Atlas’s health, I did because there were times I honestly thought I would kill him if I didn’t put some space between us.
Granted, our separations lasted all of a few hours at most; Atlas wasn’t a fan of me being out of arms reach. The vast majority of the time, Atlas would show up at my door, throw me over his shoulder and put me on the back of his bike taking us directly home, where he would proceed to show me exactly why we shouldn’t be apart.
While the course of our lives was smooth sailing a good deal of the time, tragedy hit again when our son, Diesel was senselessly murdered by a member of Hells Riders MC that had gone rogue. As devastated as I was, Atlas was worse.
We had agreed early on in our reconciliation that there was nothing to be gained in revealing Diesel’s true paternity. It would only serve to turn his world upside down, and raise questions neither Atlas or I could answer without divulging details of our past that were better left alone.
Grief swamped us both for months following Diesel’s death. We were both lost to our own anguish, floating in a sea of pain without an anchor. When we should have turned to each other, we drifted apart.
I ended up going home. I wanted to surround myself with things that reminded me of my son, while Atlas wanted to forget. He was angry and resentful, taking vicious potshots at me every chance he got. I, on the other hand, became withdrawn, internalizing the heartache both my
son’s passing and the man I loved words caused.
The turning point for Atlas and I came in the form of an unexpected surprise. Aislinn, a beautiful, feisty photographer, tasked with the job of shooting a magazine spread for Pipes, the MC owned custom motorcycle business breezed into town, and with her came change. Not just for Gage, the man who laid claim to her the moment he saw her, but for the MC too.
Many of the men I had watched mature from boys to men were getting married and starting families of their own. Boss, who was now Vengeance’s President, and his new wife, Beth. Fury, the MC’s Enforcer turned VP, and his bride, Avery. Jonas, who didn’t belong to the MC but was a brother nonetheless, and his long-time love, Blaine. And then Gage and Aislinn, who weren’t married yet, but it was only a matter of time before they saw to that.
I’m not sure whether watching the clubs’ self-proclaimed permanent bachelor, Gage, fall in love was what prompted Atlas’s change of heart, nor did I care. Whatever the reason, it brought Atlas back to me.
In a small, intimate ceremony just me, Atlas, the Judge, and two clerks who worked in the building to serve as witnesses, Atlas and I exchanged vows in the judge’s chambers at the courthouse. We didn’t share the news of our marriage with anyone. Vengeance was facing turbulent times, what with the feud between the Hells Riders escalating, and new MC’s encroaching on club territory. Old ladies’ safety hung precariously in the balance, which
included mine. Atlas wasn’t willing to risk my life for the sake of claiming me publically, so he proposed we keep our union to ourselves until the chaos died down.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, as the case may be, we were outed before either of us was ready. And like most families, news traveled fast. Part of me was glad that the weight of one deception had been lifted from my shoulders. The other part hated that the knowledge of our marriage hurt so many of the people I loved.
Rationally I understood how they felt, especially, Boss. As my son’s best friend and my surrogate son, he was upset that I didn’t give him the respect of asking him to stand up beside me and give his blessing. As Atlas’s brother, he saw it as a betrayal not to be told his most senior member had taken an old lady. But again, as is with anything, tempers waned and cooler heads prevailed after we explained the why of it all.
Now we’re here…
Four and a half years of marriage, ten years together (the second time around), eleven years of separation, fifteen years watching, coveting, desiring each other from afar, and the six blissful weeks that started it all. Now we’ve come full circle; back to the very beginning when deception, pain, and dishonesty tore us apart. Except, this time, there’s one notable difference. This time, there are no secrets between us; everything is out in the open, laid bare for all to see. Well, almost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
~ Lucifer ~
“You’re kinda like Rapunzel.”
“WTF?”
“Only difference is, instead of letting your hair down, you just let everyone else in your life down.”
– Lucifer to his partner Trace
Present day…
Is he fucking serious? Jesus, I hope not because if Sarge is actually asking me to help him, hell must have finally frozen over.
“Did you hear me, or are you going to make me say it again?”
Honestly, I’d love to hear the old man use the words, “Lucifer, please, and help me,” in the same sentence again, but I’m feeling merciful today. So taking pity on him, I unceremoniously grunt my response.
“I heard you just fine.”
“And?” Sarge prompts impatiently.
“Look,” I sigh. “I’ve got a guy who lives out that way
who owes me a few favors, so I’ll see what I can find out. I’m not making any promises, though. This guy isn’t chatty on the best of days’, and my guess is, when he finds out it’s someone belonging to Vengeance that wants the information, he won’t be all fired up to share. Especially, not after your boys pretty much shut down his supply and demand on that side of town.”
Rubbing a hand over his face, Sarge narrows his eyes at me.
“What would it take to make him see the light and get talkative? If his information is good, I’m sure I can work something out that will make it worth his while.”
“Not necessary,” I decline. “Like I said, he owes me one, and I’m collecting.”
