Burn

by Jc Emery

  Ian’s abs flex under my touch as I slide my arms from around his middle and up to his shoulders. I steady myself with his solid, masculine frame as I climb off the bike. The ride was only a few minutes, but it was so addictive. My inner thighs feel a little strained by the position, but in a good way. In a way that tells the story of a woman who did something new. I like this Mindy a hell of a lot better than the Mindy I was even a week ago.

  On the pavement, I back up a few feet to allow Ian room to put the kickstand in place and swing off the bike. He’s behind me now as I walk toward the door to the clubhouse. There are random people hanging around on the worn wooden picnic benches, some smoking and all drinking. The parking lot is full of cars and bikes and men standing around in leather vests appraising the Harleys and the women. I like the scene before me. Nothing is particularly scary or awful, despite what my parents would say about the lifestyle the club perpetuates. Ian’s eyes catch my attention, and they’re focused on something to my right. I follow his gaze to find a black Mercedes sitting at the end of the lot, hogging up two spaces. If he’s surprised by the presence of such a pretentious car in the lot, he doesn’t verbalize it. We look away and our eyes meet. I see something in his expression that I dislike immensely. His deep-brown eyes watch me closely, and even though he’s not speaking, he doesn’t really need to. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know how.

  “Whose car is that?” There. I took the weight off his shoulders by asking.

  “The Italian’s,” he says. His words feel like a betrayal with how little emotion he shows. Now I get it. The Italian is the guy who kept coming to the coffee shop I used to work at. He’s the one I thought was going to ask me out before he kidnapped me and Holly. He was polite about it, but that doesn’t mean I enjoyed the experience any more. It was awful. Aside from being handsome, any man who kidnaps a woman—regardless of the reasons—is an asshole.

  I focus on the man before me and try to decide if that’s necessarily true. I don’t consider Ian to be an asshole, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t one. He’s been good to me. Kind even. Still, from the way Nic and Holly talk about him, I know he’s done far more for the club than just politely kidnap a couple of women. Ian Buckley has blood on his hands. I just don’t know how much.

  “You good?” Ian asks. I nod my head and let him lead me inside the clubhouse.

  I can’t get into the whole kidnapping-forced relocation-attack drama right now. I’ve been doing good today, and I refuse to ruin it with my memories. I ate soup today and I rode on a Harley and Ian is good to me, and that’s what really matters. What he does apart from me is none of my business.

  Inside, the clubhouse is filled with people hanging off furniture and one another haphazardly. They’re drinking and smoking—more than just cigarettes—and eating baked goods that I bet have a little kick in the recipe. I make a mental note to avoid baked goods at the clubhouse before asking Ian about them first. There’s more men than women here, but the women who are here are all either totally naked or mostly naked. It feels weird being here and not being one of their girls. Not that I want to be one of their girls. I just . . . I’ve heard how these parties go. I know the old ladies don’t hang around the clubhouse unless it’s either family time or their old man is with them. I’m not Ian’s old lady, so would I be welcome here without him?

  Probably not.

  As the crowd thickens, Ian reaches back and takes my hand in his. He keeps me close to him. This is all so overwhelming and even though nobody is really paying attention to us, being in an enclosed space with so many people I don’t know is starting to prickle my fear. I give his hand a squeeze. For reassurance or appreciation—I don’t know which.

  He stops, spinning around quickly and leveling a furious gaze at everybody around us. I blink back my surprise and do the only thing I can to make the situation less intense. I rub my thumb along the back of his hand in what I hope is a soothing manner. Something he sees settles him, and we go back to trudging through the crowd. Ian’s head swings to the left and the right with precision as he mean-mugs everyone we pass. A few of the members of the Fort Bragg charter shoot him confused looks until their eyes land on me, like I’m a missing puzzle piece, and they give me one of those man nods.

