I just got stabbed, and he’s acting like I sprained my ankle. His calm is my comfort. His tranquility quiets my storm.
When we get to my apartment, he puts towels over my bed, lays me down on it, and plucks a bottle of whiskey from the counter in my kitchen. The only reason I keep it is so I can forget things when I need to, so it seems ironic that he is using it now, in a rare moment I feel like I’d like to remember.
It’s not often someone else takes care of me.
He opens the whiskey bottle and hands it to me silently, choking the neck of the bottle. I grab it and take a swig, not because I want to, but because he asked. Sort of. The alcohol burns its way through my throat, but this time, I don’t welcome the numbness it brings with it. Carter pours some of the whiskey onto one of the clean towels and wipes my injury after rolling my shirt all the way up until my bra is completely exposed. My head against the pillow, I inspect him as he cleans my wound meticulously and quietly.
It’s burning so bad I want to grab his hair and rip it out as I scream my lungs out, but I want to be good for him. I want him to be proud of me. It’s so ridiculous—my need to impress him, even when I’m at my worst. Stabbed by my small-time pimp, alcoholic father.
I wish I could thank him somehow.
He seems like a good man, to me, at least. To everyone else…who knows?
After he’s done cleaning me, he motions for me to drink some more. I take another sip, but this time he shakes his head. “The whole thing.”
“Are you serious?” I choke on my saliva. He nods, his face void of emotion.
“I’m going to stitch you up. You might not wanna be completely present when that happens, if you know what I mean.”
Reluctantly, I drink the rest of the alcohol. He asks me where my sewing kit is, and I tell him. Despite his best efforts to numb the pain, I feel it. Every time he inserts the needle, which he burnt beforehand with his Zippo, I let out a soft cry. Every so often he pauses and strokes my hair with his free hand. I don’t even think he notices when he does that. Caresses my hair. I wish he would stop. It stirs something unfamiliar in me. Something I can’t identify.
Carter is meticulous in movements, almost mechanical. After he stitches me up, he tears one of my shirts and wraps it around my stomach tightly. I feel myself tear up, because even through the pain, I realize that I’ve never felt so…cared for before. I pretend for a while that I’m just a normal girl, and that Carter is mine and I am his. What would it be like to be loved by someone like him? I feel a single tear slipping out of the corner of my eye and into my ear at the thought.
“I’ll ask Graham to send someone to watch over you while I go clean up the mess in the alleyway,” he tells me without making eye contact, and for that, I’m thankful. I nod, my eyes hard on the whiskey bottle.
“They’ll have to break into your apartment because I’m going to lock it behind me.” His voice is surprisingly soft.
I nod again.
“You can keep the key.” I offer half a shrug and try to hide my flinch of pain that resulted from it.
“I intend to.” He cocks an eyebrow, but there’s nothing flirty or playful about what he says. He states it as a fact. It occurs to me that it’s the most we’ve ever spoken to each other.
“Thank you, Carter,” I tell him before he leaves. I can’t pretend to be that girl he sees in the club. The flirty and careless and crazy, sexy bitch everyone likes. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, but can you please not tell anyone about it?”
“Not a soul,” he promises, then I hear my door slamming shut, and I fall into a hard, drunken, well-deserved sleep.
I hope I never wake up.
Present
“Carter, I need clean up on Aisle 3.” I hear Graham growling low into my Bluetooth. I shoulder my way past the sweaty, obnoxious crowd. Ever since I was a wee boy, I hated people. Not just how they smell and the touch of their flesh, but just in general. People were a fucking disturbance I didn’t need in my life. Now, I’m working in a nightclub, which means that I’m dealing with people all the fuckin’ time, but what can you do? I don’t reckon they’re looking for crazy-ass killers in the Wanted section of Gumtree.
I make my way to the VIP area, AKA “Aisle 3”. We gave each corner of the nightclub a name just to make it more fun, I suppose. Though I don’t really think it’s funny. Then again, my sense of humor is a bit on the dry side. Or perhaps the nonexistent side. Oh, well.
