by Malcom, Anne
“In love, babe, nothing’s unforgivable, that’s the ugly truth of it.” She paused. “You knew this Liam character...right? Trusted him?”
I nodded. “I did.”
“You knew Liam, I know Jagger. He’s a lot of things. Some of them bad. Most of them good. On an outlaw scale, at least.” She grinned.
The knowledge hit me with that grin. She was a former club girl for this charter. She likely would’ve slept with Liam. Strangely, the thought wasn’t as toxic as it had been thinking of faceless women having his warm body while I had his cold ghost.
No, it was somehow comforting to me.
“I know that he went through something. Something that follows him around. Something he wears on his face that’s more than just torn up skin. It makes sense, seeing you. He was dragging around the guilt of what he did, sure. With pain. If he was really as evil and heartless as you’re trying to convince yourself he is, he wouldn’t have had that weight. There’s no explanation for what he did. Nothing that will make it okay. But there’s a reason. One you need to hear. So you can decide whether you’re finally going to bury Liam, or accept that he’s alive inside another man.”
* * *
“You know, I’ve been to Scotland,” I said, attempting to make conversation with Elden for the hundredth time. At first, I’d been very happy to be surly and silent in a protest to my conditions. I’d been determined to wallow and rot in my own pain.
But there was only so long you could do that.
Only so long I could do that for.
I had some kind of interior self-preservation switch that forced me to alter my behavior to my surroundings, but not my personality.
I wasn’t a talker, naturally. I couldn’t stand the closeness of friendships, of boyfriends, or even my family. I was terrified to let anyone in, to have to watch them crash out of my life.
That’s probably a big reason why I became a reporter. I got the contact I needed, but no commitment. None of that loss. Because I felt for those people I’d interview. The ones who I knew may very well be dead in the next day, the next hour. I’d go in knowing that, and it was almost comforting. Freeing.
It wasn’t this way here.
I knew, given the seriousness of this war that any of these men, or women, could die in an hour, a day, a week.
There was no comfort in that.
So I distracted myself with the story.
Or tried to.
Apart from watching one man get tortured and murdered and another shot in the alley, all high-ranking members of the Fernandez cartel, I didn’t have much. Well, I had a shitload, but not enough narrative for it all.
Telling the Scottish prospect about the quick holiday I had in Scotland while I had four days free between an assignment in Ukraine and Turkey, wasn’t serving my story but I was going crazy in the silence.
“I went to Edinburgh, obviously,” I said. “Because I love Harry Potter and the cemetery where JK Rowling got some of the names was so cool. And then I went to Glasgow, it was different. Less magical. Gritty.”
“Glasgow’s a shithole,” he grunted.
I glanced up at him. He didn’t make eye contact. “I liked it. It was real. Honest.”
Now he looked down at me.
But we didn’t get to have that moment because a small person wearing a printed and bell sleeve maxi dress all but tackled me as we made it into the common room, eerily quiet at midafternoon—men only emerged from whatever they were doing toward the later hours.
“Finally!” she snapped, glaring at Elden, then grinning at me and yanking me into her arms before I could do anything, namely stop her.
I was not a hugger.
Unlike every single other member of my family.
They showed affection often and easily. Maybe I used to as well, in the time before, I couldn’t exactly remember.
But now, the me I had to painfully remember every day, was not a hugger. Not with friends. Definitely not with strangers. And despite what my research, what word of mouth told me or the sheets and magazines that I got from the woman, Macy was still a stranger.
A stranger who hugged.
Whether I liked it or not.
I tried my best not to flinch away from her touch, she’d done a lot for me without knowing who the heck I was, I could handle a hug. One that told me she had a good but subtle taste in perfume and that she was warm and strong for her small size.
She let me go, kept hold of my shoulders and her gaze ran over me. “You are even more beautiful in person,” she declared. “How is that a thing?”
I didn’t quite understand where her words were coming from since she was easily one of the most stunning women I’d ever seen. Up close, her dress was even more kick-ass, even to a woman whose fashion sense was limited to jeans, slouchy tees, and red lipstick. My only splurge was hideously expensive sneakers, I thought of the majority of them fondly, back in my small apartment in Castle Springs, almost taking up a whole wall.
There was one LBD dress in my closet. Not for dates. For funerals.
I had tight, sexy and slutty clothes in my closet at the motel. I wondered if they were even still there since I paid weekly, cash—because it wouldn’t have done well paying with a credit card registered to me if the Sons looked into me.
Those were not chosen because of an interest in fashion.
Originally, they were chosen for an interest of not getting killed.
Fashionista I wasn’t. And Macy was.
Definitely not in the way Scarlett was.
Her dress up close was the most beautiful shade of turquoise with a circular flower pattern, long sleeves, and a plunging neckline. She had about three chunky necklaces slung around her neck, wedged cork mules and her choppy hair was messy in an effortless beautiful kind of way.
Her makeup was light because she was naturally beautiful with soft features that went with her kind smile and warm eyes.
