by Paula Cox
“You’ll do it,” I say simply.
“This isn’t what I had in mind!” he hisses.
“It doesn’t matter. This is what I am telling you to do.”
Patrick shakes his head. “You in love with this girl or something? Never known you to buy flowers before.”
I clench my teeth. “Asking questions isn’t part of your job, big brother. Buy the flowers, buy the knives, and then take them to the restaurant and give them to her. Simple.”
Patrick scowls across the desk at me. Sometimes when I look at him, I feel like I’m looking into one of those distorting mirrors they had at the amusement park. When I scowl, I don’t look so different to how Patrick does now.
“Flowers and knives.” Patrick continues to stare down at the money. He’s looking at it like it’s a brown paper bag full of dog shit he’s just found on his doorstep. “Haven’t you got something else?”
“This is your job, brother,” I say. “Are you refusing to do it?”
He lets out a long groan and throws his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “Jesus Christ,” he says under his breath. “I had more excitement in the cage.” He lowers his head, gazing at me. “I’m not saying no. You’re the boss, after all.”
He scoops the money off the desk and drops it into his jacket pocket.
“I gave years of my life for you, brother,” Patrick says quietly.
“I know,” I reply, my voice as hushed as Patrick’s. “In a different life, brother, I’d let you do any damn thing you wanted. But this is our life and I have to take care of the club.”
“I understand,” Patrick says. “I’m not happy about it, but I understand. I’ll do your errand.”
“Good.”
I turn back to my paperwork, but Patrick doesn’t move.
“What is it?” I ask.
“There’s something else you need to know about.”
“What?”
“I saw Lindsey at the restaurant last night.”
Before Patrick has even finished the sentence, I’m gripping the edge of the desk so hard my fingers turn blood-red.
“This is a joke,” I say, with more than a little hope in my voice.
“Afraid not,” Patrick says. “It was after you left. I thought you’d be back sooner than you were, but you didn’t come back. I was going to tell you then. Anyway, she came in about ten minutes after you left. She was looking bad, brother, I have to say. When you dated her she was pretty fine, but now she looks . . . She looks like somebody on the brink. That’s probably the best way to put it. She was all messy, all crazy-eyed. She had that look I recognize from prison, right before somebody goes crazy and starts shanking someone for no reason.”
“I thought she was still in the mental hospital,” I mutter, more to myself than to Patrick. How is she out?
“Not anymore,” Patrick says. “She didn’t say anything. Just came in, looked around, and then left. She didn’t even say hello. I think she was looking for you.”
“This is the last thing I need.” I let go of the table and try to calm myself. But my heart is like a bike engine in my chest, rumbling, growling. My throat feels tight. My knuckles tingle like they want to hit something. “This is the last goddamn thing I need right now.”
Patrick shrugs. “I know, but it doesn’t change the fact she was there.”
“Who else saw her?”
“You calling me a liar?” Patrick snaps.
“Who else saw her?” I repeat.
Patrick sighs. “Gunny and Craig. Maybe others, but I know they did for sure.”
“Get them.”
“I’m telling the—”
“Get them,” I snap. “Get them and then get on with your job.”
Patrick tilts his head at me like maybe he’s going to argue, but I must have that crazy look about me, because he backs down straightaway. He marches from the office. About a minute later, Gunny shuffles into the room. He has a sheepish look on his face.
“Is it true?” I say, as soon as he’s in the office. “Tell me he’s lying.”
“It’s true, boss,” Gunny says, eyes downcast. “She was there.”
“Goddamn it!” I roar, smashing the desk with my fists.
Gunny flinches and takes a step back.
“You can go,” I say.
He nods and runs from the office, eyes filled with fear of me.
When I’m alone, I close my eyes and slowly count back from ten, trying to make myself calm. Lindsey, a failed girlfriend experiment if ever there was one. Lindsey, who is completely insane.
Lindsey, who I thought was gone from my life forever.
I broke up with Lindsey the morning after she burned down our house. We were sort of living together. I owned the house and she was crashing with me because she had nowhere else to go. The argument was the sort of crap I can’t stand. She was crying at me because I didn’t want to go out to a restaurant. I had just got back from a tough job and I was tired, that bone-tiredness you get after fighting and riding.
I remember laying on my back in bed, watching as she paced up and down at the foot of the bed, her arms waving wildly. “You never take me anywhere!” she was hissing. “You never take me anywhere! What am I to you? Nothing! Nothing! I’m just some whore to you, aren’t I? I’m just something to put your fucking worm in!”
“I don’t want to put my worm in you tonight,” I yawned. “I just want sleep.”
“Sleep! Sleep!” She turned to the door as though a crowd of people sat there, watching her. She addressed this fake crowd with indignation. “He just wants sleep! I’m here on my own all day and he just wants sleep! What a good man! What a good boyfriend!”