I spot the problem immediately. He’s puking all over the floor, all while roaring at the top of his bloody lungs. “I’m going to kill that bitch even if it’s the last thing I do!” Too bad he is a moment too late, as the last thing he’ll probably do is meet my fist before I send him to Slumberland. I see Graham standing next to the guy, looking both calm and mildly disgusted at the same time. He smooths the edges of his blazer and rolls his eyes simultaneously, motioning for the man and his crowd of drunk idiot friends with a head tilt.
“Throw them out, all of them, except the one who left his dinner on my fucking floor. That one touched one of our own. Bring him to my office when you’re done.”
“One of our own?” I ask, grabbing two men by the collar of their shirts and dragging them across the filthy floor like I am carrying nothing but two grocery bags. “Who did he touch?”
My thoughts immediately drift to Quinn.
There’s something about that girl that consumes me to the point of madness. Everyone knows about my sexual…proclivities, but Quinn makes me want to throw all my rules and compulsions out the window. I haven’t interacted with her much, but every time I do, when I turn my back, when I don’t take her home, when I don’t fuck her on my bed without tying her hands back or washing her first, it feels wrong. I hate being touched, but I want to feel Quinn’s hands on me. I only hook up with blondes, but I want to see Quinn’s fiery locks draped across my pillow. It’s like I’m leaving a piece of my soul with her every time we say goodbye. Which is why I very rarely say hello to her in the first place. I don’t believe in love at first sight. Scratch that shit—I don’t believe in love, period. Which makes my feelings for her alarming at best and unwarranted at worst.
“Calm your fucking arse, Carter. No one touched your precious Quinn. I can hear your goddamn pulse all the way across the floor.” He brushes his hand over his pocket, taking out his cell phone and punching a few numbers. My shoulders immediately relax, and I proceed to throw the men who haven’t even fought me out of the club. Then I go back and throw out two more before I get to the drunk idiot who touched one of the girls at the club. Graham is not there when I’m back in the VIP area, and it’s been cleared so that the cleaners can wipe away the vomit that’s already stanched the place. What the hell did this lad have for dinner? A sausage made of roadkill and anus?
“Get the feck up,” I call out to him as I lift his head by his greasy, dark hair. But he is too out of it and falls back to sleep on the floor, his mouth dripping saliva. He looks to be in his early thirties, with a beer belly poking out of his expensive suit. Goddamn rich people think they can rule the world. They very well can. But not our world. Not the underworld. And definitely not the bloody Savages.
“Get on yer fecking feet before I make minced meat out of your body parts,” I hiss out to his ear. Just as I say that, Sinclair Savage, AKA Sin, walks into the room out of nowhere. The lad hasn’t even been here for six months, and already he acts like he owns the place. I don’t like it. Not one bit. I watch as he buttons his suit jacket, and his sleeves ride up exposing a hint of a tattoo. His hands are clean, at least in the literal sense, and so are his face and neck. But I’ve seen him spar with Cole, and everywhere that his crisp suit covers is painted with ink. Even though the bastard isn’t as big as Cole, I must admit that others might find him just as foreboding. Maybe even more so. He oozes power, and he’s a sadistic bastard.
“You’re wasting your time.” His cold, low voice pierces through the air between us. I raise one eyebrow as I watch him
approach the wasted arsehole and me.
“He is pissed as shite.” I observe, tugging at the drunk’s hair. “And I need to get him to Graham’s office. It was easy enough to drag his mates over there.” I nod with my head to the exit. “But this one…we’ll need fecking PETA to roll him to Graham’s.”
That makes Sinclair snicker darkly and wink at me as he hovers over both of us, the drunkard and me, like a ghost. He circles around us with his arms behind his back and I want to punch him, but I refrain because, for some reason, Graham is quite smitten with his sophisticated arse. And I’m saying ‘smitten’ purposely, because sometimes I do feel like Graham legitimately adores the guy like he is made of Dahlia’s pussy itself.
“You know, Carter, you’re not the freak everyone pegs you to be,” he whispers. He sounds like a snake. Like someone who could award you with a poisonous bite at any moment. And I’ve never been one to scare easily, so this means nothing to me, but I see how people react to this guy. It’s not healthy.
