Beyond Her Words (Corrupt Chaos MC)

by Bink Cummings

  “Wh-wh-y?” I fumble, and her eyes spring wide.

  Bridget gasps and something clatters to the ground. I turn my head to catch Bridget scrambling to pick up the mess she made on the floor; behind the glass front display case that’s full of colorful pastries that would make any person’s mouth water.

  “You can talk again?” Whisky sounds more surprised than anything else.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?!” Bridget clamors spiritedly.

  Righting her mess, she carries us a plate of cookies, a pitcher of lemonade with fresh lemon slices floating, and two glasses. She pours our drinks and sets the cookies in the middle of the table. Whisky taps the top of the pitcher, so Bridget sets it to rest beside the cookies.

  My eyes switch between both ladies. “I. . .can. . .ta-lk a. . .lit-t-le,” I make out with some effort before I grab my glass and down a gulp of fresh lemony goodness.

  Standing at the edge of the table, Bridget runs her finger over the lip, giving me her undivided attention. “When’d you get it back?”

  I set my glass down and swipe the back of my hand over my mouth. “I. . .um. . .hosp-it-al.”

  “This week?” Bridget asks.

  I nod in reply; this talking thing is already starting to mess with my throat.

  “Does it hurt?”

  I shake my head.

  Bridget blows out a relieved breath, and reaches over to pat me on the shoulder. “Dad’s gonna be thrilled you can talk now.” She’s practically jumping out of her skin with excitement.

  That’s what I was afraid of. I don’t want to speak to Lachlan.

  Dipping my head and staring into my lap, I pick at the nonexistence lint on my navy dress and mutter, “K.”

  Whisky clears her throat. “Pip, can you do the prep and clean up the frosting mess I made in the kitchen?”

  “Sure.” I can hear that same happy smile in her voice.

  Swiftly, her footfalls move away and I dare to glance up. When I do, Whisky’s eyes are on me, assessing again. For what? I dunno. They’re calculating, similar to Lachlan’s, just less daunting.

  She flicks an errant curl out of her eyes and tucks it into the side of her hair. “Pip told me you were a hot, curvy, big breasted blonde. I wasn’t sure if I believed her or not, since my brother doesn’t seem to take a shine to anyone. If he did, I assumed he did it because he was being a good citizen and you’d be some old woman with missing teeth and wrinkles.”

  Um. . .I’m not sure what this is supposed to mean. And I’m pretty sure I’ve never been called hot in my entire life. I know I have large headlights, that’s what happens when you’re not skinny. The fat has to settle somewhere─boobs and butt it is.

  She’s far from done. “Gonna be frank here, sister. My brother’s kind of an asshole. Don’t get me wrong, he’s nice to me, and a great dad to Pip, but people don’t get to know him and the kinda man he really is, because he don’t let ‘em. I was shocked when he let ya move in. And lookin’ at ya now, I’m even more shocked.”

  I open my mouth to ask her why, but she keeps going, cutting off my train of thought.

  “Lach doesn't like people, ‘cause women always want something from him. He’s stupid and thinks they dig his accent. They dig what they’re lookin’ at. He doesn’t know he’s hot, and that all the ladies in this damn town wanna jump his bones. But, he’s not only clueless; he’s also married to that wench.”

  That affirmation has me leaning closer to the table and resting my elbows on the top to listen to her story. If it includes said wench, I’d love to hear more.

  I’ve come to the conclusion there have only been two people in my life I’ve hated, aside from hating myself. Those people being my mother, and now Meredith. I came to that conclusion when I first saw myself in a mirror the day after I left the hospital. It was after I had lifted myself out of the wheelchair to stand for a minute in front of the sink to wash. That’s when my eyes finally took in the damage she’d inflicted on my body. It was appalling. Dark purple bruises were everywhere. My lip was even black and blue. My head wasn’t so bad after the stitches, but I still got them from her. That’s when I decided that she was added to the hate list. A list I don’t take lightly.