  Wyatt, the club’s vice president, stands at the bar up ahead. A young brunette, whom I think I recognize as one of Cheyenne’s friends, hangs off one of his arms. In his other arm, he’s holding a beer that he finishes off and slaps on the bar top, not paying the girl any mind. His eyes lift as he spots Ian and communicates something with his gaze. No words pass between the two men, just a series of head nods and a few grunts. Wyatt moves off the stool he’s been occupying and steps back. The brunette moves to dodge his large body and disappears into the crowd. It’s only now that I notice she’s not wearing pants—a tank top, thong underwear, and fishnets with stilettos on her feet, but no freaking pants.

  “Stay here,” Ian says. He turns toward me and directs me onto the offered stool, which I take. Dipping his head close to my ear, he finishes with, “Soda or water. No booze or anything else that might make me unhappy.”

  His words are menacing, meant to be taken seriously. And I do take him seriously, but I don’t fear him like I think he wants me to. He could hurt me in so many ways and I still don’t think I’d fear him. He’s Ian.

  “You’re leaving me here alone?” God, I sound like such a freaking baby. His answering smile is all I need to relax a little.

  “Club business, babe. Can’t avoid it. Chel will take care of you.” He nods behind the bar and tips his head to me. I follow his gaze to a barely dressed woman pouring drinks and giving Ian a sexy smile. It’s not flirty in an immature way or anything. It’s just sultry and sexy and all woman. Her eyes slide to me with a friendly smile. She moves close and leans across the bar.

  Her voice is low as she says, “Every man in here saw you walk in with Ian. I’ll watch over you, but you don’t need it.”

  “I’m not worried about . . .” I stop myself. I don’t really know how to say what I want to say. Maybe I don’t even know what I’m trying to say, but either way it’s just not coming out right.

  “Remember my warning, Melinda,” Ian says, his lips brushing my ear. A tingle runs down my spine at the unexpected contact. I should be terrified. I should cringe. I don’t. Instead, I just breathe him in and enjoy this perfect tiny moment. And I nod. Because I’ve suddenly realized that he’s waiting for a response.

  “Good girl.” So tenderly, he places a kiss to the top of my head. My eyes flutter closed in response to his intimate touch. I force them open and watch as he leaves with Wyatt.

  From the corner of my eye I notice the vested men we passed on our way in. Their eyes are on me. Some staring curiously and some inspecting, but they’re all paying attention. It’s not dirty or scary, it’s just . . . interesting. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s a look of respect. But that doesn’t make any sense.

  “Water or pop?” Chel asks from behind the bar.

  “Pop?” I turn and try to get into the conversation with her, but it’s hard. Everything is so unnerving here.

  “Soda.” I wrinkle my nose at the foreign term but don’t ask. She elaborates anyway. “I’m from the Midwest. I guess some things you never lose.”

  I give her a genuine smile and decide that I like her. “Water’s fine.”

  She’s only gone for a moment before she returns with a bottle of water and hands it to me. I take a large gulp and will myself to chill out. Chel seems nice and Ian trusts her, so that’s something. With every sip of water, I feel more comfortable in this space. I wasn’t pleased about Holly’s relationship with Grady at first, but I can’t deny the appeal of this world. I watch idly as Chel serves drinks and chats up different men. Some seem to communicate something deeper than a beverage request to her, and others take their drinks and leave.

  Taking a break from my people-watching, I send Holly a text to let her know where I
went. I get the notification that she’s seen the message, but she doesn’t respond. That’s okay. I was a jerk for ditching her when we were supposed to hang out, and I can’t really blame her for being upset with me. After a few minutes, I give up waiting for a response and shove the phone back in my pocket. The man beside me vacates his stool, and it’s not long before another man takes his place. I try not to be fearful of every movement and each noise I don’t immediately recognize.

  An eerily familiar scent fills my nostrils. It’s a decadent combination that smells woody and earthy but clean at the same time. I tense from head to toe and battle to maintain my composure. I used to love this scent, but now it brings me back to a time I’m still struggling to get past. Very slowly, I turn toward the scent, already knowing what I’ll find. I’m going to find the owner of the black Mercedes. I’m going to find a man in an impeccable suit, and he’s going to be handsome and strong and polite, even when he’s in the midst of carrying out a kidnapping.