“Thank you. I’ve been holding my breath, trying to figure out what you think of me,” I say dryly.
Sin laughs again and shows me all of his white teeth. “You have a great sense of humor.”
I blink slowly, waiting for him to take a hint.
Sinclair shrugs, unaffected by my lack of social skills and fucks given. “All right, then. I’ll help you with him.”
We both carry the drunk man toward Graham’s office, each of us holding him by one armpit. When we finally make our way through the narrow, dark hallway to Graham’s office, Sin throws the guy onto the leather sofa and shuts the door behind him while I’m still outside, like I was nothing but the fecking muscle. That’s what I hate about him the most—the ability to make everyone else feel like shite. I open the door just to make a point.
“Never shut the door on me again.” I pause, pretending to think on that for a minute. “Unless you want a toothless smile, then the easiest way to get one is to do it again.”
“Someone’s got their knickers in a wad.” Sin cocks one eyebrow, and I watch as he bites the cork of an expensive cognac, opening it with his teeth and pouring the liquid over an open, fresh wound on the back of the drunk guy, who screams in agony and is now very much awake and sober. It is amazing to me that he had managed to both slice open the guy’s expensive dress shirt and create such a deep yet clean wound along his spinal cord. The door’s been closed for only a few seconds. He’s a heavy hitter. I blink away my astonishment, hating Sinclair a little more for his abilities. He’s no amateur.
“Face away. It’s not your dog and pony show.” His eyes darken. Graham growls behind him, warning him. Sin cocks an eyebrow. He’s reluctant to explain himself, but has to.
“No one left you out of the fun. This is a personal matter for me,” Sinclair says good-naturedly. “Right, G?”
G? What the feck?
But Graham just nods. “Yeah. By the way, Quinn is looking for you,” my boss says from behind his desk, pouring himself a glass of something strong, way stronger than he normally drinks when he works. What on earth is going on here tonight?
“She said she needs to talk to you urgently.”
I drag my eyes over both men before I grunt in response. I leave, climbing down the stairs to the bar area to look for her. I’d be lying if I said my heartbeat is regular. It’s not even fast. It is completely erratic.
I scan the club, seeking her, knowing she’s around, sensing her presence, like an animal stalking its prey.
I walk to the bar and run my hand along it, but quickly snatch it back when my palm meets a sticky liquid. Disgusting.
I stop at the glassed bar with the blue lights pouring from under it—there’s an aquarium full of exotic fish underneath—when it meets a small palm with shiny, black nails. I look up and see her. My heart stops. Her smile widens.
No one affects me. Feck her for being the exception.
“Graham said you were looking for me,” I say. I sound short—even to my own ears—but I don’t mean to. I don’t express myself well. Most of the time, I don’t care to. But, sometimes, I wish I could communicate better. For her. With her. Quinn’s eyes are so blue they’re almost silver, her ruby red hair a wild, yet sexy mess. It’s scientifically proven that humans are drawn to all things symmetric and colorful. And Quinn? Quinn is both.
She grabs my hand in hers, and I’m a bit taken aback. A rush of heat travels from my head to my groin, making a brief stop at my heart. It doesn’t go unnoticed, and so I pull my hand away even though I want to study every little line on her palm until it grows old.
“What is it?” I snap. I want to protect her, and I’m willing to go places I’ve never gone before, hell included. But protecting her is also keeping her away from me. I’m not selfish enough to have her.
I’m a murderer.
A fucked-up arsehole.
I don’t deserve her.
“Can we talk somewhere private? It’s my day off cleaning duties.” She smiles shyly, and it’s such a contrast from the bold, sassy mask she puts on for the rest of the world. I can’t deny her, especially when she shows me her true self. I nod.
“Aye.”
I follow her, zeroing in on her back, on those beautiful red-hot locks and the way her arse sways from side to side, intentionally so, as she leads me to the alleyway where painful secrets bonded us. Secrets that neither of us has ever uttered aloud. I love the way her little black mini skirt barely hugs her waist and that short top Graham makes the employees wear. The females only, of course. But then again, Graham is a business genius. He doesn’t hire men to work behind the bar. Just to clean up the mess other men create.
