Breaker: Gravediggers MC
Page 25
“You can’t be here,” I say quietly, heart hammering in my ears. “This is my place of work, Barry. You can’t cause a scene here.” I sort through excuses. I can’t just tell him I hate him and he’s embarrassing me. I settle on one I think might work. “Patrick wouldn’t like it. Do you understand? He relies on this income for half the rent. He would be very angry if he found out-”
“He doesn’t need your money.” Barry wipes sweat from his forehead and then suddenly sits up, resting his forearms on his knees. “He doesn’t need shit from you. You’re a wasted girl, Emily. The only man that’ll ever want you is me. So why don’t you start showing a little gratitude?”
Gratitude? Gratitude for what, you psychopath?
Before I can reply, he darts forward, grabs me by the waist, and pulls me into his lap. He moves quickly, far quicker than I ever would’ve given him credit for. I squirm, trying to get free, but he holds me close to him. With a real sense of horror, I realize that he’s hard. His stiff penis presses into me, and I try not to gag. Mrs. M calls over the counter, but nobody intervenes. I hear somebody say they’re calling the police. I keep squirming, but his grip is like iron on me.
He whispers in my ear: “I’ve always wanted you, ever since you were a little girl. But of course you already knew that, didn’t you? And did you ever show me any love, Emily? Did you ever open yourself to me? No, you’re too laa-dee-daa do that, aren’t you? Well, here we go. Can you feel it? Can you feel how much I want you?”
“Let go.” I rasp out a breath. “Please, just let me—”
He moves so fast I don’t know what’s happened until it’s over.
Afterward, when I’m standing with my back pressed against the counter, I go back in my mind and reconstruct it. Jude bursts into the bakery. He must’ve seen me by chance, or perhaps he’s had somebody keeping an eye on me. Whatever it is, he charges in, and as Barry whispers sickening words into my ear, he grabs the man’s head and slams it so hard against the table that the wood snaps.
Now, Jude stands over him, chest heaving, fists clenched. Barry lies, unconscious, on the floor.
Jude takes my hand and announces to the bakery: “Emily is mine now. She is under my protection. If anybody lays a hand on her, ever, they will pay.”
He speaks with a killer’s calm. With a mob hitman’s calm.
“Come on.”
He doesn’t give me much of a choice as he leads me out of the bakery, down the street, and into his car. I know I should be tugging at his hand, telling him I don’t need protection, but the fact is, I’m happy to see him. Stunned, too. Only once when I’m sitting beside him as we drive through New York, I find my voice. “Where are we going?” I ask.
“Your place,” he answers.
“Why?”
“’Cause there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you with these pricks for another day. And you’ll need clothes.”
“What if I don’t want to go with you?”
“Do you?”
I don’t answer. I can’t answer. The idea of being whisked away from Patrick has not occurred to me since I was very young and very naïve. Little girl Emily dreamt of it often, a knight in shining armor swooping down and saving me from my brother. But not lately. Somewhere between childhood and adolescence I learnt a cold truth. There is no such thing as a hero.
We climb up the stairs of my apartment building. I unlock the door and we go into the apartment. Luckily, Patrick is out.
“Pack your things,” Jude says. His face is stern. His voice is steady and calm. “I’m getting you out of here.”
A strange sensation comes over me, something between threatened and protected. I don’t think Jude would hurt me, but I don’t think he’d let me stay here, either. As I go around the apartment, stuffing clothes into a duffle bag, I glance at him. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, torn blue jeans, and boots. His tattoos are on full display and he watches me with a steady gaze. I don’t think anything could shake this man.
When I’m packed, he takes my hand again. He doesn’t hurt me, but he holds me tight as he leads me down the stairs and back to his car.
He just slammed Barry’s head, I think. He just slammed it like it was no big deal. Barry. Sadistic, psychopathic, drug-addicted Barry!
We don’t say much in the car, and then in what seems like a few moments we’re in his apartment. I drop the duffle bag on his bed and turn to him.
He watches me for a long time. Then his expression softens, but only a fraction. “I just want you safe,” he says. “You can shower. You can sleep. You can read. You can order in food. Anything you need to relax. I’ll be in the living room if you need me. I’m done for the day.”
As he turns to leave, I can’t help but look at his arms. Ripped, huge, pressing muscle. I realize I have to add another emotion to protected and threatened. Lust. Hot, burning lust. Lust like I’ve never felt.
I drop onto the bed, thinking: What just happened?
Chapter Eight
Emily
For the first few hours, I sleep.
I don’t realize how tired I am until I lie in Jude’s bed, safe from Patrick and Barry, without their voices just outside the doors, laughing and drinking and insulting late into the night. When I wake, my mouth is dry and I’m groggy. The curtains are open. Moonlight shines into the bedroom. I sit up with a groan, disoriented for a moment. Then I remember where I am, what happened. My first thought is of Mrs. M. I left her in the lurch. I take out my phone and text her. She texts back almost immediately. Everything’s okay, she tells me. One of the temporary staff came in. She asks if I’m okay. I tell her I’m fine. But is that true?
