by Paula Cox
He holds a bouquet of red roses in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. The restaurant is at a lull now. Alex stands behind the bar, twiddling his thumbs, and I’m the only waitress on the floor until Allie gets here later tonight. I watch as Patrick walks across the restaurant. I’m wondering who the flowers are for. Lily, maybe? I should tell him that she’s no longer here.
I hear a door creak open behind me, turn, and see Lucca standing there, glaring at the biker. Here’s your chance, tough guy, I think. A Numb in the flesh. But Lucca just stands in the doorway, shooting a beady-eyed glare at Patrick.
Then Patrick is standing in front of me.
“Hope, right?” he says.
“Yes, and you’re Patrick, right?”
He nods. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too. That’s a big bunch of flowers you’ve got there. You seeing one of the waitresses?”
He laughs. “The way I was last night, don’t think any waitress here would give me the time of day. No, these are for you.” He holds out the bouquet of red roses. “From Killian,” he adds quickly. “He wanted you to have them. He’s busy with club stuff, so he couldn’t come himself.”
I hold the flowers close to my chest, bury my nose in the petals, and breathe the scent of them in. Behind me, Lucca clears his throat. I ignore him. “These are lovely,” I say. He sent me flowers! Killian fox sent me flowers! It seems crazy that a man like Killian would send flowers. I never took him for that sort. “I’m seeing him tomorrow. I’ll thank him then.”
“That’s not all he wanted you to have.”
Patrick walks to the nearest table and sits down. I follow him, sit opposite. Lucca has moved from the doorway to the bar now, one fat hand wrapped around a beer spout, glaring across the restaurant at me and Patrick. But that’s all he does. Glare.
Patrick takes a white cardboard box from the plastic bag and places it on the table.
“He wanted you to have these, too.”
“Okay . . .” I take the box and fiddle with the seams until it comes loose and I can open it.
When I see the bubble wrap, and what’s inside the bubble wrap, my breath catches. I swear, my eyes start to water. I’m not a soft person—I could never afford to be—but this has moved me. Wrapped inside the bubble wrap is a set of knives: pairing and steak and fillet and butcher and round-end slicers and bread and utility; and half a dozen more on top of that.
“This is a complete set,” I say, unable to hide the shock from my voice. “You could start up a proper kitchen with these!”
“I can tell Killian you like them, then?” Patrick asks, smiling. He has Killian’s wolfish eyes, even if they are surrounded by more age lines than Killian’s.
“Yes, of course. I love them.”
“Good.”
He makes to stand up, and then pauses. “Hope, how old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” I say uncertainly. “Why?”
“Oh, I thought you were younger. You look much younger.”
Is he hitting on me?
“No, no,” he says, perhaps seeing my thoughts written on my face. “It’s just that Killian’s twenty-seven . . . Damn, I’m rambling. My point is, do you have any friends you could set me up with? I promise, last night wasn’t the norm. I was just celebrating. I can be a really nice guy.”
My mind instantly goes to Dawn. Dawn has always liked the bad boys, and since Killian is taken—by me, I think in wonder, by me—why not set her up with Patrick?
But I hold back. Dawn is going through a tough time and I don’t know Patrick.
“If I think of anyone, I’ll let you know,” I say.
He nods briefly and then retreats from the restaurant.
Lucca glares at his back and then walks back into his office, huffing loudly.
The following night, Killian meets me outside of work.
It’s a warm evening and he doesn’t wear his leather. Instead, he wears a denim vest cut off at the shoulders, showing me his arms. They’re ripped with muscles, the biceps tight balls, the triceps clear lines of muscle. Tribal tattoos cover one of his arms from shoulder to hand. On his other arm he has a tattoo of the Satan’s Martyrs’ sigil, on his upper arm near his shoulder.
He smirks at me as I walk out of the restaurant toward his bike, that cocky-as-hell smirk. That smirk which drives me crazy. It’s the sort of smirk I shouldn’t want, a smirk that says, I own you, you are mine. And yet I can’t look away.
“Get on then, pretty lady,” he says.
I climb onto the back of the bike and wrap my arms around him, feeling the hardness of him through his vest, the hardness of his belly, of his muscles.
“Where are we going?” I say.
“I want to take a look at your apartment,” he replies, and then kicks away the bike’s stand and turns the throttle.
“It isn’t much,” I tell him, as I unlock the door.
I lead him past the small hallway area to the living room. The apartment is four rooms: a living room with an adjoined kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. An old TV set sits in the center of the living room, a glass coffee table, a couch and an armchair. The armchair is still next to the window, Dawn’s blanket crumpled upon it. In the corner of the room, next to my bedroom door, is a pile of my paintings.
“Are these yours?” he asks, wandering over to them. He swaggers into the apartment like he owns it. I should be offended, but I’m not. I’m starting to realize that when it comes to Killian, I should be many things which I am not. Scared, anxious, cautious . . . but I am none of these things.