I ignored her, tuned out her voice. I need to leave this woman, I thought, just before sleep took me.
When I woke up, I was coughing. Smoke filled the bedroom and sifted down my lungs. My eyes stung and my head was light from it. I rolled out of bed and sprinted at the door, smashed it open, and was met with a wall of flames, flickering red demons which spat at me from the top of the stairs.
Cursing, I ran back into the bedroom, went to the window, and smashed the glass with my fist. Then I threw myself out of it to the garden below. I landed in a roll on the floor and then sprinted away from the house. When I turned back, it was like a monster was eating the building. The flames ate at it from the center, pulling down the supports until it crashed in upon itself.
Then Lindsey sprang up next to me. “Now we have to go out!” she cackled triumphantly.
I broke it off with her.
A week later, I heard that she had tried to kill herself by swallowing a load of pills. She was found in a motel room by the maid and taken to hospital. I sent one of the men down there to scout. The doctors came to the conclusion that she was crazy and sent her to a nuthouse.
I thought she was still there.
But she’s back in the Cove. The crazy bitch is back in the Cove!
I know this can only mean trouble. The only solace I have is that she hasn’t contacted me yet. She knows where the club is. If she really wanted me, she’d come here.
But that doesn’t make the thought of that house-burning, suicidal, nothing-to-lose woman roaming Rocky Cove much easier to bear.
Chapter Nine
Hope
At around two o’clock, Dawn comes into the restaurant. The place is quiet now, and will most likely be quiet until around five o’clock, when the dinner rush starts. Lucca is in the back when Dawn enters, which I’m thankful for. The last thing this day needs is an Dawn-Lucca matchup. She wears a long flowing dress and looks absolutely gorgeous with her cute freckled face and pensive expression.
I meet her near the door and we sit at a window table.
“I brought you your phone,” she says, sliding it across the table. “I needed to get out. Take a walk. So I thought, I’ll take her her phone. You know?”
Her speech is the slow, drawn-out speech of a person recovering from a drug they’ve been dependent on for far too long.
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“Thanks, sis,” I say. “How’re you feeling? You look great.”
“Oh, I’m okay,” she mutters. Her eyes study the table, the folded napkins and the glasses like they’re of extreme interest. I’ve seen that expression too many times. I know what it means. She’s thinking about drugs. But at least she’s not on drugs, I think. That’s something, isn’t it?
“I’m going to walk out to Sapphire Lake,” she says.
“That’s a long walk. Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“I just need to walk. I’ll be careful. That’s part of the reason I brought you your cell. So I can call you if I need help.”
“Okay, good. That’s really good of you, Dawn. Really responsible.”
She smiles wanly, nods, and then rises to her feet. “Just need to walk,” she says. “If I walk, I don’t have to think. And then when I get home I’ll be too tired to, you know . . .”
“Exactly,” I say. “Exactly, Dawn. That’s a good attitude to have.”
I can’t hide the pride in my voice. This is as hard as she has ever tried to make a real effort to kick it.
I stand up, walk around the table, and hug her. I’m always shocked by how skinny she feels in my arms.
Then she’s gone, leaving the restaurant and floating down Main Street in her flowing dress.
I check my phone for texts or calls. There’s one text from a number I don’t know know. But I don’t need to know it to know who it is. When I am seeing you again?
I text back: Tomorrow night?
I’m wiping down a table when my cell buzzes. I take it out and read: I’ll pick you up after work.
I go back to rubbing down the table, wide, cheesy grin on my face. My mind fills with memories from last night. His hands, his intensity, his commanding voice, his cock . . . I have to stop. Getting horny in the middle of my shift isn’t exactly a good thing. But I can’t stop smiling.
Dawn on the mend, seeing Killian again.
Life is looking up.
An hour after Dawn visits, a man who I at first mistake for Killian walks in. He wears the same leathers, the same blue jeans, the same type of boots. His hair is the same blonde and he’s muscular. Then I look closer and see that he isn’t as tall. It’s Patrick. I realize that my first assessment of him was unfair. He’s not fat, just big, and he’s not short, just not as tall as his younger brother. His hair has been washed and it’s more like Killian’s. His face has a few more lines. He could be an older version of Killian.
He holds a bouquet of red roses in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. The restaurant is at a lull now. Alex stands behind the bar, twiddling his thumbs, and I’m the only waitress on the floor until Allie gets here later tonight. I watch as Patrick walks across the restaurant. I’m wondering who the flowers are for. Lily, maybe? I should tell him that she’s no longer here.
I hear a door creak open behind me, turn, and see Lucca standing there, glaring at the biker. Here’s your chance, tough guy, I think. A Numb in the flesh. But Lucca just stands in the doorway, shooting a beady-eyed glare at Patrick.
