He closed his eyes. “When the club has a problem,” he said, “I solve it.” He opened his eyes and they met mine in the mirror. Clear blue, just like they’d been a decade before. Wanting so much to be that man again, without all this weighing on him. “Sometimes, it’s just scaring people. Sometimes, it’s a beating. And sometimes, I have to end someone.”
For several seconds, the room was so quiet I barely dared to breathe.
“How many?” I whispered.
His eyes were still locked on mine. “Too many.”
My hands were still locked on his shoulders. However hard I tried, I couldn’t get them to move.
“Fucking say something,” he grated.
I wanted to. But my mind was still spinning. I’d known it was something bad, but this…. I was trying and failing to square the tenderness I’d seen him show me with the violence he was describing.
I felt his body shift under my hands. He was about to get up. Disgusted at how I’d reacted, he was going to walk off and we’d never get this close again—
It was his eyes that decided me. The pain in them, the guilt. I didn’t know what evil looked like: evil would be someone who did it for fun, or someone who hurt and killed and just plain didn’t care. But I knew that wasn’t Carrick. He carried the weight of everything he’d done. He was a soldier forced to fight, not a psychopath.
I slid my palms up to the top of his oiled shoulders and pressed down. It was ridiculous, given how big he was. He could have easily just muscled his way past me.
But he didn’t. He just met my eyes in the mirror again: suspicious but with just a trace of hope.
“Who were they?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level. Then I shook my head. “No, wait…” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. “Did they….”
“Did they deserve it?” he finished for me.
I nodded.
He drew in a slow, shuddering breath. “All but one.”
And I knew that was it: the secret beyond the secret. One killing, one particular job for the club that had been tearing him apart ever since he did it. That was the story behind the cross, the one he’d never let himself forget.
All I wanted to do was make him feel better. Without thinking, my hands slid forward over his shoulders, down his chest—
In one quick movement, he grabbed my wrists and whirled around, standing as he did it. The chair fell over with a crash and then we were standing there, both of us panting from the suddenness of it. Less than a foot separated our bodies.
I realized he was holding my hands high above my head, and swallowed.
“You don’t want this,” he told me savagely. “You think there’s some light left in me: there isn’t. Not for a long time. I’m not a good man, just because I saved you.”
“Maybe—” I had to fight for breath and my heart was hammering in my chest. “Maybe that’s why you saved me. Because you want to be again.”
He shoved his face closer to mine. Close enough, almost, to kiss. “You don’t want this,” he told me again. “You’re fuckin’ perfect. You deserve a good fuckin’ life with a good fuckin’ man. A nice place. Kids. I’m a long way past saving and you’re not going to change me.”
I opened my mouth to protest but he cut me off, the Irish thick in his voice. “Don’t. Don’t. ‘Cos every time you open those lips I want to kiss you. Every time you speak, I want to carry you off somewhere. Every time I look at you, I’m seeing us together.” As the words washed over me, setting off scorching explosions deep inside, I saw how hard his body had gone, every muscle taut and straining with the effort of holding himself back. “I’ve destroyed so much, Annabelle. So fucking much.” He squeezed my wrists in time with his words. “I won’t. Destroy. You.”
And before I could argue, he was gone, releasing my wrists and stalking away. “Sleep on the couch,” he told me. And he strode into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.
I was left there panting, trying to process everything that had happened. I knew now why he thought he was unsaveable, why he was sure he could never go back to being that man I’d first met. What if he was right? And how did I feel about him, now I knew what he’d done?
The only thing I knew for sure was, tonight had changed things forever. Now I knew the truth, we couldn’t go on like this for even one more day: there was too much tension and not enough holding us back. Like those magnets I’d imagined back in the motel room, tomorrow we’d either snap together...or break apart for good.
22
Carrick
I barely slept. I told myself it was because I was used to passing out on the couch but I knew I was kidding myself. The real reason was, the bed felt empty. There was this big, cold gap where Annabelle should have been.
I’d gotten used to her, after just one night.
