Chapter Twenty
Four months later
Wolf glared at the accountant that he’d hired just two weeks ago, who had started just the past Monday, sighed heavily.
“Why are you givin’ me notice?” he growled. “What’s the issue?”
“Uh, well,” the man stuttered, adjusting his tie. “I just – I feel that – this work environment’s problematic…”
Wolf looked around the office, bemused. Yeah, OK, it wasn’t the world’s best office, he could agree with that. It was just above the garage work areas, so every time anyone opened the door, a wave of heat and noise, and the smell of steam, gasoline and paint rolled on in. But c’mon, it wasn’t exactly a slum, it was fully air-conditioned, had double-glazed windows, had soundproofing, and Wolf knew that he was paying way over market rate for the work. Besides, this little idiot had been interviewed by him, Kansas, and Silver in the very office that they were currently standing, and he hadn’t said a peep about a problematic work environment.
“What’s the problem, exactly?” Wolf asked, already testy. They didn’t have time to waste here, he was itching to get the tattoo parlor up and running, and the garage and Satan’s were both being audited at the same goddamn time, and God knows, it had taken him four weeks to even find and hire this guy, whose name he didn’t even remember now. Seemed that not too many people were rushing to work for an MC, one that still had a criminal reputation, one that had just recently had a business blown up.
Well, Wolf could certainly see why prospective freelance accountants were hesitating. He guessed that guys like this – with educations and experience – had a choice of places to set up their high-end laptops and park their trim little business-suited-butts for a few months. Nice office buildings, with elevators and espresso machines and other people in suits wandering around, speaking in full sentences about money and budgets and all the shit that Wolf had no clue about.
Which is why I hire a fuckin’ accountant.
Yet again, he thought longingly of Edward Crawley, his former accountant. For twenty-six years, Eddie had happily taken the money that every Road Devils President had thrown his way, and never said one word about the slightly sub-par office space – or anything else, for that matter. But the man had retired and moved to Florida, living far better than a small-time accountant’s regular paycheck could possibly explain, and now here they were. Wolf wondered if Eddie would come back for six months, if Wolf flew him over and paid him mucho bucks for coming out of retirement and dragging his ass away from the ocean. On the whole, though, he thought not. Damn shame.
“Well, Mr. Connor,” the man began bravely, wondering if his decapitated body would be discovered quickly. “I have just come to understand that this isn’t a very good for for me. I’m not – I feel that your men and I aren’t very compatible.”
“What men?” Wolf demanded.
“The men – the men who get information to me upon my request,” he said faintly. “Hard copies of documents and spreadsheets and projections and tax returns from the past three years.”
“Yeah, well.” Wolf scratched his head. “That’d be pretty much everyone, right? Because you need everythin’ from the bar, the garage, and the parlor.”
“Yes.”
“OK, so…” Wolf shut his eyes for a second, already pissed off, and trying to decide where to target his rage. “So they don’t give you what you need for you to do your job accounting for the rebuild projections, and doin’ the audits? I can speak to them. Kick their asses up between their shoulder-blades.”
“No, no,” the man said hastily, blanching a bit. “They get it to me.”
“OK, so…” Wolf stared at the accountant. “If you ask, and they give it, then what’s the problem?”
“Their – their demeanors.”
“Huh?” Wolf cocked his head. “How they act towards you?”
“No, not exactly. It’s not how they act towards me. It’s more… how they act, in general. How they just are.”
“Oh, right,” Wolf said, the penny finally dropping. “You mean, they don’t talk educated enough for you, huh? They don’t dress right, act right, live right? You don’t like the leather cuts, the shit that goes down in the bar back rooms, the rough language, the criminal pasts? My shit grammar offends you too, huh, man?”
The man looked like he was about to pee his perfectly-tailored pants. “I didn’t fully understand – when I took the job, I thought my exposure would be limited –”
“Forget it,” Wolf said brusquely. “I don’t give a flyin’ fuck what you thought then, or what you think about me and the boys now. I know they’ve been as good to you as they know how to be, and if that ain’t good enough for you, then we’re better off without you, frankly. My boys don’t deserve to be looked down on by some guy with a nice tie and shiny shoes. It ain’t a good fit, and that’s that. Don’t bother comin’ back.”
“I – my –” the man stammered. “The contract –”
“I remember the contract,” Wolf snarled. “I can read, you know. You give two weeks’ notice, I pay you for that time. Well, I don’t want to see your snotty little face ever again, but I’ll transfer you two weeks’ pay tomorrow mornin’, first thing, and I’ll be happy to get you out of my hair. Now, beat it.”
The office door slammed behind the man as he fled, and Wolf sighed.
Back to square one. Back to looking for an accountant who’d be willing to work with a bunch of MC guys, on MC property, on MC accounts, dealing with some questionable documents and information from the MC’s past.
Maybe Wolf had to start thinking outside the box here. Look for someone less Traditional Prep Business School, and more street-smart and savvy, who just had a knack for numbers. A maverick type. A wild card.
Yeah. A wild card would fit in with The Road Devils just fine.