“Yes,” I say, hurrying over to him. “Don’t pay them any attention. I just mocked them up—”
He ignores me and picks up the painting on top. It depicts a yellow sand valley, with the sun an orange disc peeping over the horizon, and a lone woman standing at the lip of the valley, looking down. Her features are shrouded in shadow, but in her hand she holds a handkerchief dripping with tears. Her dress—a white wedding dress—is stained with sand and dirt.
“Wow,” he says. “This is . . . wow. Did you really paint this?”
His mouth is open in disbelief. “Yes,” I mutter uncomfortably. I always get uncomfortable when people look at my art in the same room as me. I don’t mind when people look at it when I’m not there. But when I can see their reaction, it scares the hell out of me. But Killian isn’t judging; he’s shocked.
“This is serious stuff, isn’t it?” he says. “This is the sort of stuff you see in galleries. Damn, Hope, you’ve got some talent. Where shall I put it? I want to see the others.”
“Oh, really?”
But he’s already handing me the painting. I take it and lay it on the coffee table.
He picks up another. This one shows a lone woman, like the other, but this woman stands next to a barn. A herd of buffalo charge out of the barn, and her face is stricken with fear. She’s caught trying to flee as one of the buffalo turns toward her. “It’s meant to be her worries and anxieties and . . .”
“Look at this detail,” he says. “This is serious, serious talent. Hang on a second then, Hope. You’re a chef and an artist?”
He turns to me, smiling. Not smirking, but full-on smiling. He looks down at me proudly. I blush. I can’t help it. This is the first time somebody has looked at me like that for my art. My chest fills with warmth.
“Where did you learn to do this?”
“I taught myself,” I say. My voice is raspy. I realize I’m breathing heavily. I try to stop it, but I’m overflowing with warmth. He can’t believe how good I am! I think, giddy. Surely that’s the most flattering thing an artist can experience?
“Taught yourself . . .”
He hands me the barn painting, and picks up another, and then another and another, until he’s gone through all thirteen paintings which were piled up next to my bedroom. Now they’re all laid upon the coffee table.
“You never mentioned it,” he says. “When I asked what you wanted to be, you d
idn’t say.”
I paw at the carpet with my toe, like a girl who’s just been asked to prom. I can’t look him in the eye. I feel exposed, more exposed than I did at the ferris wheel, even. Then we were just sharing bodies. Now he’s looking directly into my heart.
“It makes me nervous,” I admit. “When you’re an artist . . . I don’t know. It just makes you really nervous to have people look at your work. What if you thought I was no good?”
“You’re not a nervous person, Hope,” Killian says.
He closes the distance between us and stands directly opposite me, close enough so that we can breathe in the scents of each other, close enough so that we can feel the heat of each other. Close enough so that we want to screw each other’s brains out right here, right now.
“You’re beautiful, funny, talented and smart. You don’t need to be self-conscious, pretty lady.”
“It’s only about personal stuff like that,” I mutter, looking up into his face.
He stares down at me seriously, his jaw clenched, his hair in loose strands around his eyes.
“Never let anybody tell you you’re not incredible,” he breathes. “Never let anybody tell you that you aren’t worth a damn. You’re worth more than this whole damned town combined.”
He speaks with a deep intensity.
“Why do you care so much, Mr. Biker?” I say, my voice turning sweet. Am I enjoying this? Hell yes, I’m enjoying this. My body is suddenly alive. My nipples are hard. My pussy aches for him, aches for him to be inside of me again.
He lifts his hand to my face, cradles it in his hand. I nuzzle into it, the same way a cat does when stroked, but I don’t care. Maybe that’s what I’ll be. His cat. I would’ve laughed only two days ago, but a lot can change in just two days. I’ve learnt that in the most sensational way.
“I care because it’s true and I want you to believe it’s true. I care because you’re the best—” He cuts short, shocked by his own words.
“What?” I urge him. I bring my hand to his face, cradling him as he cradles me. His stubble tickles my palm, but I don’t care. All I care about is this moment, the warmth between us, the way his eyes seem to peer past my face and directly into me.
Distantly, a voice calls: Don’t forget that this man is a violent outlaw. Don’t forget the rumors. Don’t forget who he is!
But I ignore the voice, ignore my doubts, and repeat, with more force: “What? What were you going to say?”
“It’s mad, Hope, but I care about you more than I’ve cared about any woman—”
Dawn’s bedroom door crashes open. She stumbles into the living room, turns in a full circle, and then crashes into the TV.
When she lands on the floor, she starts singing in a slurred, jumbled voice.
The moment is torn away like a Band-Aid, exposing a raw wound beneath.
Killian and I let go of each other’s faces and rush across the room to Dawn. She stops singing and glares up at me, her eyes heavy, her lips dry and chapped, her head lolling from side to side like a baby’s.