  I’ve barely caught sight of his olive complexion when he notices I’m staring and turns to face me. His lips form a smile.

  “Melinda Mercer. It’s nice to see you.” He sounds friendly, as he always did pre-kidnapping. Well, he was friendly mid-kidnapping as well. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t still scary. It was the beginning of everything that led to that night. And whether it makes sense or not, I fucking hate him for it.

  “Go to hell.”

  Chapter 8

  “That’s no way for a lady to talk, now is it?”

  “Bite me.” The words slip off my tongue quickly, before consider the repercussions. The last time I saw him, he warned me and Holly that he doesn’t like to be yelled at and greatly values compliance. But that’s when we were at home, and my nails were wet, and I was caught off guard. I’ve met bigger monsters than him and lived through it. Still, my hands shake around my mostly empty water bottle. I grip the plastic tighter to make it less obvious, but all that does is create a crunching sound.

  “You have no reason to fear me.” His dark brown eyes are on my nervous hands. Those eyes and his bright white smile used to make my breath hitch. They used to make me blush. I used to think about all the things I didn’t expect to think about again. But that was before. That was when my only concern was that no man worth dating would want to date a junkie. Doesn’t matter that I’ve been clean for four years now. Once a junkie, always a junkie. The only thing worse than being a junkie is being sexually impotent. Put the two together and the only thing left for me is my fantasies.

  “You were an unfortunate casualty in a war you have no part in.” I think he’s trying to comfort me, but I can’t really tell. Men in expensive suits with fancy cologne and luxury cars don’t grovel. Not that men in dirty jeans and worn leather vests grovel either. Actually, the only man I ever saw grovel was Heath. We were so young then. If he were still here, I don’t know if the man he would have become would grovel now. Maybe not.

  I quickly pull myself from my thoughts and look around. How the hell did he get in here? How has nobody pulled a gun on him yet?

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I practically shout in panic. Peeking down the bar, I see that Chel is busy with a burly, older man with a long graying beard. He says something she must like, because she reaches across the bar and gives him a peck on the cheek with a sultry wink.

  “Relax, Bean. We’ve come to a truce.” The confident smirk on his face angers me. It sends shivers down my spine and a vengeful hatred to my heart. This man scared me. He made me suffer in relative discomfort on a sea wall, and my only crime was being home on my day off. He left me there to wonder if I would make it home that night, if the tide would sweep me away, or if I was left there to rot.

  “You’re not allowed to call me that. Actually, don’t call me anything.” I could stab him in the face. I mean, I could slap him at least. I won’t, but I want to. How dare he call me that nickname. How dare he call me anything.

  “Let me make it up to you.” Still with the fucking smirk. “Another water?”

  Ian’s words float into my mind. The warning he gave me at Smirk’s house was terrifying. I haven’t tried to score since. Still, it’s a lot of responsibility he’s placed on my shoulders. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that Ian doesn’t make empty promises.

  The next person you try to score from dies. The next person who hurts you dies. The next person who stands too close to you, looks at you wrong, or just bugs me fucking dies.

  The man beside me raises his glass of brown liquid, empties it in one sip, and then shakes the glass at me suggestively.

  . . . or just bugs me fucking dies.

  I can’t drink. I can’t. I mean, I can control myself. I can stop myself from falling back into the rabbit hole. I know I can. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I don’t want to cause anyone pain, aside from myself, that is. And yet, the wheels are in motion and I can’t stop myself.

  “Vodka. I’d love a vodka.” I contain my smile and try for relenting to an unfavorable request. Ian won’t really kill him if they’ve entered a truce, would he? He couldn’t. I just can’t believe he would, and that’s how I convince myself this is okay. I rub the black chip in my pocket and force myself to feel the pang of sadness.

