Beyond Her Words (Corrupt Chaos MC)

by Bink Cummings

  Oh. My. God. I’m now going to H.E. double-hockey-sticks. I said it. I called it. . .sexy. Please, please, please don’t tell him or anyone I said that. I feel guilty enough admitting it. What if he knew? Or by some off chance Bridget found out? I’d just die. Okay, it’s official, just forget I even mentioned it and let’s get back to this bipolar conversation we are all trying to have with me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Lachlan cock his head to the side. I know his eyes are on me. I can feel them. Just like I’ve been able to feel them every single day for a week. They burn.

  “Lassie, can ye understand me when I talk like this?” he asks, using what I assume is his normal voice.

  I nod, understanding him completely. It’s not without a little difficulty, but it’s not that hard either.

  He continues. “Good. . .Thor texted and I told him tae fuck off. Yer not gonna tae be stayin’ with him in that trailer when yer gonna be stayin’ right here with us.”

  Holy moly, I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard him speak at once. I couldn’t place what his accent was before. Now, I’m pretty sure it’s either Scottish or Irish. Though, it’s not sing-songy enough to be Irish. But I could be wrong.

  However, I do know that the tattoo knots that sleeve his entire arm are Celtic, which could mean either. I wish I could ask, but that might be considered disrespectful. And after the argument with his wife, disrespectful is the last thing I want to be.

  So I’m going to do the only thing I can at this point—ignore him ordering me to stay here whether I like it or not. His way might have been kinda nice, but if I actually start to think about him controlling the situation to this level, I might become angry again. And we all know that won’t get me far. Except maybe outside, huffing a wheelchair up an incline that I’m fairly certain I couldn’t manage. Yep, I’m screwed. I said it once, and I’ll say it a thousand more times. S.C.R.E.W.E.D.

  Rolling my head to the opposite side, I pretend I’m exhausted. Although, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I just want him—well, the shirtless version of him, out of my room. He can come back later when there are fewer muscles, and tattoos to look at. It’s too hard to think with him in that condition.

  That doesn’t mean my mind isn’t deviously putting pieces together of what I briefly saw. I’m pretty sure he has a small patch of hair on his chest, and possibly a faint line of it trailing down those rippling abs. I couldn’t bear to dip any lower in fear that my body might burst into flames of mortification. No one should ogle a man. At least not someone that looks like I do. Skinny supermodels with bodies that men like him drool over, sure, they can ogle him.

  But, it definitely shouldn’t be someone that looks like me. I’m barely above five foot, and my hair has been in a continual state of curly disarray since I left Johnathan. I don’t even know how to wear makeup, except lip gloss and mascara, and I wouldn’t know the first thing about eyeshadow or eyeliner. Now, don’t even get me started on clothes. I can’t remember the last time I wore a single digit size, or something that resembles feminine. Heck, my panties are plain white cotton. I’m that boring.

  Lachlan and Bridget carry on a conversation like I’m invisible. It doesn’t last long and is pretty anticlimactic; something about his sister, Whisky, his wife, and some other odds and ends. I’m too busy pretending to be falling asleep to really listen. I’ve had enough listening for today. Meredith made sure of that.

  My mind drifts. . .

  I can’t help but wonder what this Meredith looks like, and how long it will be before I’m forced to come face-to-face with her. What do you think? Want to make a wager?

  Taking Lachlan’s appearance into consideration, and how much Bridget looks like him, I bet that his wife is short and petite like Bridget, since Lachlan towers well over six foot. I bet she has blue eyes and blonde hair, too. And, she’s probably thin as a rail with huge headlights, and a killer butt. I wouldn’t be surprised if his sister is the same way; except maybe taller and a redhead. Lord knows their family won the genetic lottery. Mine surely didn’t. Not everyone can be blessed with good looks. At least I have nice headlights, and my butt isn’t too bad, either. A little thick and juicy maybe, but I have to live with it, so I might as well embrace these curves.