Jude placed a bottle of water and some cereal bars on the bedside table when I was asleep. I munch on the bars and wash it down with an entire bottle of water.
Then, sitting up in this strange man’s bed, I think things through. Patrick has probably heard about what happened by now, I reason, and he’s probably mad as hell. Maybe he’s looking for me. I check my phone. I have ten missed calls from him. I place it down again, swallowing. Despite the water, my mouth is dry again. Fear lances through me. My mind moves from Patrick to what I want, which is something I rarely think about. Patrick bosses me around; Jude simply leads me here and there like a dog.
It was heroic, sure it was, heroic and brave and knight-like. But on top of that, it was presumptuous, charging to my rescue and turning a bad scene into a worse scene. Everybody saw this tattooed killer march in and slam Barry’s head. Everybody heard him proclaim that I belonged to him now. What about my wishes? He didn’t ask me if I wanted to be his. He just assumed, like every man has assumed my entire life.
I don’t want to go back to Patrick, but at the same time I don’t want to be the sort of woman who can be carried anywhere by anyone and doesn’t so much as let out a whimper of protest. Without giving it too much thought, I stand up, slip on my sneakers, grab my duffle bag, and go into the living room.
I’ll leave, I tell myself. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I’ll just get away for a while. I know this is futile. Sooner or later, Patrick will find me. But I want to feel as though I have a say in my own life—even if that say is temporary.
The apartment is quiet. I’m sure Jude is not in. But when I open the door to the living room, I see him, sat on the couch, a bottle of whisky in his hand. The lights are off and he sits in moonlight; it glints off the rim of the bottle. In his other hand he holds a folded-up photograph.
I creep into the room. He’s asleep, snoring softly. I drop the bag and creep across the room to him. I know I should respect his privacy, but the temptation is too great. I lean down and look at the photograph. It’s a family portrait, a man who looks like an older, cleaner version of Jude, a beautiful red-haired woman, and two little kids. Softly, I take the photo from his hand, turn it over. The back reads: Family portrait, Jude, Moira, Mom and Dad. Gently, I place the photo back into his hand.
I look at his face, wondering. His lips twitch, his cheeks
are red, and his eyes are only half-lidded. They’re watery. He’s not crying—I don’t think a man like Jude cries often, if ever—but the pain is clear on his face. They were his family. What happened to them? I think. How do you know something happened? Well, why would he just stare at a photograph all night if everything was fine?
I return to my bag. It would be easy now to walk out. Walk out onto the street and take my chances in the night alone. I’d be free, if only for a few hours. Eventually, Patrick would pull me back. The steady march of my life would go on.
I look again at Jude. He mutters in his sleep. I lean closer, listening. “Mom, Dad, Mom, Dad,” he whispers, his chest heaving. “I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry. I’ll save you. Moira . . . I’ll save them. Forgive me. Forgive . . .”
His head snaps up, eyelids opening. He looks around in confusion and then his gaze settles on me. “Oh,” he says, quickly folding up the photo. He stuffs it into his pocket. Setting the bottle of whisky on the table, he glances at my bag. “Are you leaving?”
“What happened?” I ask, voice soft. A strong instinct rises inside of me, the urge to protect this man, to soothe him, growing stronger by the moment.
“Nothing.” He sniffs, wipes his eyes. “Just got shit-faced and fell asleep, is all.”
“The photo . . .”
“Maybe I’ll tell you all about it, but not now.” He gestures again at the bag. “Are you leaving?”
“I was going to,” I admit.
“Was? You’re not anymore?”
“No,” I say.
There’s more to this man than I first thought. Much more.
I surprise myself by walking across the living room and sitting next to him, so close our legs touch. “I think I’ll stay here for a while.”
Chapter Nine
Jude
We sit together for a long time, pretending to watch TV but really watching each other.
Her legs touch mine. An animal hunger rises in me, but I keep thinking about that prick in the bakery, pulling her around like she was a piece of meat. And I remember when she compared me to her asshole brother. I’m aware, for the first time in a hell of a long time, of how I behave around a woman. Strange, women and me usually agree to fuck and then never see each other again, a mutually beneficial arrangement as far as I can tell. But there’s something different about Emily. She’s so fragile-looking, so vulnerable-looking, and yet there’s iron in her, I’m sure of it.
Did she look at the photo? I wonder. Even if she didn’t, I was having a nightmare, and when I have a nightmare, I tend to talk in my sleep. Did I give anything away?
Emily smiles across at me, and all at once I don’t give a damn if I gave something away. It’s enough to just be here with her. For now, at least.
“Do you mind if I switch over?”
It takes me a moment to realize what she means; I’m so absorbed in watching her instead of the TV. “Sure.”