“Why?” That’s a good question, but one I don’t intend on answering. My motivations are my own, and none of Sarge or Vengeance MC’s business. Never has been, and never will be.
After I had stepped down as president of Demon Seeds, I floated around doing odd jobs for anyone with enough cash to pay for my services. I didn’t come cheap, but I worked clean. No blowback. No questions. No problems. Damn, should have used that as the tagline on my non-existent business cards.
Over the years, I honed my skills, worked my ass off to build a reputation for recovering hard to find targets. Acquiring information in this day and age may be faster, what with technology being what it is, but on the flip side, it makes it a whole hell of a lot more complicated too. People can electronically cover their tracks now, leading bounty hunters like me on wild goose chases half-way across the country before we figure out you’re just fucking with us.
That, among many other reasons, is why I choose to operate under a different set of rules. It boils down to this; you fuck me over, I fuck you back twice as hard and half as nice. I don’t owe anyone anything. I don’t give markers, I collect them. You want me to do a job for you, you pay up front. But the most important of all my rules is; don’t call me, and for the love of fuck don’t fucking text me. When I have something for you, I’ll contact you.
Sarge’s penetrating gaze bores into the side of my head as he repeats,
“Appreciate the help, Lucifer. Still want to know why you’re willing to give it, though.”
Shrugging the seriousness of the conversation off,
“Call it my one good deed for the year,” capping my statement off with a smirk.
“Your sudden generosity wouldn’t have anything to do with a sweet young woman going by the name of, Tatum, would it?” He grins back.
My spine goes rigid at his use of her name, but I try valiantly not to outwardly let it show how much it affects me.
“Not sure why you’re bringing her up, but if you want my help, I suggest you don’t do it again,” I warn.
A nice way of phrasing the current state of Tatum and my relationship is, that we aren’t on speaking terms. On a good day, Tatum can just barely tolerate being
within fifty feet of me. It’s still questionable whether or not she’ll be shooting daggers at me, even if she is feeling generous. On a bad day, so pretty much every day ending in Y, Tatum has plotted my murder, at least, twice before even getting out of bed.
Granted, I brought a lot of this on myself, so I’ll accept responsibility for my part in why she can’t be trusted with a firearm around me, but I’m not solely to blame. Sure, coercing an emotionally vulnerable woman under the influence of alcohol to marry you probably wasn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had. Although, if you ask me, what I did wasn’t necessarily coercion. It was more along the lines of taking an opportunity when it presented itself. In my defense, I didn’t force Tatum to sign our marriage certificate. I didn’t pressure her into saying, I do. And I sure as fuck didn’t push her into consummating our relationship five times on our wedding night alone.
The way Tatum sees it is entirely different, though. If you ask her, she’ll tell you that I manipulated her, took advantage of her while she was at her most fragile, and now I’m trapping her in a marriage she wants no part of. And as
much as those words hurt – and trust me, they hurt like a motherfucker, even though I should be used to her throwing them at me every chance she gets – I can console myself with the knowledge that they’re pure and utter bullshit.
How do I know she’s full of shit? Simple. Tatum was a willing and eager participant each and every time I made love to her on our wedding night. She was right there with me, screaming my name as I sank my cock into her hot, wet pussy, fucking us both unconscious. But that’s not the half of it. Every night we’ve spent together since I put my ring on her finger – and there have been a fuck ton of them – Tatum has been just as desperate for me as I am for her.
Case and point. Out of the ninety-seven nights we’ve been husband and wife, Tatum has been in my bed sixty-five of them. And of the thirty-two she hasn’t, thirty-one of those were because of working overnight’s at the fire station.
As a paramedic for the Waterfield Fire Department, Tatum is scheduled on a seven-day rotation. Three nights on, two days off, one day on, and then another day off. That means I don’t get to see her nearly as much as I’d like, but I’ve managed to shift some shit around to make sure I get to spend time with her in and out of bed.
“Not just me who’s curious about Tatum’s questionable mental status,” Sarge quips.
“What the fuck?” I snarl.
Throwing his hands up in a placating gesture, Sarge
quirks a graying eyebrow at me.
“You’ve got to admit it’s odd that a girl who so openly despises you up and marrys you out of the blue like that. Sure, you were both in Vegas and shit happens, I get that. But honestly, Lucifer, I don’t think you knew what you were getting into when you hitched your wagon to a woman like, Tatum.”
He’s right, and he’s wrong.
I know every curve on Tatum’s perfect body like the callouses on my own palm. I’ve memorized the indentations her teeth make on her bottom lip as she worries it when she’s thinking too hard. I know she works herself to the bone to give her ingrate sisters the world, asking for nothing in return. Tatum is the sweetest, purest soul I ever met, and far too good for the likes of me.
What I don’t know and I can’t predict, though, is Tatum’s impulsive streak when she’s pissed. Most of the time at me. I never know which Tatum I’m getting when she’s fired up. My wife either comes out fighting or retreats into her corner to lick her wounds. It doesn’t help that her dad, my partner, Trace finds her volatile temper funny, either.
