“Blackie?”
For a moment I thought it was her sweet voice calling my name but when I lifted my head, struggling for my eyes to focus, I saw it was Reina.
“Oh my God,” she said, rushing towards me. I tore my eyes away from her and glanced down at the offensive needle sticking out of my arm.
I spent the last few years desecrating my liver to save my veins only for it to come full circle. I kept myself alive but numb, telling myself the only reason this life was worth living was to have a chance to right all the wrongs I had done but staring at that needle solidified that I’d never be able to get the penance I craved.
I bent my head, opening my mouth around the needle and pulled the fucking thing out with my teeth before spitting the empty syringe on the table and untying the band around my arm. I lifted my watering eyes to Reina’s, not giving a fuck if she saw the pain I tried to numb myself from.
Let her know.
Let the whole world know how fucked I truly am, how every goddamn thing I do turns to shit.
Masochist.
“Earned your keep, Reina,” I slurred, swaying slightly in my chair as I lifted my hips and pulled my keys from my back pocket. “My car is out front, Ford Expedition. Go find your man,” I said, throwing the keys in the air.
“What about you?”
“Just go,” I mumbled, leaning back in the chair and closed my eyes. I surrendered to the heroin, welcoming the numbness, and accepting the fact my life had been over a long time ago.
Chapter Two
There is a little boy who lives in my dreams and forever in my heart, a little boy named Jack Parrish Jr. He was my little brother and I was five years old when I watched him die. Literally, I stood there and did nothing as he ran into the street. I thought I would forget that someday the memory would fade as I became older—yet it seemed to only grow more vivid with every year I aged and he didn’t.
Lala.
That was what he used to call me because he couldn’t say Lacey.
“Lala,” he cheered as his wobbly legs ran out the front door.
I was only a kid myself but I knew that he shouldn’t be outside without an adult and more than that I knew he could get hurt. I tried to get my dad’s attention, telling him to help me get Jack back inside the house but he was too engrossed in the madness that consumed him. I had never seen my dad like that before, so out of control, so far away in his own mind that my cries went unheard.
I ran outside as my father repeatedly beat down the walls of our home. I can recall him shouting about bugs but I thought he was looking for creepy little critters; the ones I would shout for him to stomp on. That wasn’t the case, and I learned later on that my father was looking for the bugs the Feds plant when they are looking to send your ass to jail.
That was the first of many memories I have of my dad losing his battle with his maker. His maker is his mind, and it reigns over everything. My father is Jack Parrish, president of the Satan’s Knights MC and he is a manic-depressive.
He didn’t know at the time of Jack Jr.’s death he was mentally ill, and it wasn’t until after my little brother was buried six feet in the ground he sought help and was diagnosed.
He blames himself for his death but it wasn’t his fault.
It was mine.
I stood there as Jack Jr. smiled and pointed at me.
“Lala, look!”
I should’ve run after him.
I could’ve asked a neighbor to help.
Something.
Anything.
Nothing.
Instead, I stood there listening to my father shout at the demons in his head and watched as the car sped down the street.
I want to believe that I called out to him, that, I shouted at the driver to stop but I remember nothing other than standing there and watching as the tires skidded across the tar and over my baby brother. I try to block out the last sound he made a shrill cry that rings over and over again in my ears until it fades to silence. The silence is worse though because it reminds me that when his cries faded so did his life.
My father snapped out of it too late and when he made his way to Jack, he fell to the ground and cradled the child he lost.
His maker won that day.
And mine was born.
Today would’ve been Jack’s fifteenth birthday. It’s also the one day a year my father goes off the grid, a day when he struggles to find the courage to end his life and be reunited with his son.
It doesn’t matter I’m still here.
And I suppose it shouldn’t.
Because I let him die.
I’m the reason my dad didn’t get to watch his little boy grow into a man.
I’m also to blame for why my mom will never dance with her son.
It’s my fault I’ll never hear him call me Lala again.
I usually let my father have the day as I wait in agony for the moment one of his brothers comes knocking on my door to tell me that it’s over. Jack Parrish the toughest man I’ll ever know, has finally succumbed to his maker and is now at peace.
Not today.
Today I foolishly want to be enough. I wanted what I suppose any surviving child would want, and that was for him to look at me and realize I am still here and that I have been here for the last thirteen years wishing to be enough for him. Just once I wanted him to see me, just me.
You’re selfish.
You’re foolish.
He’ll never see you.
All he sees when he looks at you is the boy he lost and the girl he was left with.
I lifted my eyes to the rear-view mirror and stared at the dark eyes reflected at me. I had my father’s eyes, identical in color and when you looked closely the pain in his eyes were mirrored in mine.
I tore my gaze away, glancing out the window and stared at the Dog Pound, the Satan’s Knights clubhouse, the place where my father spent most of his days and nights. I slid out of the car, slamming the door behind me and beeping the alarm as I started for the compound. The parking lot was mostly empty, and I didn’t see my dad’s bike but my eyes zeroed in on the Harley parked in front of the clubhouse.
The bike was as badass as its owner and just as beautiful too.
