by Paula Cox
“From now on, you don’t have a cock, got that? If I hear one more whisper about you touching any woman who works for you, I won’t come alone next time. You know Gunny, the Remington brothers, what about my brother, Patrick? None of them are very fond of perverts. Oh, and I need to make sure you get the message.”
I jump across the table and smash the grip of the gun into his nose. Blood sprays across the desk.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hope
Three weeks, right up until the day before Christmas eve, Killian and I fall in love all over again—if we ever fell out of love at all. We drive out to the amusement park three times during this visit, but we avoid the ferris wheel and the ghost train—Killian told me about Lindsey’s creepy horror show in the tunnels. Instead, we wrap up warm in a quiet, unremarkable nook in the corner of the amusement park. Killian moves his hands up, up my legs. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted his touch until he touched me again. It sparks electricity in me, all over me. I long for it whenever I’m not with him.
And, finally, we use the L word.
I’m bent over with my head against bed, Killian drilling me from behind, and I’m begging, begging, screaming out in pure pleasure. I know Dawn can probably hear—hell, the entire street—but I don’t care. The pleasure is too intense, too consuming, too right.
When we’re done, I collapse onto the bed and roll over on my back, looking down the length of my body at him. He grins at me, the cocky grin I know so well, the grin that tells me Killian is back, Mr. Biker is back, and here to say.
“You’re getting good at putting on a show,” he says, and then winks at me.
“Shut it,” I laugh. “I’m not putting on a show. I’m enjoying myself.”
“I can’t help but think, pretty lady, that all those moans and the way you move that perfect ass is all for me.” He walks around to the side of the bed, his cock hanging huge between his legs, and then kneels down next to me. He brings his hand to my face. His fingers smell of our sex, hot and sweaty, but I don’t mind because so does the entire room. “I can’t help but think everything you do is for me,” he goes on, smiling wickedly, his bright blue eyes dancing mischievously.
Careful, Killian, I think. You’re still on thin ice.
But I don’t say it, because the truth is he’s not on thin ice, not even close. He wasn’t on thin ice two days after we reconnected. When I went into work and saw that Lucca’s nose was busted, and that Lily seemed happier, more carefree than usual, he wasn’t on thin ice. When he thrust deep inside of me, he wasn’t on thin ice. And now, weeks after all that, the ice is as thick as ever.
“Are you alright?” he asks, when I don’t reply.
“Oh, I’m fine, just waiting for you to abandon me again.” I laugh when he screws his face up. He hates when I talk like that, which only makes me talk like it all the more. I have to remind him what he did, even if it is in a joking away.
As always, he doesn’t take it as a joke. He grabs my hands in his and brings his face close to mine, so close I smell myself on his lips. Couples are disgusting, I learn, and they don’t care; I learn that it’s part of the fun.
“I’ve never said this to a woman before, Hope, but—”
“You want to put it in my ass,” I say solemnly, and then let out another peal of laughter.
He shakes his head, the shadow of a smile on his lips. “You’re not making this any easier, you know. A man like me tries to be romantic, and what does he get? Laughter!”
“Okay, okay,” I say, forcing the laughter away. “What have you never said to a woman before?”
He looks deep into my eyes, and suddenly I know what he is going to say. It’s what we both feel, but for some strange reason neither of us has said it. Now he’s about to say it, I want to say it.
He sees that I know, and I see that he knows. We lock eyes, and then we open our mouths at the same time. Before the words are out, we each know what the other is going to say.
“I love you!” we laugh together.
I’ve never seen Killian look so happy when he says it. It’s like all the weight of his life—the fighting, the killing, the outlawing, the riding—it’s like all of it drops away from him with those three words. When he smiles at me, he is a man reborn. He’s no longer just an outlaw. He is my man.
I move aside on the bed. He climbs up and lies next to me, wrapping his arm around me and holding me close to his bare, muscular chest. It is damp with sweat, but I don’t care. In a strange way, I like the feel of the sweat. It reminds me of what we’ve just done.
“How long will you love me for, then, Mr. Biker?” I ask.
“That’s a silly question,” he says. “I’ll love you until the day I die, I can promise you that.”
“What about after that, though?” I urge.
“Oh, when we’re both dust and blowing around on the wind or whatever poetic thing it is you want me to say?” He chuckles. “I don’t know about any of that, Hope. You’re the artist, not me.”
I can’t help but laugh. He’s right. This life is enough. “Maybe we should stop all this lovey stuff before I make you sick,” I giggle. I reach down to his cock and grab it at the base. One moment it’s flaccid. The next it’s rock-hard, growing large in my hand.
“That’s an idea,” he groans, reaching across and placing his hands between my legs.
We play each other like instruments, hitting all the right notes, singing out a crescendo at the end.