Her warm eyes cooled and narrowed as she glared at my ever-present, hulking, Scottish, roguish shadow.
“Right. You can leave now. We’re having girl talk and I’ll be sure not to plan an escape with her.” Her eyes went back to me, warm again, the transition was flawless and totally adorable. “As a rule, I’m totally against these guys holding women hostage, but I’m secretly kind of happy about you being a hostage and I’m a big fan. Big.” She enunciated the word with a wink. Then she transitioned to a glare at Elden. “Run along and torture some infidels,” she demanded.
Her voice was light, joking. I wondered if she knew about that door with the padlocks and bloodstains on the concrete.
I couldn’t make assumptions based on the fact her eyes were warm, and her smile was easy. Some people went dead behind their eyes at the sight of such things, at the knowledge of such things. Other people went more alive, packed more warmth onto their souls so they could insulate themselves from the horrors of the world.
It was no secret neither I nor Liam went that way.
I glanced to the man Macy was glaring at. He was silent. Folded his arms in a silent challenge.
Macy raised her brow and didn’t back down from a stare that most men would’ve broken.
It lasted a while.
I was impressed when he sighed, muttered something under his breath about “lasses being the death of me” and stomped off.
Macy straightened and smiled at me. “Good. Now we can talk properly without a decidedly hunky but definitely nosy prospect breathing down our necks.” She grabbed my hand and dragged me over to the bar.
A stroller was parked there.
It was kind of comical, seeing that sitting amongst everything that was the Sons of Templar clubhouse. But it fit too.
She smiled down at the sleeping baby. “I’m lucky, he takes after his father in regards to his stance on silence, but once he starts talking he’ll obviously take after his mother for her quick wit.” She winked. “My friend Arianne has the other one. He’s walking now, and if I let him loose in the clubhouse.
..who knows what he’d find.”
I looked down at the beautiful, chubby baby.
My womb pulsated with a memory.
“How many kids do you think we should have?” Liam asked conversationally, trailing his finger over my bare and flat belly.
I tensed. “Liam, we’re eighteen years old, we still have to sneak into each other’s bedrooms and I kind of want a college degree and a few irresponsible decisions under my belt before I even think about children,” I said.
Though even as the words came out, I looked into those emerald eyes and saw the man he was becoming. The father he’d be. Saw our family. Saw myself growing big with his baby.
My stomach fluttered.
In a good way.
“Yes, well, I hope you know I’m going to be there for every one of those irresponsible decisions, you know to make some of my own and to keep an eye on you.”
I rolled my eyes. Liam was protective. Bordering on too much, but if I was honest, I liked it. I also liked what he was saying. We hadn’t decided on colleges yet, our acceptance letters only starting to arrive. I knew that I had no chance at getting the Ivy League Scholarships he was already being offered, and my family couldn’t afford an Ivy League tuition. No way was I getting Liam to sacrifice his future to come to a state college as he’d suggested in the past.
I was hoping I’d get accepted to Boston University so we could get a place together.
We hadn’t even talked about that, now Liam was talking babies?
“Getting me pregnant before marrying me is not an irresponsible decision you’ll be making,” I told him. “My dad might straight up strangle you.”
He grinned. “Your dad loves me like I’m his own.” He thought about my currently troublesome brother. “Probably more than his own.”
I smiled back. “Yes, but, he loves his little girl most of all, bad enough that you’re bedding her under his roof.”
He raised his brow. “Did you just say ‘bedding?”
I smacked his shoulder. It was hard, muscled, he was working out a lot more lately.
I dug it.
Even though it meant my hand bruised when I hit him.
“Ah, so my future wife will be abusive,” he said, toying with my hand.
I blinked. “What?” I whispered, right about the same time something cold slipped onto the fourth finger on my left hand.
I looked down at the glittering single solitaire diamond staring at me with a future, a promise.
My gaze snapped back up to Liam. He cupped my neck.
A tear trailed down my cheek before he spoke.
He wiped it away with his thumb. “I want to make all the irresponsible decisions with you. I want to do it with my ring on your finger. Then, when we’re finished college, I’m gonna marry you. Then, we’re going to travel the world, like you want to. Make more irresponsible decisions, take them international.” He stroked away another tear. “And then, when we’re ready, we’ll get responsible. Have kids. A family. A forever.”
There were too many tears now for Liam to wipe away.
He grinned. “Am I taking the crying as a yes or a soul-crushing rejection?” he joked, though there was vulnerability behind the tone. Fear.
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
Instead, I kissed him.
He kissed me back.
It tasted like my tears and forever.
A gentle squeeze on my arm jerked me out of yet another memory. I’d spent fifteen years without remembering, now I couldn’t stop.
Macy’s eyes were tinged with worry. “You okay? You kind of went away with the fairies.”
“Away with the fairies?” I repeated.
She nodded. “Yeah, you know, to a world other than this one.”
I gaped at her. This woman might’ve been a little nuts.