**
Zoe sat on the porch of her cute little rental house, breathing in the tangy salt air. It was a cold and drizzly October night, but she didn’t care much: compared to Denver and Fargo, autumn in Los Angeles felt pretty damn balmy to her, and she’d sit on this porch and look at and listen to the Pacific crashing away until she froze to the porch swing seat.
It had been this very porch that had decided her on this house, actually. She’d been stunned at the luxurious rental selection offered when she’d started looking around four months earlier, and she was still grateful that Wolf and the club had given her and Scars an incredibly generous budget for rent.
Oh, she’d been stubborn at first, quite naturally. Insisted to Wolf that she was going to pay her own way, find a place on her budget and using her savings, and she’d left Keira with Willa, Jimmy, Maria, and Wolf, and flown on over to L.A. to house-hunt. She’d given herself a week, and she’d been so confident.
Wolf had placidly agreed to let her foot the bill, without protest or argument, which should have made her suspicious, but didn’t. What she knew now that she hadn’t then was that Wolf had been to L.A. a few times, and had a much better sense of rental prices than she did – he knew that she wasn’t going to get far in terms of finding a place to live, but as with everything to do with Zoe, it was better to let her figure it out for herself. Telling her anything was a waste of time and breath; she’d since decided that this was something that she needed to start to work on.
So she’d rolled on into town, all sassy and la-la-la, looked at some lower-rent places, and almost run screaming from the cockroaches, the smell, the shady neighborhoods, or the sketchy landlords. In quite a few cases, all four of those non-starter issues had been firmly in place. She’d been horrified beyond belief at what she was seriously being expected to pay for dumps, and had snapped pretty quickly to the fact that if she wanted Keira someplace safe to play, Scars someplace quiet to recover between treatments and skin grafts, and herself someplace with an ocean view that didn’t include the smell of raw se
wage floating on that water, then she needed more cash. Pronto.
So she’d taken her reality check with good grace – well, good for her, which meant that she’d downed a glass of cheap rosé – and called Wolf. He’d been expecting her call, of course, and told her that he’d already sent her a transfer. She’d stared down at her cell phone when she’d heard that.
“You what?” she’d said in astonishment. “A transfer? When?”
“Check your bank account, baby girl,” he’d growled at her. “It arrived this mornin’. Twenty thousand. Use it however you have to, and there’s plenty more comin’ when you say the word.”
“But – how’d you know that I’d be in over my head? I mean – you knew it before I did…”
“‘Cause there ain’t no way you’re gettin’ anythin’ better than a one-bedroom, roach-infested hell-hole of a dive for what you’re payin’ over here to Silver. I knew you wouldn’t ask Scars for help, I knew you’d wouldn’t want to worry his mind with everythin’ he’s got goin’ on right now. I knew you’d come to me, and he knew it too.”
“You guys talked about me?” she’d asked.
“Relax,” he’d said, amused. “Me and Scars know you better than anyone else on the damn planet – you think we don’t know how your pretty little head works?”
“Argh,” Zoe had muttered, sucking back more wine. “You got me. Thanks, Wolf.”
“You got it, baby girl. Now, go find a nice place for you and your sweet angel and your man. Clear?”
So back to the drawing board she’d gone, with a huge chunk of ready cash on hand this time around, and suddenly, she had a property agent eager to help her. Drove her around to look at properties, and they weren’t even apartments to rent, if you please. The agent took Zoe to houses. Little houses, naturally, but damn – they were cute houses.
Zoe had a list of ‘wishes’ for the house: on the beach, with a guest room for Willa, Jimmy, Wolf, whoever might have wanted to come and visit, or for nights when Scars needed some space. A big kitchen. Large windows. Flowers surrounding it would be nice, because Keira liked them.
Oh – and a porch with a view.
The second that she’d laid eyes on this place, with its sunny yellow paint trim, and a white fence with flowers growing up on and over it all wild and fiercely vibrant in the summer sun, and a wooden porch swing, and a bright turquoise front door, she’d been charmed. Plunked down the cash on the spot, made it temporarily hers within ten minutes of walking in the door.
She and Keira had been happy here, happy every single day, even the bad days. And God knows, there had been bad days. Too many to count.
When she’d left Denver, she hadn’t had any illusions that it was going to be hard. She’d known that Scars was going to struggle with pain and anger and having to ask for help. She’d known that she’d struggle with her own anger, and having to balance things with Keira, and patience to do things on Scars’ timeline, not her own.
She’d known that he’d be gone for days on end, either physically as he recovered in the hospital from a skin graft, or emotionally as he occupied the same space as her, but was sunk deep in thought. She’d worked harder than she ever thought she would at being cheery and positive and supportive – and even when it was damn near impossible to take his brooding or testiness, she’d done it. She really had.
And she’d thought that the worst was over. Scars body hadn’t rejected a single donor skin graft, and he’d fought his way through physiotherapy, building his mobility and strength steadily and daily. He’d opened up to her so much when he was flailing, and he’d let her be there for him. Sure, it took him some time to really be vulnerable, really talk to her, but she’d waited, and he’d eventually opened his mouth and told her what was on his mind. She’d learned to read his expressions, hear words in his silences, and she’d responded by loving him as hard as she knew how – but all without touching him. He’d permitted some kisses, quick, light ones, and very gentle hugs, so gentle that she barely made contact.