  Before too long, Lachlan exits and I barely hear him leave. Bridget sweetly pats my calf and bids me a goodnight before she exits, too. At last, I’m alone with a lazy, floppy eared dog as my companion. Pirate’s an excellent buddy. He’s lazy and doesn’t talk. Plus, he doesn’t have a calculating eye or body that. . . .well. . .let’s not think about that, shall we? I’d much rather forget what I saw.

  I’ll catch ya later.

  The genius, blood-pumping beat of Disturb’s; ‘Get Down with the Sickness’ echoes off my bedroom walls, waking me.

  Groaning, I stretch my arms high to feel that delicious pull in my biceps and shoulders. Pirate, my best mate, lifts his head off the pillow beside me and snuggles closer; his wet nose rooting into my armpit.

  Silent laughter wracks my body, and I push his head away. Grumbling his disapproval, he rolls back on his pillow, and I reach above me to wrap my fingers around the new bar Lachlan installed yesterday. Using my upper body strength, I bring myself into a sitting position¸ both legs tucked under the covers, my butt numb.

  It had taken me close to ten minutes to get up yesterday. I haven’t admitted that to anyone. Though, Lachlan must have known because I now have this chain bolted to the ceiling that hangs within arm’s reach. It’s a godsend.

  Throwing off the covers and scooting to the edge of the bed, I swing my legs off before grabbing my wheelchair’s arm. I know it’s not the easiest or the most graceful maneuver, but I successfully transfer myself into my wheelchair without incident. Blowing out a relieved breath, I release the brakes and roll over to my dresser where I tug a folded dress off the top and drop it into my lap.

  I’m not really a fan of dresses, but Bridget made it clear yesterday that it’s too difficult to dress me in much else. I’ve even decided to forgo panties in the meantime. I never liked them much, anyhow.

  The music grows louder when I roll out of the bedroom, and into the bathroom. As I use the restroom, wash my fingers, and brush my teeth, the song switches to Buckcherry’s ‘Crazy Bitch’. Spitting my toothpaste into the sink, I wipe my mouth off and begin lip syncing. After rinsing the paste down the drain and drying my hands, I steal the handheld mirror off a bathroom shelf and give myself a look-see.

  I gasp at the horrid sight. My hair’s a fluffy mess and I look meh. Snatching a hairband off the shelf, I secure my curls in a low ponytail. The dryness of my lips forces me to borrow a tube of lip balm and run my newly washed finger over the top to gather a dollop. I generously apply the strawberry flavored balm to my lips. Before exiting, I shove my blue dress into one the shelves for me to change into later after I wash up.

  Yesterday was my first full day here at the house, and my initial go at doing things on my own. It sucked. I ended up needing Bridget’s help more times than I care to admit. She made me lunch, and dinner since I’d slept through breakfast. Lachlan had been down here when I’d woken and wheeled out of the bedroom. He and Bridget must have been in some sort of private conversation, because when I interrupted them, they stopped talking entirely. Although, Lachlan did stay until he finished his mug of coffee. Then he disappeared out the back door, and the only other time I saw him was when he came back to install that magical contraption above my bed. I thanked him with a tight smile, and he grunted indignantly. So much for communication.

  Pirate, my bum mate, is still sleeping in my bed when I roll past my bedroom door and into the open living room/kitchen space. The outside of the house automatically brings thoughts of country living. However, inside this live-in basement, you are transported to a serene beach bungalow. How in the world Bridget managed to transform this into such a tropical oasis, I’ll never know.

  Stark, white stone tiles run the length of the entir
e floor. The walls are painted the palest of blues. From the couch to the end tables and chairs, all the furniture is a dark, chocolate rattan, cushioned in plush tan fabric with light blue throw pillows. In the kitchen, there’s a bistro set with wrought-iron chairs and an exquisite mosaic tabletop with a curved base. It’s one of those tables you see and wish you owned yourself. It’s that amazing.

  The song switches, and AC/DC’s ‘Thunderstruck’ roars to life outside. It somehow feels louder, as if the vibrations are beating off the sliding glass doors, making them hum.