Blackie, the tortured soul with a patch declaring him the vice president of the Satan’s Knights.
My father’s right hand and his best friend.
His brother.
Blackie.
He’d make me feel better.
He always did.
Always.
I ripped the line of coke like a motherfucking champ, desperate to reverse the effects of the heroin. If there was any justice to be had, I’d suffer a fucking a heart attack as a result of mixing the uppers and downers but I wasn’t that lucky. There was a higher power that had my destiny all mapped out, he’d let me beat all the odds, keep me breathing just to torture me more.
I pushed the remaining coke with a credit card, forming another line before I bent my head, pressing my index finger to the nostril I used to rip the first line and snorted the second.
I lifted my head, stumbled back as the door opened and I turned my head, lifting my hands to push the hair away from my eyes as they locked with Lacey’s.
Shit.
I didn’t need this now, another fucking temptation I wasn’t strong enough to beat. I shook my head, wishing she’d disappear, but she was there, staring at me with innocence radiating from her dark eyes. She looked at me like I was some goddamn mythical warrior.
“Your old man ain’t here, go home,” I clipped, peeling my eyes off of her as I walked around the bar, sniffling from the coke and itching for a drink. I pulled a bottle of whiskey from the shelf before reaching for a glass and filling it with the amber liquid. I placed the bottle on top of the bar and lifted the glass to my lips, knocking back the liquid in three gulps.
I set the empty glass down and she was in front of me, her eyes bored into mine and as much as I wanted to look away I couldn’t.
; “Lace, I’m not in the mood, so why don’t you go on and tell me what you need that way you can get the fuck out of here,” I slurred, watching as her eyes widened at the tone I took with her.
Fuck.
I ran my fingers roughly through my hair, teetering on the edge of insanity, hating the way she was looking at me.
Quit looking at me like I’m something when I’m nothing.
“What’s the matter, Lace? You didn’t know your favorite Knight got down like this?” I sneered.
“Oh, I knew,” she quickly said, pulling out one of the stools before she took a seat.
Great, she was sticking around.
“I never saw it firsthand before is all,” she added, softly as her teeth dug into her bottom lip and continued staring at me.
I leaned over the bar, so she could get a better look at me and see how truly fucked I was. I wanted to scare her, to make her run the fuck away from me before I lost the little control I was hanging onto.
“Get out of here Lace, run the fuck away and don’t turn back,” I warned her, leaning back and refilled my glass.
“I have nowhere else to go,” she whispered.
Her broken voice and the words she uttered forced me to look back at her and through my hazed eyes I noticed the pain in hers. Lacey was the girl who lit up a room with her smile but, staring at her now, seeing how tortured her eyes were, made me wonder if the smile was a mask. And then Jack’s voice worked its way inside my head, reminding me that today was Jack Jr.’s birthday and he went off on a mission to wallow in his own misery.
“If Lacey comes around or calls…”
“Shit,” I mumbled. “Buying her an ice cream cone and pretending the world is a giant playground don’t work no more for her.”
He smiled proudly. “Girl’s all grown up.”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
God or whoever the fuck was responsible, made it real fucking hard for me to ignore Lacey had grown up. He gave her a fucking body that made you want to drop to your knees and worship. Jack would’ve shot me dead if he knew the thoughts that sometimes ran through my head or the way I couldn’t help but look at her.
She was fucking beautiful.
And sweet, so goddamn sweet.
Fucking lethal was what she was.
Wasn’t that what I was looking for?
“Your pretty little face doesn’t belong here,” I grunted, reaching across the bar to tuck a strand of her brown hair behind her ear.
I was jonesing.
Not for drugs, not even alcohol.
I was jonesing for her.
For Lace.
I snapped my hand back, tore my eyes from her as I walked around the bar, taking a seat next to her. She lifted my glass to her lips and took a sip, cringing immediately.
“How do you drink that?” she asked in between coughing, shoving the glass back at me.
“Why the sad eyes?”
“Do you always answer a question with a question?”
“Cut the shit,” I clipped, reaching out for her again, this time lifting her chin with my index finger.
Touch.
I wanted to touch her.
I needed it.
I shook my head, raging against the need, trying to convince myself that it was the drugs fucking with me. I wanted to believe that deep inside me I was a good guy, that I had morals, maybe not many but enough to know touching her was fucking wrong.
So fucking wrong.
“You know what today is don’t you?” she asked, looking away for a moment before she turned back
“Yeah,” I muttered, staring at her lower lip as it quivered slightly. “I know. Is that why you’re here? Checking in on your old man?”
She lifted her eyes to mine.
“No,” she whispered.
“Then tell me why.”
She remained quiet as she studied my features. I opened my mouth to speak, but she shook her head, cocking it to the side as she laid her hand on my thigh and leaned close.
“Does it ever go away?” she asked barely audible.
I glanced down at her hand and closed my eyes as it burned a hole in my jeans, lighting my whole body on fire.
Drugs man, they’ll fucking ruin you.
Wreck you.
Destroy you.
I shoved her hand away, narrowing my eyes at her.
