by Harley Stone
She picked up her phone and started typing. “Doing it right now. His name’s Javier. I’ll call him and tell him to expect your call.”
I took a step toward the door. “What time should I pick you up Saturday?”
“The ferry leaves at one-ten, so… noonish?”
“All right. See you Saturday.”
She said goodbye and I headed out. I had a car to tow and a suit to buy, and before I even climbed into the tow truck, Julia had texted me the phone number to her parents’ gardener. I had no clue what the fuck I’d just signed up for, but it promised to be interesting.
Havoc
THE CRASH I’D been routed to was located on I5 southbound, just north of Exit 165A—the James Street exit—one of the busiest stretches of freeway in the whole damn city. By the time I arrived, traffic was already backing up and police were doing their damnedest to route rubber necking, nosy-ass drivers around the accident. One of Seattle’s finest broke away from the group and waved me forward, directing me toward the shoulder. Apparently, it would be a while before I could hook up. Dammit. The bastards had interrupted my time with Julia, so I could sit out here and wait. Such bullshit. But since I hadn’t had the best luck with cops—especially not lately—and the club needed this contract with the city I kept my attitude in check. Head down, I parked where I was told to, rolled down my window, and waited for them to get their shit together.
The two ambulances parked in front of the cop cars were blocking my view of the scene. Curious about how far along they were, I leaned over my seat to get a look and saw two cars. One was sandwiched between the guardrail and the other car, looking like a goddamn accordion. Rescue workers shouted to each other while a woman wailed about someone named Jimmy. That was far more than I needed to see or hear. Memories tugged at the back of my mind. Refusing to give in to them, I righted myself and watched the traffic, trying to block out the woman’s desperate cries.
I shouldn’t be here for this shit. They weren’t supposed to call until they were ready for me. Some new asswipe must have been anxious to get the wreck cleaned up so traffic could flow again and made the call too damn early.
A fire truck arrived, parking beside the ambulances. Firemen piled out, carrying the jaws of life toward the scene. Minutes later, metal screeched, adding its own noise to the chaos. A news helicopter swooped in, dipping low so the camera crew could get their shot of the scene.
Too many sounds and sights. The familiarity of it tugged at my subconscious, threatening to pull me under. I fought to stay in the present, but my goddamn memories wouldn’t let up. Heart and mind racing, I was transported back to Kobani, Syria.
Link jogged in front of me, his expression pinched tight as he signaled for the team to enter the border town. It was my first mission as an Army Special Forces Weapons Specialist. We were going in on the tail of a US-led air strike that had targeted Islamist militants, and our mission was to take out some lead ISIS bastard who’d somehow survived. This air strike had been the last of more than one hundred and thirty strikes in the area, sending more than five hundred ISIS al-Nusra Front shitheads to hell where they belonged.
We were the good guys, and we specialized in ridding the world of the dangerous motherfuckers who wanted to blow it to shit. What we did was important. Necessary. I’d been thirteen when the Twin Towers crumbled, and I’d never forget the fear and anger I felt at the bastards who crashed those planes into the towers. My mom and sisters huddled in front of the television, holding each other and crying as we watched the explosions again and again. People jumping out of the goddamn buildings to get away from the smoke. That’s something you can’t un-see. I knew right then that I was going to enlist, because I wanted to make sure nobody ever attacked the US again. I trained, I fought, I prepared, and I felt damn lucky to be part of a team of soldiers who felt the same way.
But I hadn’t anticipated the civilian casualties.
Innocent people died in wars. Shit happened. Not every bullet found its mark. Sometimes bombs took out the wrong people. I knew the risks. But knowing was not the same as seeing it. Not in the least.
We entered the city on foot, at dusk, under the cover of smoke still lingering from the air strikes. Climbing over rubble, we skirted the more populated streets and hurried toward our mark. The cowardly motherfucker was holed up in an underground children’s refuge, and getting him out of there would be tricky.