She changes the station to a nature documentary about whales. “I love nature documentaries,” she tells me. “But Patrick never lets me watch them. We only have one TV and he won’t even subscribe to internet service.” She flinches, as though hearing her voice for the first time. “Never mind that. What’s this one about? Ah, whales. Whales are so interesting. Did you know that bowhead whales can live for up to two-hundred years?” Her face lights up. It’s like I’m seeing the woman she really is underneath the fear and the self-doubt. “Two-hundred years.” She makes an O with her mouth. It’s the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen, no doubt.
“I’m glad you stayed,” I mutter. It’s weird for me to say a thing like that to a woman, but it just comes out. It’s the truth.
“Huh?” Her eyes are fixed on the TV.
I chuckle. Feels good to laugh. “Nothing,” I say. “Tell me more about whales, Emily.”
She grins girlishly and talks at length about different types of whales.
“Where did you learn all this?”
“Library.” She brings her finger to her lips and makes a shh noise. “Don’t tell Patrick. Sometimes I go there after work and read some of the nature books. Patrick says that book-learning is a waste of time. That’s actually what he calls it. Book-learning. Like we’re in medieval times or something.”
I laugh again. “Do you want a drink?”
“Just a soda, if you’ve got one.”
I go to the kitchen and get a couple of sodas. This is something else I’d never normally do for a woman. I guess I’m a bit of an asshole when it comes down to stuff like that, but usually, I’d make her get her own drink. But Emily is different. She’s peeping out of her shell and I like what I see. A bright, smiling, happy woman. A good woman. A smart woman. A woman beaten and abused, sure, but give her the chance to be something different, and I bet she’d pounce on it.
I return to the living room and hand her a soda. She’s so absorbed in the documentary I have to thrust it into her hand. She mutters a thank you, cracks it open, and watches the TV with her large saucer-like green eyes.
When the knock sounds from the door, I jump to my feet at once. Nobody knocks on my door, ever. I go to the bar to get the details of my next job, fight, whatever. Never here. This is my no-work zone. Emily looks up at me, startled.
“Is everything alright?” she asks.
No idea. “Yes. Wait here.”
I go to the kitchen, take my pistol from under the sink, and stuff it into my waistband. Then I go to the door.
When I see him, the huge vending-machine fuck I 1eveled a couple of weeks ago, my blood turns to ice. He rears up like a drunken bear, looking over my shoulder. “Emily!” her brother barks. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get out here. Right now! Don’t make me—”
I launch myself at him with all the power, practice, and ferocity of a man who does this for a living. I grab him by the front of his shirt and slam him against the wall. He might be a big bastard, but he’s a damn sloppy one, too. He paws at my hands. I head-butt him. Blood sprays down his shirt.
“She’s not going anywhere,” I growl, and head-butt him again. “And if you ever come to my fucking apartment again, I’ll bring the entire fucking mob down on you. You won’t be able to run. You won’t be able to hide. That girl in there is worth more than your goddamn fist, you piece of shit.” I’m losing my cool. I never lose my cool. But this piece of piss thought he was going to take Emily back, hurt her, abuse her.
Patrick starts whimpering through puffy, bleeding lips. I take a deep breath, calming myself. “Leave,” I say, digging my hands into his chest. He squirms. “If you ever come back here, it’ll be the last thing you fucking do. I should kill you right now—”
“Don’t,” Emily whispers from the doorway. “Don’t kill him, Jude. Just . . . just let him go.”
I bring my face close to his. “You’re lucky your sister is so damned compassionate.” Then I throw him down the hallway. He stumbles, trips, and then climbs to his feet with a gasp.
“She’s mine!” he cries, and then runs down the hallway.
I return to the apartment. Emily sits on the couch, knees drawn to her chin. She looks tiny, breakable, like something that could shatter at any moment.
I want to make her feel better, but the truth is I’m good at killing, not soothing.
“He’s gone now,” I say.
Emily stares empty-eyed at the TV. Her guard is up again. That bastard has strengthened her shell. Worst of all, her girlish enthusiasm is gone. She’s cold and dead-faced.
Just like me, I think, as I drop onto the couch next to her.
Chapter Ten
Jude
Every night when I return to the apartment, I expect Emily to be gone. But every night, she’s there, waiting for me. Sitting on the couch watching nature documentaries; lying in bed after work; in the shower. It’s strange to have a woman living with me. I’ve never experienced it before. But what’s stranger is that we don’t fuck, or kiss, or anything even close to fucking or kissing.
The first time I walk through the door with a fresh gash down my eye, Emily gasps and jumps to her feet. She turns away from what has to be her sixth viewing of Planet Earth, which is how I know she’s taking it seriously; she loves this one documentary more than anything else.
“What happened?” she demands. There’s iron in her voice, the iron of a protector, and it makes me smile. “There’s nothing to grin about.” She points at the cut, a line which starts above my eyebrow, skips my eye, and ends halfway down my cheek. “Does it hurt? Here, sit down.”