“What are you doing, Lace?”
“I asked you a question,” she said, her hand closing over my wrist. “Does it ever go away? Tell me it goes away Blackie, tell me this isn’t it,” she whispered, her eyes pleading with mine.
“Does what go away?”
“The pain,” she replied, tightening her hold on my wrist as she peered at me. “It doesn’t,” she said, answering her own question. “Look at you,” she added. “The pain never left you. It’s written all over your face, it’s there, alive in your eyes but the rest of you is dead.”
“You in pain, Lace?” I asked hoarsely. “Came here looking for someone to make it go away?” I ground out.
She shook her head.
“I came here, hoping someone, anyone, would see me.”
“I see you,” I said as her hand dropped from mine.
“You see what I allow you to. No one sees the real me,” she whispered.
She was going to fucking bury me.
“Show me what you’re hiding,” I coaxed. “Take off your armor, peel back your mask and let me see you. Otherwise you’re going to let that shit tear you down. Pain is a bitch and it’ll swallow you whole if you let it.”
“Like you did?” she snapped. “You haven’t let anyone in, never ‘peeled back your armor’, you never gave anyone your pain, never gave anyone a chance to take it away from you. You hang onto it like it’s an organ you need to survive.” She paused, sucking in a deep breath. “We’re not that different, Blackie. You and I, Leather and Lace, on the outside we’re total opposites but inside, deep down inside, we’re the same.”
“God, I hope not,” I said, twisting in my stool as I stared at her.
I wanted to hang on to the belief that there was still good in this world, still purity and it was there looking back at me.
Then I saw her.
The Lacey she hid behind, the fractured soul that was tortured by the pain no one knew existed in the sweet girl with the pretty smile.
I saw her.
And I wish I hadn’t.
She wouldn’t just bury me.
She’d own me.
She’d make me wish I had given up the pain.
She’d make me wish I was a better man.
Someone who could take away her pain.
A man fit to rescue her from her demons.
She’d make me wish I wasn’t a fucking junkie with a death wish.
She moved off her stool, stood in front of me and took one dangerous step closer toward me and then another, until I felt her breath against my face.
“Don’t,” I said.
“Look at me,” she whispered.
The addict in me surfaced, and I was drawn to her like any other toxic substance, lifting my eyes to hers.
“Do you see me, Blackie?” she asked, taking my face in her hands, her fingertips brushing over the scruff hiding my face.
She leaned closer, her lips just a breath away from mine.
“Say it,” she demanded, as she pressed her lips to the corner of my mouth.
I pushed back my stool, the legs dragging across the floor as I stood. Her eyes widened and her lips parted as she took a retreating step, backing herself up against the bar.
Bury me, girl.
Make it end.
I braced one arm on either side of her and gripped the edge of the bar as I caged her in.
“I see you,” I said huskily. I was about to add that I wished like hell I didn’t when her arms wrapped around my neck and her mouth came crashing down over mine. Her lips were frantic as they worked mine, begging me to respond, to give in to her and give her what she needed.
I lifted my hands to her face, heard her moan against my mouth and then I did the one thing that would secure my place in hell and bring me there soon… I gave into the lethal temptation that was Lace.
I slid my fingers roughly through her hair, tugging at the ends, forcing her to angle her head back and watched her eyes flutter open and look up at me.
Bury me.
Make it end.
I crushed my mouth over hers, my tongue slid out and ran along the seam of her lips demanding entry. She opened for me and the high I was on from the drugs faded away and was replaced by a high induced by her taste. There was nothing sweet and innocent about the way I kissed her, or even how she responded. We kissed like we needed to, like it was our survival and maybe it was for her. But for me kissing her, it was my desperation to ruin myself.
I had finally found a way out of this misery and it was wrapped around me, asking me to take away her pain. I grabbed her hips and lifted her up, her legs wrapped around my waist and her tits against my hard chest, awakening the beast inside of me.
I fucked her mouth, creating a rhythm she easily adapted to as I started for the stairs. Her hands were everywhere, exploring my body over my clothes, before she threaded her fingers through my hair and pulled.
Driven by the need to take her pain, to claim her as mine and secure my hell, I made my way up the stairs, slamming her back against the wall once we reached the landing. I squeezed the back of her neck and kissed her so deep, so fucking hard that she forgot whose air she was fucking breathing.
My hands slid down her throat, over her tits, cupping them in my hands before snaking around and grabbing her ass and bringing her body flush against mine again. I stumbled back, find my balance and carried her down the hallway to my room. I kicked the door open with my boot and stepped inside, balancing her with one arm I swiped my free hand across the desk and set her down on top of it.
I pushed my hair back from my face and stared at her, my dick straining against the denim as my eyes dipped to her chest and watched as it rose and fell with each exasperated breath. She reached out, taking my shirt in her hands and pushed it over my chest. I reached with one arm, behind me and pulled the shirt over my head, letting my messy hair fall back into my face. Her fingers ran down my chest, over each tattoo that marked my skin, stopping to flick the barbell pierced through one of my nipples.
The Tempted Series: Collectors Edition Page 123