“Oh, no,” I sigh, and then the sigh turns into a sob. Before I have a chance to process it, tears are streaming down my cheeks. But they’re useless tears and I ignore them. They’re tears I have cried many times before. I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and kneel down next to Dawn. “What did you take?” I ask her, heart breaking with each word. “Dawn, what did you take? Can you tell me that?”
“That her room?”
I nod. “Yes,” I say, angry at the sadness in my voice.
Killian circles around us and goes into Dawn’s bedroom.
My sweet little sister, who yesterday looked like an angel in her flowing dress, looks like a rodent now. Her chapped lips pull back over her teeth to reveal mole-like teeth, yellow, black in places. He cheeks are sallow, her eyes pitted and black. The whites of her eyes are bloodshot and her irises are dilated into huge saucers.
“I just want’a feel somethin’,” she slurs. “I just want’a feel anythin’. Don’t b’mad. Don’t b’mad.” She starts shaking, her chest lurching up and down like there’s something inside of her trying to burrow out. She screams. “Don’t b’mad! Don’t b’mad! Don’t b’mad!”
“Shh, shh,” I say, wrapping my arms around her and lifting her off the ground to my chest. “Quiet, sweet. Quiet.” I stroke my hand through the sweaty tendrils of her hair, matted to her scalp. “You don’t need to worry,” I whisper, making sure to keep the tears from my voice. The tears which continually slide down my cheeks like warm rain.
I rock her back and forth, whispering to her the entire time, and soon she stops shaking. Then, in the voice of a different woman, she giggles: “We goin’n’a pony ride, sissy?”
“Yes,” I say, rocking her. “That’s all it is, sweet girl.”
I look up and see Killian standing in the doorway, a needle in one hand, a belt in the other.
She’s relapsed, I think numbly.
Chapter Ten
Killian
“She’s an addict?” I ask, holding up the needle and belt.
Hope nods as she rocks Dawn back and forth like a child. “She’s an addict,” she says.
“Okay, okay.” I turn back into the bedroom and turn it over, tipping over the mattress and rooting through drawers, searching like a madman. I find extra needles and pipes and aluminum foil strips and baggies and cotton balls. I find it all and then I pile it on the bed. I walk out of the bedroom into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” Hope whispers, stroking Dawn’s forehead.
“I can’t be involved with someone who uses drugs, but I can help. I can help her kick it for good. I’ve done it before.”
“Really?” Hope’s voice is full of hope. “Dawn is tough, Killian. She won’t let anyone wrangle her for long.”
“Don’t forget, pretty lady, I’m pretty tough, too.”
I find a plastic bag and return to the bedroom. I stuff all of her paraphernalia into it then I shove it—carefully because of the needles—into my pants pocket. I return to the living room. Dawn is slack-jawed, collapsed into her sister’s arms and staring up at the ceiling with a spaced-out expression I know so well. I’ve detoxed members of the Satan’s Martyrs over the years, members we couldn’t afford to lose. Drugs are an absolute no, without question. Drugs are something I just can’t tolerate.
“What are we going to do?” Hope asks.
“I’m renting us a house, out near Sapphire Lake. We’ll take Dawn there and we’ll get her off the gear for good.”
“You don’t understand, Killian. She’s very—”
“You t’k’in’ ‘bout me?” Dawn sighs. “Don’t t’k ‘bout me l’k’ I’m not ‘ere!”
“Hush, sweet girl,” Hope says, wiping sweat from Dawn’s face. “Hush, it’s okay.”
“I’m fl’in’,” Dawn slurs.
“Where’s her cell?” I say.
“Her cell? Why?”
“Just tell me.” The words come out snappish, but there isn’t much I can do about that. Perhaps Dawn is a nice person. Perhaps she’s funny and smart. Perhaps she’s witty and bright and intelligent. When she’s sober. But the best person in this world is a fool when they’re high.
“If it’s not in her bedroom, it’s in her coat pocket, hanging on a hook near the door.”
“Okay.”
I find her coat—a long pale pink coat—and reach into the pocket. When I find it, I take it out and scroll through her contacts. When I find Shane—Dealer, I memorize the number. Then I drop it to the floor and stamp on it, again and again, until it is completely destroyed.
“What the hell?” Hope calls, and then quieter: “Hush, you’re safe. Quiet, love.”
“Get rid of the dealers’ numbers, that’s step one. Get rid of this crap.” I pat my pants pocket. “That’s step two.”
“And what’s step three?”
“I get us a car and a house to hold up in. Dawn is going to ride this out, Hope.”
Ho
pe look down at Dawn sadly. “Do you really think you can help her?” she says.
“I know I can. But it’s going to be tough. She’s going to hurt, Hope. Hurt bad.”
“But you can help her?”
“Yes,” I say, without pause.
She nods. “Then let’s do it.”