This was the last really big issue between them, and it was the one that was now weighing on her mind, thanks to what had happened that morning. That morning was why she was so damn grateful for her porch right at this moment, as she sat here, wondering and worried.
The porch was her little reprieve, her tiny bit of sanity and calm, her oasis of breath and heartbeat… she had spent hours and hours sitting right here in this swing every single evening, Keira’s baby monitor on the cushion next to her. Pushing back and forth with a bare foot, watching the sun set over the ocean, letting the endless crashing and murmuring waves soothe her troubled spirit and mind. It always worked, though some nights it took a bit longer for her center to hold.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, she wondered – truly wondered, for the first time – if she and Scars were going to make it through this latest upheaval.
As if she’d summoned him with her thoughts, a taxi pulled up a few doors down. She watched as he climbed out carefully, and even though she couldn’t see his face, she winced automatically, sure that his skin grafts were sensitive. He was always a bit sore after physio, but he was improving at a rate and speed that stunned the doctors.
Seeing him arrive in a taxi was still a shock, in a way. She was so used to seeing Scars on his motorcycle, driving the club van, walking under his own power. Knowing that he was dependent on someone to drop him off home was weird, and it reminded her yet again that the man was healing. He wasn’t at full strength, and he needed help, and despite her own inner turmoil, she softened.
As her chest loosened, opened up a bit, Zoe took a breath, and tried to push down on her hurt and humiliation about what had happened that morning. They needed to talk about it, not fight.
Scars walked up the sidewalk to the house, happy to be home, even though he was dreading the conversation that he knew was sitting between them. He didn’t look up; he knew Zoe would be on the porch. She was there every night clearing her head, and he was positive that after the scene that morning, she’d need to hold a safe space tightly.
He’d hurt her feelings. Deeply. Yeah, sure, he had his reasons, and he was certain that she understood them, but still… he’d hurt the woman who had stood by him, propped him up, pulled him through. She’d given parts of herself to him over the past four months, given parts of herself that he could tell were a surprise to her, given them selflessly and generously, even when it was fucking hard for her because she’d had nothing much left to give at the end of the day – and this morning was the one time that she’d reached for him for affection, the one time that she’d given in to her own shrieking cravings and needs for closeness. For the first time, she’d asked him for something that she needed, badly.
And Scars had freaked out.
Worse… he’d pushed her away. Physically and emotionally.
God, the look on her beautiful face when he’d done that. The pain and hurt was so breathtaking, he’d blindly turned and left the house, just because he couldn’t look at that raw, ragged emotion for one second longer.
So not only was he a prick who shoved Zoe away when she wanted physical affection and a simple human touch, he was also a fucking coward who ran when faced with her crushed spirit.
He’d shut up and stopped using his words and run away. The exact things that he’d accused her of doing to him all those times. God, he was a hypocrite.
Well. Time to fix this. If he could.
Jesus Christ. Please tell me that I can.
He opened the gate, walked up the path, then the porch steps. He moved the baby monitor a bit, then sat next to Zoe on the swing.
They sat quietly, then Scars said, “Hi, baby.”
“Hi.” She gave him a quick look, then turned her eyes back to the inky sky. “How was physio today?”
“Great, actually.”
“Good.”
Silence fell again, and Sc
ars took a deep breath.
“I’m so sorry, Zoe. I’m sorry that I shoved you away.”
Her eyes fell to the porch floor now, and he took her hand, felt only slight resistance. He tightened his grip a bit, determined to not deprive her of his touch this time.
“I shouldn’t have done that, baby,” he said. “I know you know why I did, but it should never have happened. I should have stayed and talked to you.”
“Don’t you –” She paused and cleared her throat. “Do you miss touching me?”
“Oh, God. Zoe. So goddamn much. You have no idea. It’s all I can think about sometimes, how your skin and hair feel and smell. You’re silk and honey, baby, moonlight and sunset, and I’m addicted to you. Not touching you, kissing you… I miss it like I’d miss air.”
“Do you – do you miss me touching you?”
“That’s a bit more complicated to answer.” Scars took a deep breath. “Short answer: fuck, yes. Long answer: I miss the way that my body was before when you touched it. How it moved under you, on you, in you. How it experienced sensation when you ran your fingers over it. I – right now, I have almost no feeling at all in large parts of my back. When you put your arms right around me this morning and really held on, it was – a shock. I knew you were touching me and holding me, but I didn’t feel it.”
“So… is that why you pushed me away?”
“Yes and no. I mean – it was unnerving. Freaky. I knew that the skin grafts would mean lack of feeling and nerve damage. Of course I did. I’ve been poked and prodded by doctors, and my physiotherapist is always moving my body into position, and twisting and turning me, and you and Keira give me little kisses and nice cuddles, so it’s not like nobody has touched me for four months. I was fully aware that my back and legs are mostly numb. But what really kinda jolted me was…” His voice trailed off.
The Devil's Scars (The Road Devils MC Book 1) Page 32