She let go of my arm to pick up a mug of what looked like tea. “It’s fine,” she said after sipping. “I’d totally go to worlds other than this if I could. Like Middle Earth. It’s a peaceful place now that Frodo destroyed the ring of power in Mt Doom.”
Okay, she was a lot nuts.
I liked her.
“Plus, I could use a little peace right now,” she said in a voice far less bright than the one moments ago. This was not a flawless transition. It was full of pain.
Without even thinking about it, I reached out and squeezed her hand.
Me.
I’d witnessed so much pain, sorrow, loss. So many times when I wanted to offer comfort. And I did. With words. But never with physical touch. That was crossing a barrier that I couldn’t move past. Because when I started doing things like that, I got too involved in the story. In the pain. I needed to be detached in order to survive.
So why was I now attaching myself to the Sons of Templar like a fucking barnacle when I knew I had to cut myself off in the end?
Maybe I had a morbid fascination with emotional bleeding. Emotional cutting.
Macy squeezed my hand without words, smiling sadly.
“Now, I need to hear everything about your career. The highs, the lows. And most importantly...”
I stiffened, waiting for the question about how I got here, why I wasn’t dead, why I was a prisoner in Liam’s room.
“What’s the deal with the red lipstick?” she finished.
I waited a beat. She was serious.
My body relaxed.
And I smiled.
For the first time since I could remember.
And I did tell her everything.
Even the deal with the red lipstick.
* * *
The next night at the bar was much the same as the first one. I was treated with very thinly veiled hostility. Apart from Claw’s ever-present smile. It seems the guy had a soft spot for tragic stories.
I wondered idly if he’d have that smile if he hadn’t heard my story. If he would’ve continued on squeezing the life out of me that night had Liam not stop him.
It paid not to wonder about such things.
Swiss seemed to have warmed to me again, in his own way. I guess I’d earned his respect after watching him torture a man without having a human reaction.
I guessed I had a little monster in me too.
The first night at the bar, I had been numbly going through the motions, getting used to being back in whatever passed for the real world around here when I’d spent a week thinking I might not ever leave the clubhouse.
But tonight, I had been able to slip back into the skin that had served me so well on the battlefield. I did my job, wearing more clothes than I had before, I was thankful not to have to keep up that persona.
My real job was watching. Looking for the story.
It wasn’t going to jump out at me in one fully recognized idea. It was pieces. I had to collect them up, see how to fit them together. And I already had enough for a half decent story. They were looking for retribution for the Christmas Day massacre, and they were doing so by lopping off fingers of men. Men connected to Miguel Fernandez, who I now knew was responsible for the killings, whose men had been killed and tortured in front of me, and who the club was currently at war with.
I’d done my research on him too.
Any worthwhile journalist knew who he was. Or more aptly, what he was. He wasn’t a man and a monster. He was purely a monster.
He trafficked humans for a living. And he made a good one. Living, that was. He had more politicians in his pocket than all the organized crime syndicates put together. He was little more than untouchable. Many honorable men and women had tried to bring him to justice. Some of my contemporaries included.
All of them had failed. Disappeared as if they hadn’t even existed. Nothing for their families. No closure. No knowledge of where their loved one was laid to rest in one of the most brutal ways possible. No, just nightmares of how horrible their last moments were. They died horribly and nastily in the pursuit of an honorable act.
Honorable people couldn’t bring him down.
/>
It was becoming apparent that dishonorable people were trying.
The thought filled me with pure panic.
Because Fernandez was international. He had one of the largest mercenary armies in the world. More than a small country. He didn’t hesitate to kill his enemies in the most brutal ways possible. He intimated and controlled governments and here was a largely domestic—apart from a handful of small charters outside the US—motorcycle club trying to bring him down.
It wouldn’t happen.
And if, by some miracle, it did, it would only happen with a lot more blood being spilled. And there was a very real chance that I’d be burying Liam again.
For real this time.
I’d likely see a lot more people buried before my time here was out.
And maybe my time here would be out by getting hit in the crossfire. I’d dodged enough bullets throughout my career, my name was on one somewhere.
Death was inevitable, even in the best-case scenario.
I wanted to change that. To stop it. But it wasn’t my choice to make. Liam had made his choices. Luckily he wasn’t at the bar tonight, even though I felt like bleeding around him. Even though I liked bleeding around him.
In my break, I texted one of my contacts in the underworld for all information they could call up on Fernandez.
I spent the night collecting pieces of my story while I continued to lose more of the pieces of myself.
Chapter Eleven
“Bye Henry!” I called as I walked out the door.
“Don’t come back tomorrow covering up so much,” he called back. “You got shit for tips the past two nights.”
I rolled my eyes. I got shit for tips because the men knew who I was now. Not because my legs and ass were covered by baggy jeans.
I didn’t need tips.
I had my life, and in their eyes, that was gratuity enough.
The door slammed shut behind me and I stared at the empty parking lot.
No, not empty.
There was one bike in it.
One man.
“Where’s Elden?” I asked, two words working out of my throat with blood attached to them.
Liam stubbed out the smoke that had been illuminating his mouth far too much for my liking.