Berelli’s Gourmet has been closed to the public tonight, Christmas Eve, which in itself is amazing. I can only assume that the Satan’s Martyrs has paid Lucca a hell of a lot of money, or is teaching him a lesson. It doesn’t matter. The result is the same.
The tables have been pulled together so that they form a large, conference-style table, spanning almost the entire restaurant. Bikers from the Satan’s Martyrs crowd all around it, laughing and drinking, glasses piling up on the tables. Killian must’ve told the men to be extra nice to the waitresses, because almost each time they come to collect glasses, one of the bikers tips them. Killian and I sit at the head of the table, as though this is a medieval feast and we are the royalty. To my left, Dawn and Patrick sit together. To my right, next to Killian, sits Declan, the old man Killian told me about. To Declan’s right is Gunny and the Remington brothers.
The most amazing thing about this night is that the waitresses bring out meals tailored to each individual Numb member. Each member is served his favorite, no matter how different it is from the last. Pasta is served after beef stew, chicken chow mein after steak and home-cut fries, minted lamb after home-cooked pizza. I watch in amazement as dish after dish is carried out of the kitchen by the waitresses.
When Lily brings Patrick a thick burger and chunky fries, I call her over.
“What happened?” I ask.
Lily shrugs, smiling. “I have no idea,” she says. “But Lucca’s the one back there. He’s alone, as well. You should see him. He’s sweating like a pig.” She looks around, making sure she’s not being listened to, and then leans into me. “He keeps grumbling that he needs help, so I asked him why he doesn’t call the chef in. He told me he’s not allowed! And there’s something else, too.” She licks her lips. “He hasn’t, you know . . . He’s been as quiet as a mouse. I just hope it keeps up.”
I look lovingly at Killian, who’s laughing raucously at something Declan said. “I’m sure it will,” I tell Lily. “But if it doesn’t, just let me know, okay?”
Lily nods and leaves the table.
Killian turns to me, that sexy smirk on his lips. “Everything okay?” he asks.
“You did this, didn’t you?”
He shrugs, a picture of innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, pretty lady.”
“The meals, forcing Lucca to cook, it was you, wasn’t it?”
Killian tilts his head at me like I’m mad. “Me?” He laughs. “I wish I could swing something like that. No, Lucca’s doing this out of
the goodness of his heart.”
He scoops up a glass of champagne and hands it to me. Then he takes a glass of his own. He knocks his glass into mine. Clink-clink. “To us.” He smiles.
I grin back. “To us.”
“Killian,” I say, once we’ve both had a sip of our champagne.
“Yeah?”
“What exactly is this party for? When I asked you before, you just said: to celebrate. But to celebrate what, exactly?”
“Ah, I can’t tell you yet. You’ll have to wait until later.”
“We’re celebrating something which hasn’t happened yet?”
“Exactly.”
“Uh, okay.”
Declan leans across slowly and opens his mouth. Killian and I lean in, so that we can hear him over the sounds of the bikers—shouting, jostling, cheering, glugging, banging, swearing. “Killian’s a good kid,” he says. “He won’t just help an old woman across the street. He’ll tool up the old woman’s abusive landlord in the same afternoon.”
Killian holds his hands up. “Ignore him, Hope. He’s a senile old man. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Killian!” I gasp.
Declan and Killian exchange a small smile.
“I’m used to it, Miss Jackson,” he says. “Ever since I met him, this bag of muscle and leather has been abusing me.”
“Well, I think he’s very cruel,” I say, shooting faux-disgust at Killian with my eyes. “In fact, Declan—may I call you Declan?—in fact, I think you’re much, much more handsome than Killian. I’ve been meaning to ask you, actually, if you’d go on a date with me? Please, it’d be such a nice change from this thing.” I point playfully to Killian.
Killian throws back his head and lets out a booming laugh.
Gunny jumps up in his seat and shouts: “Hope has chosen the old man over the boss! Shit, boys, he’s goin’t’be crazy after this! Run while you can!”
The bikers cackle madly, some of them spilling their drinks. Killian laughs the loudest of all. Declan coughs out a laugh.
Once the laughter has passed, Dawn tugs at my elbow. It’s the first time she’s tried to get my attention all night, but I can’t blame her. She and Patrick are deep into each other, constantly in quiet conversation, constantly looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. The love surrounding me . . . it’s unbelievable.
“Yeah?” I say, turning to her.
I have to raise my voice because one of the bikers has just put “Jingle Bells” on the jukebox.
Dawn looks around in wonder before reply. Her cheeks are blooming with life, her eyes are bright. When I look at her, I can’t help but see her as a little girl, my little sister who I have to protect over everything.
“I want to apologize,” she says, leaning into my ear.
I roll my eyes. “You have apologized,” I reply. Only about ten thousand times. Every day it’s been: “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“Yes, but you need to know how sorry I am,” she pushes on. “I never should have doubted you. I feel like such dirt. I just didn’t believe you. Without even giving you a chance, I just didn’t believe you. That’s messed up, especially after everything you’ve done for me. I’m so, so sorry Hope.”