When it was finally morning, I showered and dressed. But when I checked the couch, she was still asleep. She’d stripped down to her bra and panties and found the blanket and pillow I use when I crash out. I knew from experience that, with them, the couch was a lot more comfortable than my worn-out bed.
Her hair was spread out across the pillow, a blaze of color. In some places thick red locks shone and gleamed, in others the strands were spread so thin over the white cotton they looked like copper-colored smoke.
I crouched down to study her. Those silken lips I’d fantasized about so many times were slightly parted and she had a tiny frown on her face as if she was working on some problem in her dreams.
My stomach tightened. Was she trying to fix me?
I hadn’t meant to tell her what I did. Her hands had just been so...calming. At first, I’d been convinced she was trying to tip me over the edge, to make me grab her. It had worked, too: I’d been rock hard and aching in my pants as soon as she started touching me. But as it went on, I’d felt something...let go. I couldn’t remember ever feeling that relaxed. And then it had all just come spilling out.
I’d been dreading seeing her face when she found out I was a killer. In some ways, it had been worse than I’d thought; in some ways, better. She’d looked horrified, but it hadn’t felt like it was aimed at me. More at what I’d done.
Which was bullshit, because they’re the same thing. We are the things we’ve done. I’m a killer. Simple as.
As I studied her sleeping face, she frowned deeper. My heart sank. You can’t fix me! Stop trying! But I knew it was useless. Just like when she’d been a kid, dragging me along the ground. She didn’t know when to quit. And that made something rise and...open in my chest. It had been a long time since anyone had given a shit about me.
Telling her what I did had been hard...and horribly, horribly easy. Addictive, almost. I could imagine coming home to her each night and talking. I never talked but I could imagine it, with her. Getting all of the bad shit I’d done out, then sleeping peaceful as a baby in her arms. Christ, that sounded good….
She grumbled something in her sleep and rolled onto her back. The covers fell away, revealing her sleeping body down to just below her bra. I had a sudden urge to kiss her. God, it would be so easy, like slipping into a hot bath: a slow kiss on the lips to wake her up, then I’d work my way down her neck. We’d tumble around on the couch, still warm from her body, the blanket half on and half off us. The first time would be slow and gentle: morning sex. But then we’d go for a second round and it would get fast and dirty, her sitting astride me as I lifted her by the hips, or her bent over the arm of the couch….
I realized I was leaning towards her. My lips were only a few inches from hers.
I stood up. You fuckin’ idiot! What’s wrong with you? Sure, she was still deluding herself that I was some sort of good guy, or could become one, but I knew better. Even if she could accept what I did, could I really drag her into this life? And there was all the stuff she didn’t know. The story that began when I was just a kid and ended by the side of a dark road with a gun in my hand. That I could never share with her.
I had to shut myself off.
Last night had been a mistake. I had to focus on getting the Blood Spiders off her back and shutting down the auctions. Then she’d be free and, when I was sure she was safe, I’d convince her to head to Sacramento or maybe San Francisco. She’d fit in well in San Francisco.
I grabbed a frying pan and slammed it down on a burner. I knew I was doing the right thing but the thought of her leaving stung.
Behind me, I heard her stir. I forced my voice into a growl. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
I heard her get up. I knew she wanted to talk, to resolve all the stuff we’d started last night. I could imagine her wrapping the blanket around her shoulders and standing there, studying me, but I kept my back to her, not showing any weakness. Stay cold. Shut yourself off. That was the only way to get through this.
I heard her pad to the bathroom and then the shower started up. I fried some eggs, threw some bread in the toaster and brewed coffee. Then my phone rang.
“Get to the clubhouse,” Mac told me. “Hunter’s back.”
I told him we’d be right there. I poured two mugs of coffee and was putting the eggs between slices of toast when Annabelle emerged. I faltered for a second when I saw her. She was wearing a sea-green tank top that made all that soft, pale skin and red hair look all the more intense. Damn it, why did she have to be so beautiful?