  Thanks to some masterful rearranging, I roll straight through the living room to the doors. White linen curtains cover the wide glass, and I shuck a portion of them back before sliding open the door. The high-intensity music ricocheting off the house blasts me in the face. It steals my breath and I wait a moment to catch it again.

  With a little oomph, I force the wheelchair out of the doorway and onto the patio. And fumble as I close the door in my wake.

  It’s much earlier than I suspected. The sun is just beginning to rise to mid-morning, as a muggy dampness hangs in the summer air, fanning over my skin in the gentle breeze. I roll myself forward, set the brakes, and cast my eyes over the expanse of the backyard that stops on the edge of a rising cornfield. It feels like its own little world out here. Peaceful and still, with the exception of the music that’s pumping from the old pole barn at the corner of the lot. The wide doors are retracted, somehow funneling the music louder. Or maybe it really is that loud and the person listening is partially deaf. I can’t be sure.

  Rob Zombie’s ‘Feel so Numb’ is next on the powerhouse playlist, and is followed by six more adrenaline doused songs. My good, uncasted foot bounces to the beat and my mind blanks, soothed by a symphonic music high. A peacefulness cruises listlessly through my blood, calming and warming me from the inside out. This is the same sensation I’ve always embraced when I’m wrenching under the hood of a car. My Zen.

  Minutes blend into eternity, and I fall deeper into a mindless lull; my heaven on earth, far away from racing thoughts and soul-eating torment. It’s pure bliss.

  All too soon, my serenity is cut short when the music is turned off, and the sound of feet moving across the yard has me opening my eyes. Lachlan. . . .he’s. . . .I snap my eyes shut before I can process another thought.

  Christ almighty.

  What was I thinking? I should have known this would happen again. My jaw clenches and my stomach dips at the image scorched into the back of my eyelids. Lachlan, coming toward me, in nothing but a pair of black exercise shorts, overused Nike shoes, and he’s shirtless—again. His healthy skin gleams with sweat in the early morning sunlight. Those impossible muscles are twisting and contracting beneath his flawlessly inked skin. The hair that I thought I’d seen a few nights back has now been confirmed, as it, too, glistens with sweat, matting to his broad, meaty pecs and abs.

  I still cannot believe real men can actually look like that. My stomach and nether regions squirm at the thought.

  Sheesh, what’s wrong with me?! I’ve slept with plenty of handsome men. Some thin, some fat, and some in between. Some had muscles, and others were flabby; all of them had varieties of hair colors, tattoos, and heights. They were always younger than me, aside from Brian. Hey, don’t judge. I never said I was a saint. I do have itches that need to be scratched, sometimes. And those men served a purpose.

  However, I’ve never in my entire existence seen a body like that, other than on magazines at the store like Men’s Health. And if I'm honest, those men don’t hold a candle to Lachlan. What does that say about him? I don’t have a clue. Except that I’m in serious trouble if he keeps running around here shirtless in front of me. I can already feel my cheeks heating at the prospect of it; and I don’t want to objectify him by staring at his pecs, abs, and. . .um. . .other places. It’s rude, and worse, it’s embarrassing. Yes, it’s his house and I don’t have a say, but that doesn’t change how it affects my mind. . .or body.

  Please tell me I’m not the only woman on the face of the planet who’s ever felt this way. Shy, scared, uncomfortable, and about a million more words could explain how I’m feeling right now.

  Okay, Magdalene, you need to get a grip, stop breathing so dang heavy, and hope that he doesn’t want to chat.

  I slow my breathing. In through my nose and out through my mouth. Sighing in relief, I slouch in my chair and my head lulls back. Much better.

  The crunching of footsteps cease nearby. “Ye want me tae help ye into the chair?”

  Do you want to go put a shirt on over that chest, please? I dare to beg.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I shake my head in reply and he grumbles.

  “Ye want me tae get ye some lemonade?”

  I shake my head again. I don’t want anything from him. He’s already done plenty. Why won’t he leave?

  Those eyes again—they’re on me, burning away. At least I have my hair back and look a little more presentable this morning. The dress Bridget helped me into last night is a pale yellow, and hits me just below the knee. Which is above the knee when I’m seated. Speaking of Bridget—where in the world is she, anyhow? Maybe she’s still asleep? Hum. . .