I place my hands firmly on her shoulders.
“The time for apologies is gone, Dawn. We’re good. We’re better than good. We’re the closest we’ve been since we were kids, aren’t we?”
Dawn nods. Tears spring into her eyes.
“None of that,” I say, wiping her eyes with my thumbs. “If you start, I’ll start, and my makeup will be ruined.”
“Always the vain one,” Dawn pouts, before breaking into a smile.
“If I recall correctly,” I reply, “it was you who ran off in the mall so you could try on different hats. Two hours we were looking for you, and when we find you, there you are, a pile of hats next to you.”
We share a smile as the memory comes to life between us: Mom and Dad and me rushing through the mall, searching desperately for her; and when we find her, we find a girl who doesn’t have a care in the world, who’s laughing and grinning, flashing a gummy mouth with few teeth in it yet.
Then Dawn collapses into my chest. I hold her close, rubbing her back. Patrick glances over and nods at Dawn, mouths: Is she okay? I nod and mouth back: She is now.
“Turn that damn thing off!” Gunny roars. “The old man has something to say!”
One of the bikers thumps the jukebox into silence.
I feel a swelling in my chest when Killian takes Declan by the elbow and helps him to his feet. When Declan is standing, he nods his thanks to Killian and then stands with dignity, though from where I’m sitting I can see that his knees are shaking with the effort.
“I want to say something, but I won’t take all day about it.”
I expect the bikers to hoot and holler, but they sit silently, looking up at the old man with respect.
“I don’t know if Boss has told any of you why we’re here tonight. He hasn’t told me a damned thing. It scares me, ’cause we all know Boss to be most dangerous when he’s holding something close to his chest.” The men chuckle in appreciation. Killian smiles like a wolf. “But I’m not so old I can’t figure some things out. I think tonight has something to do with the lovely lady sitting next to Killian, Miss Hope Warren.”
At the mention of my name, and with all those bikers’ eyes turned on me, my cheeks burn. Killian reaches across and grabs my hand.
“Our life is a hard life, a damn hard life. We ride and we die. The Satan’s Martyrs, that’s our name. The Satan’s Martyrs, ’cause men like us got the devil on our shoulder and we don’t feel a thing. Well, any of you who’ve been alive longer than five minutes will know that’s shit. We all feel. Sometimes we feel so much it hurts. And I’ve got to say, I’m glad Boss has found someone worth feeling something for.”
Declan looks over the men, as though seeing them for the first time, and then mutters: “But I won’t wear your ears down.” He reaches down for his drink. Killian quickly grabs it, stands up, and places it in the old man’s hand. Declan smiles and with Killian’s hand supporting his, lifts his glass.
“To Boss!” Declan croaks.
“To Boss!” the bikers cheer, the table rumbling.
“And to Hope!”
“To Hope!”
The bikers—grizzled, tattooed, tough—smile across the table at me, lifting their drinks in toast. I lift mine in return. Mom and Dad may be gone, I think, looking up at Killian as he helps Declan back into his chair. And then looking around the table to Dawn and Patrick. But I have a new family now.
Toward the end of the meal, Lucca shuffles over to where I sit with downcast eyes.
“Hope,” he says quietly, as the entirety of the Satan’s Martyrs watch him for good behavior.
I have never felt stronger, dozens of hardened bikers at my back, watching this perverted, small man for any sign of aggression. If he shouted at me now as he has before, he wouldn’t have a good time of it—and that’s putting it mildly.
“Yes?” I say.
He makes an O with his lips and puffs his cheeks up, before blowing it all out slowly. It’s like his pride is a physical thing being chipped away before me. I almost feel sorry for him—almost—but then I remember how many of the waitresses he’s touched, how many times he’s tried to touch me, how cruel he is. Any pity I feel is swiftly rejected.
“I would like to invite you to use the kitchen—for practice. You can use the most expensive equipment I have. It would be—an honor.” He sighs out the last word, and his pride crumbles.
Good.
“Oh, thank you,” I say casually, rising to my feet. “It’d be a pleasure.”
I nod sweetly to him and make my way across the restaurant.
Standing in the kitchen in my party dress, moving my hands over the chrome knives and shiny chopping boards, looking down at the glimmering cooktops, I begin to wonder if I’m sure I even want this anymore. It’s not that I sudd
enly realize no, I don’t need it, I don’t have any passion for it.
It’s just . . .
Killian.
I feel so sure about Killian. Everything else is thrown into perspective. How bad do I want to be a chef when it’s not even one-tenth of the certainty I feel for him? How bad do I want anything when my passion could never reach the heights it reaches when I’m with him, my lover, my man?
I shake my head, wondering at myself, trying to force myself to be sure.
But it won’t come.
The only thing I’m sure of is that I want to be with him, I think in shock.