As we passed bodies, demolished buildings, running through the wrecked and ravaged city, I reminded myself that all this destruction was necessary. Couldn’t be helped. We had to stop the bad guys. I knew the truth of that in the very essence of my being. If we didn’t attack them, they’d come for us. Some other American landmark would serve as the target, and we could not allow that to happen.
Rounding the corner of a partially leveled building, we came across a child. He couldn’t have been more than four or five, and was sitting beside the body of a woman, just staring at her. Blank look on his face, no tears or anything. His gaze shifted, and he made eye contact with me. The kid looked hollow. Empty. Shit, it was crazy. I swear I’ll never forget that look in his eyes as long as I live.
We were the good guys, and we’d killed his mom, no doubt leaving him an orphan. The air strikes were necessary. Her death had been unintentional. This kind of shit happened in wars. None of that knowledge stopped me from smelling the coppery-sweet scent of his mom’s blood mixed with the stench of shit.
And God help me, as I stared at the kid with the hollow eyes, I wondered if he’d grow up to be a fucking militant. Would he hide the IUDs that took out my convoy? Would he raid our camps and steal our shit? Would I have to put a bullet between his eyes?
Dark, fucked up thoughts. They made me feel like a monster. He was just a kid. But as we passed him, I kept my M16 ready, and didn’t take my eyes off him.
Someone shouted.
Sounding an alarm? We couldn’t allow that. Turning to find him and fire, my world blurred, bringing me back to the present.
I was sitting in my tow truck, my hands outstretched like I was holding my M16. The ambulances were gone, and a cop stood beside my tow truck, watching me like I was high on something.
I’d let the past drag me back again.
Disgusted with myself and angry that I was still so fucking helpless to control my triggers, I took a deep breath and dropped my hands. My heart continued to race, and the sound of gunfire lingered. No, wait. That was the news helicopter.
Fucking chopper. It didn’t even sound like gunfire.
Sometimes it felt like I was losing my ever-loving mind.
I made eye contact with the cop, silently reassuring him that I was clean and sober. He watched me for a beat, and then waved me forward and directed me toward the wreck. Another officer pointed me to the second car, an Audi. Since the front end was smashed into a Camry, I backed up to its ass end, hooked it up, and got the hell out of there.
Julia
HAVOC SAID HE would be my date for the wedding, and I had no reason to doubt him, but I still worried he’d come to his senses and change his mind. I mean, I hadn’t exactly come off as sane. I paced back and forth through the front of my bookstore, scrolling through the text messages we’d sent back and forth since. His first text was a thank you for sending the gardener to help him. Javiar had gone out Monday and figured out the problem—some PH imbalance in the soil paired with over watering—and Havoc planted new flowers that were now thriving. He was so proud, he sent me pictures.
There was something sweet and unexpected about a man who looked like Havoc sending me pictures of his flowers. Clearly a man who did things like that wouldn’t just up and ditch a woman who was counting on him. At least that’s what I kept telling myself.
After his flower fiasco was taken care of, Havoc continued to text me. I’d get a “Hi,” here, and a “How are you doing?” there. Nothing too heavy, just friendly texts that provided quick escapes from all the time I spent dreading Laura’s wedding. Havoc
asked what I was wearing to the wedding, so I sent him a picture. He sent back a drooling emoji that made me laugh and stole away some of the anxiety I had about wearing such a revealing gown. I asked about his suit and he sent me a picture. I upped his emoji game by sending two drool faces and a winky face. All our correspondence was light, friendly, and flirty, and I couldn’t find anything that should have scared him off.
Maybe two drool emojis and a winky face had been too much?
“You look gorgeous,” Justine said, glancing up from her textbook long enough to flash me a reassuring smile.
“You really do, dear,” a sweet elderly lady perusing the romance section added. “You might want to grab a sweater or something, though. Not much fabric to that dress.”