I pressed a sandwich into one of her hands, a mug of coffee into the other. “Drink that, then eat on the way. We gotta go.”
She nodded, staring up at me with big eyes over the rim of her mug. She was being patient, giving me time instead of stubbornly pushing me. I didn’t think that was possible, for her. She was changing, trying to meet me halfway. Maybe, if I just talked to her….
No. Maybe she could change but I couldn’t. I stared right back at her and sipped my own coffee. Stay cold. Lock her out. It was the smart thing to do, the only thing to do.
So why was it so hard?
Mac was waiting outside the clubhouse when we roared up. “We’re just waiting for Ox,” he told me. I saw him glance at Annabelle as she climbed off the bike, then look questioningly back at me. She’d spent the night at my place, after all….
I gave a minute shake of my head.
He looked at me as if I was insane. Then his expression changed to—
Fuck you, Mac. I don’t need your pity. I climbed off my bike and turned away, pretending I was watching the gate for any sign of Ox. But being mad at him felt wrong, just like staying away from Annabelle felt wrong. We never used to fight. Not until she came along.
To my relief, Scooter ambled over. But it wasn’t me he wanted to talk to.
He came to a stop beside Annabelle and looked her up and down suspiciously. “Last night,” he told her, “I stripped Hunter’s bike down. Just to prove you wrong.”
Annabelle blinked at him, flushing.
“I don’t know how you knew,” Scooter said, “but the timing was off.” He crossed his arms and stared at her grumpily for a few seconds, then seemed to make up his mind. “You want to give me a hand fixing it?”
Annabelle’s eyes lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning. Scooter led her off towards the workshop.
I heard the gate rumble open and turned to see Ox finally arrive. Mac nodded towards the clubhouse. “Let’s do this.”
Moments later, we were sitting around the table as Hunter told us what he’d learned. “The Blood Spiders are dealing coke. They have an old sawmill outside Teston where they cut and repackage it. Only three guards. Their pres, Hay, stops by there once a week.”
“How the hell did you find all that out?” asked Ox.
“Their clubhouse has a meeting room too. Gets real stuffy, so they open a skylight to let some air in. I was lying on the roof next to it. Heard everything they said.”
I shook my head in wonder. I could imagine him lying there, patient and motionless as any army sniper, soaking up every word. His skills would be scary if he wasn’t on our side.
“Hay will be there today in about two hours’ time,” said Hunter. “We should move.”
We took seven men, enough to ensure we outnumbered Hay and the guards but not so many that we couldn’t be quiet. We rode in a pack, silently eating up the miles, all of us brooding on what needed to be done. There’s no better feeling in the world to me than riding but something felt wrong. Something was missing. I was riding next to Ox and he wasn’t happy either, his mouth turned down in a scowl I didn’t often see. Any Blood Spider who got in his way was going to have a very bad day.
Every few miles, I had to loosen my fingers on the handlebars because I was crushing them too tight. I couldn’t help it. I kept thinking about how Hay had put Annabelle up on stage, stripped her down to her underwear and tried to sell her. Now I was finally going to see the bastard again.
Hunter led us to the sawmill and showed us a side road where we could hide our bikes. We crept the final hundred yards on foot, approaching over the crest of a hill. The sawmill sat beside a river, a crumbling red brick place with holes in the roof. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought it was abandoned.
Hunter crept down for a closer look and reported there were only three guards, just as he’d promised. Twenty minutes later, Hay rode up on his Harley. My chest tightened as soon as I saw him, the rage boiling up inside me, but I forced myself to stay calm. A beat-up car pulled up behind Hay and his blond-haired VP got out. I was satisfied to see that one of his hands was bandaged from where I’d hit him with the chain. It must have really dented his pride to be driving instead of riding.
We waited until everyone went inside, then burst in. I was the first one through the door, smashing it open so hard that it knocked the guard behind it flying. I brought a fist up under the chin of the second guard, knocking him on his ass. Meanwhile, Mac and the others burst through the rear door. One punch from Ox’s ham-sized fist and the final guard went down like a puppet with its strings cut.