  Four years, two months, and fifteen days.

  Four years of keeping a needle out of my arm.

  Leo gets Chel’s attention and asks her for a vodka. Her eyes slide to mine and in a bitch move, I shake my water bottle at her innocently. She gives in and brings the vodka to Leo quickly along with a new bottle of water that she places in front of me.

  Four years and two months of staying sober.

  I turn my body toward Leo and take the glass of vodka in my hands. He shifts on his stool to give me more of his attention. The smile on my face is apologetic, but he might not know that. He might think I’m grateful or that I’m trying to get over what happened between us. He’ll soon find out how very wrong he is.

  “I don’t like you, and I don’t want to get to know you.”

  Four years, two months, and fifteen days of being the new Mindy and now the new broken Mindy.

  I hate both of them with equal vigor.

  “But thank you for the vodka.” One sip, Mindy. All it takes is one sip. I force a smile to my face, more of a grin really, and bring the glass to my lips. The vodka smells like regret and self-hatred. It smells like desperation. It smells like the worst mistake I’m ever going to make, because now I know what awaits me at the bottom of the glass.

  Be brave.

  Tipping the glass up just enough to taste the vodka on my lips, I fight back the churning in my stomach. Shit. I forgot how repulsive liquor is. I guess that’s why people drink to the point of being drunk. It’s not like this stuff tastes good. Its real purpose is to numb the world around you—to numb everything until the world you live in is tolerable enough to continue to exist in. And with that thought in mind, I swallow the little bit I manage to get into my mouth. With more confidence than I feel, I lower the glass and stare into Leo’s eyes.

  “It was nice knowing you, Leo.” It wasn’t, but it doesn’t matter. His dark brown eyes are suspicious and shifty now. The more nervous he becomes, the more inclined I am to drink. It’s powerful, holding this man’s future in my hands. Intoxicating in a way I don’t think even heroin could be. Instead of being out of it and lost to the world, this power gives me a sense of self, an awareness I don’t know that I’ve ever had before. I force another sip down my throat before I give up and set the glass down on the bar. I can’t finish it. Finishing it would be going back to where I was before.

  Four years, two months, and fifteen days.

  And now I’m back to zero.

  Tears form in my eyes, my heart speeds up, and there’s a sickening lump in my throat. Leo is still giving me an unnerving look. It’s the only thing that makes any of this any better—knowing that I can unsettle the mafioso.

  “Before we part ways, just t
ell me one thing. Was it worth it?” As I wait for his response, I dig my black chip out of my pocket and hold it in my lap.

  “You’re taking my actions more personally than you should.”

  “But was it worth it?”

  “I believe in my cause, so yes.”

  “Good,” I say with a firm nod. I’m so focused on my task that I don’t notice the wavy blondish-brown head of hair barreling toward us until I already have my black chip out on the bar top in front of Leo. His jaw ticks as he focuses in on the chip.

  “Was it worth it?” he asks.

  Worth what? My sobriety? My soul? Is anything worth losing myself? The harsh tang of vodka on my tongue is the only answer I have.

  “Yes.”

  It’s barely a moment before Leo is pulled off his stool and he’s spun around, facing a familiar face that I barely recognize. There’s a vicious snarl emanating from Ian. It’s so guttural, raw even, that I shrink back on my stool. Tears well in my eyes that I can’t bring myself to wipe away. I should, though. I can’t sit here and cry like a bitch after what I’ve done. I deserve whatever I get. We all do, I guess.

  “Did you forget?” The nasty bark of words aren’t for Leo—they’re for me.

  “No.”

  “I always make good on my promises, Melinda.” Ian leans in close to Leo as he spits the words out. The men around us jump to their feet, with Ryan and Duke appearing out of the crowd, each with a gun trained on Leo.

  “Give me a reason, asshole,” Ryan says. His trigger finger lowers and lifts and then lowers again.

  “What happened, brother?” Duke asks and slowly lowers his gun. His angry glare turns to confusion quickly.