I cringed, knowing she was right. My sister’s bridesmaids were all little whores and they’d outvoted me, choosing bridesmaid’s gowns that were gorgeous, but revealing. Really revealing. Lavender, beaded, and sleeveless, the unique halter style dress had a keyhole front that started three inches below my collarbone and ran down to the bottom of my breastbone. The back was open to right above my ass, with a few thin straps of fabric crisscrossing to keep it from falling off every time I leaned forward. The only real coverage was between my waist and the floor. At least my feet would stay warm in their strappy white heels.
The design forced me to abandon my normal strapless bra for a pair of adhesive silicone lift D cups. Emily’s little brideswhores all had perfect bodies and fake boobs, so they didn’t have to worry about things like keeping their partially exposed breasts in place or their back fat from showing.
Bitches.
I’d been dieting and working out every day since we’d ordered the dresses, and was pleased to admit that I looked damn good. The gown embellished my curves and made me feel glamorous. Sexy. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt that way.
My long hair was styled in a fancy updo with soft ringlets framing my face (courtesy of the salon down the street), my makeup was flawless (courtesy of my contouring wizardry skills), and I was ready to face down the country club of people I wanted to incinerate. All I needed was my date.
As if summoned by my mounting fear that he wouldn’t show up, a giant, newer blue Toyota Tundra with a king cab pulled up in front of the bookstore. Even though I couldn’t see the driver from where I stood, I knew it would be Havoc. The truck looked like it was built for him personally. The door opened, closed, and then he stood on the sidewalk wearing a suit.
My breath hitched.
I’d grown up around men in suits, and after everything I went through, men in suits look like pompous assholes to me. But not Havoc. Havoc looked delicious. His suit was top-notch. No department store suit for this sexy biker. The lines were clean, the fabric was thick and high quality, and it fit like a glove. It had to be custom tailored. No way did stores stock his size, so either he had it hanging in his closet, or he forked over some serious dough to get it done so quickly. And this sexy biker was taking me—a screwed up woman whom he didn’t even know—to a wedding full of complete strangers where he’d stick out like a sore thumb.
He really was a good guy. His selflessness made my eyeballs burn.
Blinking back tears, I called out, “He’s here!” to Justine and opened the door.
“You kids have fun,” she replied. “Make good choices.”
It was something I said whenever her boyfriend picked her up, and it made me smile. Especially since Havoc had frozen and was staring at me with ravenous eyes that made me want to make bad choices. The funnest kind of horrible choices.
We stared at each other for a couple of seconds, his gaze roaming up and down my body appreciatively as mine did the same. The lines of the suit highlighted his broad shoulders, muscular arms, and incredible legs. It made him seem bigger, more threatening, larger than life.
So hot.
“Damn,” he said, finally. Approaching, he circled me, his heated gaze burning through my dress and warming me in a way no sweater could. “This is what you’re wearing to the wedding?”
I smiled at him over my shoulder. “I sent you a picture.”
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, meeting my gaze. “Sure as hell didn’t look like this on the hanger. Your ass is definitely going to need protection.”
My smile widened. “That’s why you’re here, right?” Although we both knew it was the country club that needed protection.
He swallowed and let his gaze drift back down my body. “Yeah, but who’s gonna protect you from me?”
The dark, lust-filled look in his eyes made my pulse race and my knees weak. I’d never felt more desirable in my life. If I said the word, Havoc would no doubt take me up to my apartment and ravage me. And oh my god, I could use a good ravaging.
But our presence was required at the impending wedding of awkwardness, so any ravaging would have to wait.
“We should get going,” I breathed, making myself step toward the truck.
Havoc nodded and hurried to open the door. “Here, let me help you,” he said, holding out his arm. “I haven’t got the nerf bars mounted yet, and that dress looks hellah tight. Wouldn’t want you to rip it.”
His expression said differently, making me feel like my dress was in danger of getting ripped off, but not accidentally. And if he kept looking at me like that, I’d probably let him shred it. Hell, I’d welcome it. Averting my eyes to tamp down on the temptation, I asked, “Nerf bars?”
“Side steps.”