Quinn pushes the door to the back exit open, and we both walk outside. It’s cold. Winter is fast approaching. New York is dusted with a thin coat of snow, but it doesn’t settle, because it’s so alive with people and vehicles and whatnot. Life is more powerful than any force of nature. That’s what I’ve learned in this place.
She turns around with big, hopeful eyes, and I look away because another hello means another goodbye. And I can’t afford giving her any more pieces of my soul.
“What is it?” I grind out. Her smile falls, destroyed by my harshness, and there’s an open wound somewhere in my heart that just grew an inch. I’m such a bastard.
“Well, I hope you don’t mind. I thought…I mean, I asked Graham if you could maybe see me home? It’s a cold night outside, and I don’t want to walk by myself.”
There’s a pause before she adds, “Graham said he doesn’t mind, obviously. But I can just walk back by myself. I should have asked you first. It’s just that we live in the same neighborhood and…”
“I’ll call you a cab,” I cut into her stream of words. I can’t. I won’t. She deserves better. She thinks she wants me because I was in the right place at the right time. She thinks I’m her knight in shining armor, but I’m just a monster in a suit. She deserves to be loved wholly, fully, entirely…
But not with me.
With someone else. Someone good.
“Please?” Her eyes are pleading, and she is pushing her body toward mine. Her tits, barely covered in that black cropped shirt—feck you very much, Graham—press against my lower chest. I want to show her all the things I learned when Cole and Jade decided to make it their mission to help me—after learning that I didn’t have the confidence to pursue Quinn—and maybe even find some new things that will be just ours. Cole, Jade, and I haven’t spoken of that night since. I don’t regret it, but I won’t deny that it’s slightly awkward having tag-teamed my best friend’s girl, who is now his wife.
“Why?” I whisper into her face. “You know what I do for Graham. What I did for you. I’m a monster.”
Her eyes slide to my chest, and she places both her palms over it. “You don’t scare me. I’m more afraid of the monsters hiding in plain sight.”
I shake my head, but she continues.
“Trust me, Carter. I’ve seen more than my fair s
hare of true evil. The bad ones don’t care if they’re bad.” She lifts her delicate palm to my face, and it takes everything in my power not to flinch away from her touch. “You’re one of the good ones, even if you don’t know it.”
Carter’s jaw ticks, one of the few signals that lets me know I’ve gotten to him. I’ve studied his mannerisms like he studies me. He’s my new favorite subject. Carter isn’t bad. I think he’s just…different. And in my book, different is definitely not a bad thing.
Normally, when I flirt with men, it’s for a reason. There’s always an end game. Bigger tips, free shit, etcetera. Seduction is so deeply ingrained in me that it’s become second nature. I catch myself doing it without even noticing it. But not with Carter. With Carter, I let him see me. He intrigues me, to say the least. He makes me feel safe, which is something I’ve never felt in my entire life.
Just being in Carter’s presence fills me with such a sense of relief. Under Carter’s careful watch, I feel bulletproof. Invincible. Untouchable. Which is why I basically begged him to walk me home. My father may not be a problem anymore, thanks to Carter, but that doesn’t mean I’m no longer in danger. It doesn’t mean Murray isn’t still out there, somewhere.
My thoughts drift back to that night. The night we never speak of, never even hint at. Carter swooped in like some sort of avenging angel, saving me, taking care of me, and then when it was over, acting like it never happened. I was grateful, of course. I didn’t want to talk about it. I still have nightmares about my father coming back for me, and what resulted afterward. But, I wanted him to acknowledge that we shared something that night. Instead, he watches me from afar, when he thinks I’m not paying attention. At work, at home, even at the damn grocery store. He’s always there, so close, yet so far away. The saddest part is that I feel like Carter’s the best friend I have. We hardly even speak to each other, yet he knows me better than Jade, Dahl, or any of them. How pathetic is that? My stalker is my best friend.
Savage Savior (Savage People Book 3) Page 2