Then Patrick is standing in front of me.
“Hope, right?” he says.
“Yes, and you’re Patrick, right?”
He nods. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too. That’s a big bunch of flowers you’ve got there. You seeing one of the waitresses?”
He laughs. “The way I was last night, don’t think any waitress here would give me the time of day. No, these are for you.” He holds out the bouquet of red roses. “From Killian,” he adds quickly. “He wanted you to have them. He’s busy with club stuff, so he couldn’t come himself.”
I hold the flowers close to my chest, bury my nose in the petals, and breathe the scent of them in. Behind me, Lucca clears his throat. I ignore him. “These are lovely,” I say. He sent me flowers! Killian fox sent me flowers! It seems crazy that a man like Killian would send flowers. I never took him for that sort. “I’m seeing him tomorrow. I’ll thank him then.”
“That’s not all he wanted you to have.”
Patrick walks to the nearest table and sits down. I follow him, sit opposite. Lucca has moved from the doorway to the bar now, one fat hand wrapped around a beer spout, glaring across the restaurant at me and Patrick. But that’s all he does. Glare.
Patrick takes a white cardboard box from the plastic bag and places it on the table.
“He wanted you to have these, too.”
“Okay . . .” I take the box and fiddle with the seams until it comes loose and I can open it.
When I see the bubble wrap, and what’s inside the bubble wrap, my breath catches. I swear, my eyes start to water. I’m not a soft person—I could never afford to be—but this has moved me. Wrapped inside the bubble wrap is a set of knives: pairing and steak and fillet and butcher and round-end slicers and bread and utility; and half a dozen more on top of that.
“This is a complete set,” I say, unable to hide the shock from my voice. “You could start up a proper kitchen with these!”
“I can tell Killian you like them, then?” Patrick asks, smiling. He has Killian’s wolfish eyes, even if they are surrounded by more age lines than Killian’s.
“Yes, of course. I love them.”
“Good.”
He makes to stand up, and then pauses. “Hope, how old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” I say uncertainly. “Why?”
“Oh, I thought you were younger. You look much younger.”
Is he hitting on me?
“No, no,” he says, perhaps seeing my thoughts written on my face. “It’s just that Killian’s twenty-seven . . . Damn, I’m rambling. My point is, do you have any friends you could set me up with? I promise, last night wasn’t the norm. I was just celebrating. I can be a really nice guy.”
My mind instantly goes to Dawn. Dawn has always liked the bad boys, and since Killian is taken—by me, I think in wonder, by me—why not set her up with Patrick?
But I hold back. Dawn is going through a tough time and I don’t know Patrick.
“If I think of anyone, I’ll let you know,” I say.
He nods briefly and then retreats from the restaurant.
Lucca glares at his back and then walks back into his office, huffing loudly.
The following night, Killian meets me outside of work.
It’s a warm evening and he doesn’t wear his leather. Instead, he wears a denim vest cut off at the shoulders, showing me his arms. They’re ripped with muscles, the biceps tight balls, the triceps clear lines of muscle. Tribal tattoos cover one of his arms from shoulder to hand. On his other arm he has a tattoo of the Satan’s Martyrs’ sigil, on his upper arm near his shoulder.
He smirks at me as I walk out of the restaurant toward his bike, that cocky-as-hell smirk. That smirk which drives me crazy. It’s the sort of smirk I shouldn’t want, a smirk that says, I own you, you are mine. And yet I can’t look away.
“Get on then, pretty lady,” he says.
I climb onto the back of the bike and wrap my arms around him, feeling the hardness of him through his vest, the hardness of his belly, of his muscles.
“Where are we going?” I say.
“I want to take a look at your apartment,” he replies, and then kicks away the bike’s stand and turns the throttle.
“It isn’t much,” I tell him, as I unlock the door.
I lead him past the small hallway area to the living room. The apartment is four rooms: a living room with an adjoined kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. An old TV set sits in the center of the living room, a glass coffee table, a couch and an armchair. The armchair is still next to the window, Dawn’s blanket crumpled upon it. In the corner of the room, next to my bedroom door, is a pile of my paintings.
“Are these yours?” he asks, wandering over to them. He swaggers into the apartment like he owns it. I should be offended, but I’m not. I’m starting to realize that when it comes to Killian, I should be many thi
ngs which I am not. Scared, anxious, cautious . . . but I am none of these things.
“Yes,” I say, hurrying over to him. “Don’t pay them any attention. I just mocked them up—”
He ignores me and picks up the painting on top. It depicts a yellow sand valley, with the sun an orange disc peeping over the horizon, and a lone woman standing at the lip of the valley, looking down. Her features are shrouded in shadow, but in her hand she holds a handkerchief dripping with tears. Her dress—a white wedding dress—is stained with sand and dirt.
