny piece of self-satisfaction she'd been denied for years and years by Wyland. She grinned wider than she thought possible. Cutter leveled those steely eyes on her, a slow smile creeping up at the corners of his lips. He saw it, too, this new sense of success.
When she'd cooked for him this morning, this feeling hadn't come. This time it filled her to the brim as she watched his reaction with each bite. Maybe, it was because this time, she could tell he wasn't just faking it. Whatever the reason, she liked it. And she wanted more.
# # #
That night, as she was about to crawl into bed, Cutter sat down on the edge of his side and reached into the top drawer of the nightstand.
“What are you doing?” she asked as he pulled something heavy and metal out of the nightstand.
“Being prepared,” was all he said.
She looked over his shoulder, and her breath caught in her throat. In his hands, he held a pistol, a big cruel-looking piece of sleek engineering, all oiled and shiny.
“I don't know-” she started to say, feeling suddenly nervous.
“It's just for our safety,” he said, cutting her off in a brusque tone as he slapped a magazine into the bottom of the gun.
She didn't like guns. Never had, never would. Her father had never kept them around the house, either for hunting or self-defense. “Does it ... does it really have to be loaded?” she asked as he flicked the safety and slid it back into the nightstand.
He turned and looked back over his shoulder, with an incredulous look. “Doesn't do much good if it ain't.”
Still standing, she wrung her hands a little.
“I'm just not comfortable about them, that's all.”
“Well, I'm not asking you to use it, am I?”
“This is just feeling a little too real, all of a sudden, that's all.”
“Well, unfortunately, it is real,” Cutter replied, shutting the nightstand drawer and getting up from the bed. “Look, I don't keep them around because I like them, babe. I keep them around because sometimes they're necessary.”
She wanted to ask him what kind of life he had led that guns were considered necessary. She already knew the answer to a silly question like that. She sighed as she just crawled into bed and kept her thoughts to herself.
“I just ...” he began, but trailed off as he switched off the overhead light. “I need to protect you. I made a promise to you. If you don't feel comfortable with it in the room, I'll have to sleep outside in the rec room.”
She shook her head as she pulled the sheets and covers up over herself. “No, it's fine. I'll get past it, tonight. Hopefully, this'll all be over soon.”
“Right,” he said as he went back around to his side and got back in bed. “Eventually, this will all be sorted. But, in the meantime, I
'm still going to have to do some things you don't like.”
She sighed and nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I know. I just wish it didn't have to do with guns.”
“Well, you can wish in one hand and shit in the other ...”
She frowned a little. “Yeah, I know,” she said, not needing to hear the whole thing.
He snaked an arm around her and pulled her close against his body, against his warmth and strength. Quiet confidence came off of him, seemed to permeate the air. This was a man who knew that the future was going to be rocky, but that he'd make it through to the other side. She hoped that, somehow, maybe through osmosis, she'd somehow absorb some of that strength and confidence from him. She bit her lip, and nuzzled into his shoulder. At the very least, she knew, she could share in one thing he possessed.