  “Lachlan, baby, I’m going to be leaving soon. Can you please come up here and give me a kiss goodbye?” Meredith purrs seductively from the deck above. My insides jolt at the sound, rolling and swirling in disgust.

  She’s a real piece of work. A piece of work that’s married to a man that looks and acts like him. He’s got a huge heart; it doesn’t take much to figure that one out. What does that say about her? I suppose she must be pretty great, too, if he’s married to her.

  Internally, I kick myself for thinking polluted thoughts about her. I’m the mean one here—shame on me. I really have to stop judging her. Lachlan’s wife is probably an amazing woman; she’d have to be to snag him. Women would give their right arm to be with a man that looks like him. Add that voice, and niceness, then subtract his broody scariness, and someone would give their left arm, too. I’m not saying I would, but could easily see it happen; wars have been started over much less.

  Lachlan clears his throat before he replies, “Aye, I’ll be up in a minute.”

  “Okay, babe,” she comments and a door is shut, leaving us alone once more.

  A blanket of silence settles over us.

  I squirm in my chair, feeling the heat of his gaze. I don’t know where his eyes are roaming, and I don’t want to. This dress has a built-in bra that doesn’t really help when you have headlights as big as mine. I’ve got cleavage, a lot of it. Even though I really wish I didn’t. Not here, not now. Maybe when I’m in the bedroom with a man, it does serve as a benefit. It forces their eyes away from the less desirable parts of me and draws them to the more pleasing ones. If you could actually consider boobs to be that pleasing; I don’t. Not really. But I’m not a guy, so I can’t really speak for them.

  I’m rambling, aren’t I? Oh, fudge sticks.

  Lachlan cracks the silence with his grizzly voice. “Mags, I’m gonna take care of that,” he grunts under his breath and then continues, “Then I’m comin’ down here and puttin’ ye in that chair so we can share some lemonade. Aye?”

  Gah! Didn’t he realize I already said no to both of those things? What’s wrong with him? He can’t force me to do something I don’t want to. And I really don’t want to be alone with him more than necessary. Doesn’t he get that without me having to spell it out for him? I should go wake Bridget up. I hate to say it, but she makes the perfect buffer.

  Hands briskly land on either side of my chair, jostling it. My eyes burst open, coming face-to-face with Lachlan’s—his mouth mere inches from mine. I didn’t even hear him move.

  The mint on his breath wafts over my face as he exhales heavily and licks his lips.

  Lord almighty!

  My heart leaps into my throat, and a shudder wracks my body. I know he can feel it through my chair. My cheeks blaze with uncertainty, fear, and
maybe a little something else.

  He’s too close.

  Releasing the arms of my chair with a low grunt, he runs his thumbs over the apples of my cheeks. A hard expression locks his features and his thumbs lower, trailing along my jaw to the tip of my chin. Those teal eyes drop to my lips, and I’m not sure if this is real, or if I just passed out and I’m dreaming.

  Lachlan flicks that pink tongue over his bottom lip once more; his eyes zeroing in on my mouth, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand at attention.

  Nope, definitely not dreaming.

  Lachlan really needs to back up. I lift my hands to push him away, but stop when I realize I’d have to touch him in order to do that. I. Can’t. Touch. Him.

  “I gotta gift for ye,” he whispers in that same grizzly, skin prickling tone that’s laced with the most beautiful accent.

  I feel something happen between my trembling thighs. A tingling. Did my lady parts just pulse? Please, no. Too close, too much man, too-too-too much of everything. He needs to move away. Move away now. I can’t take this.

  Squeezing my eyes shut from sensory overload, and possibly a mild heart attack, I try to drown him out. He growls his displeasure, making the shaking in my thighs travel up my spine, and branch out to my arms. My breath sputters erratically, forcing me to breathe through my mouth—silently panting.

  Lachlan’s searing thumb traces even lower; dipping down the slender curve of my neck to the hollow of my throat. I lose my breath entirely. “Ye cannae bloody talk tae me, Mags.”