The fact that he gets immense enjoyment out of seeing Tatum tear strips off me all in the name of sport is as annoying as it is fucking insulting. I’ve known that asshole for nearly a decade, partnering with him for half of that, and he still can’t get over the fact I fell in love with his oldest daughter.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that,” I finally reply, hoping Sarge leaves it alone. My wife isn’t a topic of conversation for the masses. We’ve got enough problems without outsiders picking apart the bones of our relationship.
“Can do. Now when do you plan on getting started?” He asks, effectively changing the subject. Thank fuck.
Sarge has tasked me with finding his apparently wayward wife. According to him, his wife, Emily took off two weeks ago and hasn’t been seen since. Like I always do at the start of any job, I run preliminary checks to see how long a case is going to run. How deep I have to dig is, more often than not, a decent indicator of how hard someone’s going to be to find.
Ordinarily, it takes anywhere from a few days to a few weeks to get a lock on my target, so color me fucking surprised when I got a lock on Emily’s location in under an hour. Which begs the question, how hard did Sarge actually look for her?
Tipping my head toward my truck, I tell him,
“I’m headed back to the office now.”
“Good,” he nods. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“There is one thing,” I hedge, smirking at the older man. “You can tell me why you didn’t search your own
backyard before coming to me?”
“Come again?”
A grin tilts my lips upwards as I smile widely at him.
“You fucking heard me. I find it interesting that a man like you was willing to enlist the services of a man like me, and that you were prepared to cash in a marker that took the MC years to secure. And all because you couldn’t be fucked to open your eyes and see what was right in front of you this whole time.”
The vein in Sarge’s neck bulges as his snaps his mouth shut, grinding his molars to dust.
“Not sure that’s any of your business. And what the hell do you mean, right in front of me?” He grates out through clenched teeth.
“I’d say it is absolutely my business. You want me to find your wife, then answer my question,” I prod, refusing to acknowledge his question. Knowing that Sarge is close to his breaking point give me a sick sense of satisfaction. Especially since he’s obviously not as torn up over his wife’s disappearance as he claims to be.
If I were a better man, I’d never admit that I get a kick out of pushing people’s buttons. But I’m not. And I do. In particular, men such as Sarge who are so fucking up their own asses they can’t see the forest for the trees.
Letting lose an impressive string of curses, Sarge’s shoulders slump in defeat.
“Honestly, in the beginning, I thought she’d come home of her own accord. I figured once Emmy’s anger at me burned out, she’d come back and talk things out. When she stopped answering her cell to the girls and Boss, I knew that wasn’t the case. I did look for her, though. Maybe not as hard as I should have, but I did nevertheless. Cards on the table? I opened my mouth and said some stupid, hurtful shit, issued an ultimatum I never had any intention of following through with, and she left. The only woman I’ve ever loved outside my daughters walked out the door and didn’t even bother giving me a cursory glance over her shoulder as she did,” he admits.
“And if I find her and bring her back, what then? Because I’ve got to say, I’m not all that fired up to deliver a woman that’s been through as much as Emily has back to her man that doesn’t appreciate what he’s got until it’s too late,” I share, not bothering to sugarcoat that shit for him.
Brought low by my words, Sarge goes on to infer,
“I take it from your statement that you’ve got a pretty good grasp on our history.” At my nod of acknowledgment, he goes on to tell me, “Then you’ll know that this isn’t the first time Emmy has left me, and you’ll also know why. The circumstances might be different this time, but the crux of the issue is still the same.”
Yeah, no shit.
Finding out you’ve got a daughter, one that was born without your knowledge and given up for adoption the moment she took her first breath has to be tough. But finding
out that your wife kept your daughter a secret for twenty-six years,
all the while sharing your bed, your home, and professing her undying love to you would fucking burn.
My heart goes out to the guy, but there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, and that is, there are three sides to every story; yours, theirs, and the truth. Hence, my reluctance to paint Emily as the villain in this situation until I’ve got all the facts.
“Gemma isn’t all that receptive to having any sort of relationship with her mother right now, so Emmy thought it was best to give her and I some space.”
“Why in the fuck would she need to do that?” I seethe. “As far as I can tell, all Emily did was to protect the two of you and her son from the outset. Finding out the man you trusted fathered a child with a vicious, calculating cunt, on the same day you planned to tell him you were pregnant is bad enough. But having to flee your home because of some self-imposed sense of shame you felt, and then getting your ass beaten all to hell the same day your baby is delivered by emergency cesarean because you’re bleeding out on the operating table is worse. The icing on the cake, though, was enduring the hell of never even seeing the kid you carried inside your body for nine months. The very same one you protected, cherished and loved with every fiber of your fucking being. To add insult to injury, that woman spent years alone, wallowing in misplaced guilt all because she couldn’t live with the fact she fucking kept that from you. So excuse the fuck out of me if I think this whole situation is bullshit. It’s you and that daughter of yours who should
Sarge: Book 8 in the Vengeance MC series Page 26