That left Hay and his VP. I stormed over to them and they both backed up against the wall, faces going white. I gave a low growl and—
Mac sprinted forward and got in front of me. “I got this,” he said quickly. “Back off.”
For a second, I just stood there panting, frowning at him in confusion.
He glanced down.
I followed his gaze and saw I was holding Caorthannach up and ready to fire, the barrels pointed right at Hay. Shocked, I slowly lowered the shotgun and nodded. Mac slapped me on the shoulder and I stepped back to let him interrogate Hay. Jesus, I was about to— What’s wrong with me? I never normally lost control like that.
“Why did you come to Haywood Falls?” demanded Mac. “Why did you come after the girl?”
Hay was sweating and pale, his eyes flicking between Mac and me. “It’s not us,” he said.
Mac just glared at him.
“It’s not! We don’t give a shit, she’s just one girl, nothing special—”
The rage bloomed inside me again, a silent explosion. I gripped Caorthannach’s stock, fighting to control myself.
“Look,” said Hay desperately, “We can work something out. Give her back and I’ll cut you in.”
I could feel the chains of my self control snapping tight and heating, glowing cherry-red.
“You want a girl for your clubhouse, I’ll get you one,” said Hay. “I’ll get you two. Just give me the redhead.”
And suddenly, I lost it. I marched forward, shouldered Mac out of the way and swung my shotgun up until the barrels were pressed against Hay’s forehead. “I should have done this in the bar, you sick son of a bitch,” I told him. My fingers tightened on both of the gun’s triggers at once—
The cold barrel of a pistol pressed against my forehead. I glanced left to see Mac standing there. “Back down,” he told me. His eyes were flickering between fury and sadness.
“This bastard deserves to die!” I snapped.
Mac’s gun didn’t move. “Yes he does. But we need to talk to him.”
I looked back at the
sweating, terrified Hay. “Fuck that.”
“I am your president,” said Mac. His voice was low but it filled every square inch of the sawmill. “And I am telling you to put your gun down.”
A breath. I stared into Hay’s eyes and thought of how terrified Annabelle had been. Another breath. I thought of how she’d looked at me, when I told her what I did. How she’d look at me when I came home, if I told her I’d killed Hay. A third breath—
I lowered the shotgun. Mac’s gun eased away from my head. I stepped to the side, eyes on the floor. If I looked at Hay again, I knew I wouldn’t be able to control myself.
Mac got right in Hay’s face. “Talk fast,” he said. “You said it wasn’t you who came after Annabelle. What the fuck did you mean?”
Hay’s voice shook as he spoke. “We would have let it go! But he wants her bad. Keeps going on about her red hair.”
“Who?” snapped Mac.
“Volos! That psycho who bought her!”
Mac and I exchanged stunned looks.
“So tell him to go fuck himself,” said Mac.
Hay shook his head. “You don’t know this guy. He’s a first grade fucking nut job. You get in his way and they never find your body. Everyone’s scared shitless of him. And he’s got money, serious money. He picks out the best girls and sells them to some guy in Europe. He’s connected. Said he’d bring the law down on the club if we didn’t get the girl back—maybe even the feds.”
And suddenly, it all made sense. The Blood Spiders were just hired thugs. It was Volos who’d been pushing them. And if I’d gone ahead and killed Hay, we would never have known. The shock made some of the anger drain away and what I’d done started to sink in: not just nearly killing Hay but defying my president. I looked at Mac just as he started to lay it out for Hay. I might do intimidating better than anyone, but I’m a blunt object. When it comes to fear through razor-sharp words, there’s no one better than Mac.
“The auctions stop now,” said Mac. “We already burned your bar. You run another auction, we’ll burn everything you have. We know about this place and the coke dealing. You want your shipments to start going missing?” He leaned closer. “We got more men than you. We got more guns than you. We will dedicate our lives to fucking you up. And when every last shred of your club is gone? I will lock you in a room with Irish and let him take you apart.”
Outlaw's Promise Page 11