Looking down, I saw what he was talking about. With nothing between the ground and the bottom of the truck, I’d have to hike my leg up almost to my knee to get in. Which was saying a lot, because I stood close to five-foot-ten without the three-inch strappy heels I currently had on. Wondering how I was going to manage this in a tight dress—even with the help of Havoc’s arm—I looked from him to the truck, and then back to him. He cracked a smile, grabbed me around the waist, and hoisted me up like I weighed nothing at all.
When he released me, one of his warm, giant hands brushed against the bare skin of my back, sending goosebumps over my entire body. His gaze locked with mine and he leaned in, until our faces were inches away. Then his gaze drifted down to the slit between my breasts. Havoc was obviously a boob man. Good to know. He sucked in a deep breath and bent to tuck the train of my dress safely inside the cab. Then he closed my door and circled around to the driver’s side.
My chest heaved as I sucked in air, trying to calm my racing heart. The guy was too intense, too sexual, too much. Last time we’d been together he’d been chastising me for trying to play him and calling me a druggie. But now he was like a walking, breathing, buff, hot platter of sex, and I was cold and starving. Wondering how I’d survive the fifteen-minute drive, not to mention the thirty-five-minute ferry ride, without trying to devour him, I kept my gaze locked straight ahead and tried not to notice the way his arms flexed as he got behind the wheel.
I failed.
He turned over the ignition and the truck came to life with a manly roar. I tried to picture Wesley driving a vehicle like this, but couldn’t. It was too virile. It’d make him look tiny and he’d feel emasculated, which was why he drove sports cars that made women ignore his little penis.
“You should brief me on what to expect,” Havoc said, merging into traffic. “Other than a bunch of rich white people and a token black family.”
“Entitled, rich white people,” I corrected. “But don’t worry, it won’t all be stories of hunting and golf. My great aunt, Martha, will provide inappropriate entertainment by getting plastered and feeling up the waiters.”
“One in every family. Can’t anyone keep the booze away from her?”
“They try.” A guilty smile tugged at my lips. “But Laura and I sneak her drinks. We figure she’s old and if she wants to get drunk and hit on the young’ns, who are we to stop her?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “And the rest of your family?”
“Dad’s a workaho
lic. Mom is a social dictator who makes or breaks people’s societal standings through her pull with all the local charity events. I only have one grandma left and she’s basically an older, more bitter version of Mom. Two of my uncles will be there, talking shop or boring anyone stupid enough to listen to their harrowing tales of murdering defenseless animals or small white balls. My aunts will express their disappointment in my purchase of a bookstore when such things are outdated and disappearing while stabbing me with advice about how to snag another husband. My cousins… who knows? We’re not close anymore on account of them being perfect and me being tainted.”
And that was a hell of a lot of family drama to vomit out at him. I wouldn’t be surprised if Havoc dropped me off at the ferry and drove away.
“Tainted?” he asked, arching a brow.
“Divorced. That’s how my family views it.”
He gaped at me. “You mean to tell me nobody in your family is divorced?”
“I’m the first. A real trailblazer. My parents are super proud.”
“How the fuck is that even possible? No one in my family is still with their first spouse. Not even my two married sisters.”
Folding my hands in my lap, I tried to think of the best way to describe our twisted take on wedding vows. “Marriage in our family is a business transaction. If you’re not getting enough sex or love or whatever you need at home, you can find it on the side. Just be discrete, and nobody will judge you for it. Especially since they’re all sleeping around. But marriage is a contract, and we don’t break contracts.”
“So, it’s okay to cheat, but not to divorce?”
I shrugged. “I don’t make the rules; I just break them.”
“Is that what happened between you and the ex?” Havoc asked. “Did he cheat?”
I snorted. “It’s complicated.”
“You said I was smart. I might understand.”
He was smart, and the way he followed along seeming genuinely interested was impressive. “Wesley’s father is my dad’s business partner. Our marriage made sense on a lot of levels. My mother has been training me for a long time to do what she does, and—”