  That’s why Mark, a tall bear-of-a-man that I dated many years ago, didn’t get added to that list, because he wasn’t evil enough. I only upgraded him to strongly dislike after I ran away from him. He’d tried to force me to have anal sex, which ended in a fight and him calling me a tease. “Nobody has an ass like that and not like to get fucked in it!” he’d screamed. I didn’t argue with him; I just left, and the next day I packed my bags, dropped my keys at the landlords, picked up my security deposit, and fled town. I stopped fifty miles later to dump my cell and pick up a new one. Three months after that, I had another steady boyfriend and a crappy job at some rink-a-dink lube place. As in oil changes. Not the sexual kinda lube. Get your head outta the gutter.

  After that, I came to the conclusion men aren’t worth the fight when you don’t love them. If it had been Brian, I would’ve stayed and I would have fought through the hurtful words. But Mark wasn’t Brian. No one could ever be Brian; no one could ever compare. Men barely ever look past the nose on their face to see that the woman they’re sleeping with doesn’t love them, is unhappy, or that she’s picturing another man when she has sex with them.

  The first time I called Brian’s name out in the middle of sex, the guy was so drunk he didn’t even care. After the twentieth time, I tried to stop thinking about him when I had another man inside me. It sometimes worked. Other times, I bit the pillow when I came so I didn’t moan his name when my climax hit. It’s sick, I know, but I never said I was a saint, or mentally all there. I’m also not ignorant of the fact that pining after a man who died ten years ago is unhealthy. I just can’t help it. It’s impossible not to long for him.

  We were together for seven years, and those were the best years of my life. We made love under the stars, and he picked me flowers every Sunday. We fed each other just so we could make a mess of each other’s faces, we kissed, we hugged, we cuddled after having sex, and he whispered sweet nothings to me like I was the only person on the planet he was made to be with. I fell helplessly in love with him. We were together almost two years before I ever lost my virginity to him, and even then, he said he was grateful for my gift. Which is silly if you think about it; but he thought I deserved to be worshiped, and I loved him unconditionally. I’ve never looked at another boy or man the way I did him, and I’ve never felt the things I did with him with anyone else. I had been pretty sure that part of me had died until recently. For the past ten years, I wasn’t even sure I had a heart, much less one that could feel. Now, I’m slowly learning that I can, and it’s a scary feeling.

  A hand touches my elbow, and I blink. “There ya are.” Whisky smiles. “Ya left me for a minute.”

  I open my mouth to apologize, and she waves me off like she knew what I was going to say.

  “Meredith hit a nerve?” she asks.

  My face twists, and she grins wider. “I. . .don’t. . .li-ke her.”

  “Nobody does.” Whisky shakes her head. “Nobody in this town can stand Meredith. I’ve tolerated her for years, but she’s a piece of work. Should be. She was married twice before Lachlan, and only married him because he made her.”

  What?!

  Cocking my head to the side, I whisper, “What?”

  “Have you heard any of these stories?”

  I’m not sure what stories she’s referring to, so I shake my head.

  “Ooooo, sister, you are in for a treat.” She takes a sip of her lemonade before leaning back and tapping her chin like she’s deep in thought. “I was hoping nobody had filled your head with lies, yet. People in this town are good at switchin’ the truth.”

  I nod, understanding that perfectly. It’s a small town thing. Gossip is huge. And the juicier, the better. That’s why truths turn into lies with the snap of your fingers.

  “Before
you find out about Meredith, I’ll tell ya about Lach,” Whisky offers.

  I take a sip of lemonade to wet my tongue. “Okay.”

  “Lach’s my older brother, and our parents were late in life parents. Mom was in her forties when she had us, and my dad was fifty. My dad was from Scotland, and my mom from Ohio. Long story short, ‘cause I don’t wanna bore ya. . .My mom studied abroad in Scotland, and my dad was her teacher. They had a love affair that turned into a marriage. My mom then moved to Scotland to be with my dad. A few years later, my mom’s parents were sick, so they moved back here for her to take care of them. Dad got a job at the local university teaching a culture studies course, and my mom became an elementary school teacher.”

  Teachers as parents, and now a son who’s a fireman and a daughter who owns a bakery. They raised good kids and should be proud.

  I nod so she knows I’m paying attention.

  She continues. “Then Lach and I came along. In elementary school, he kept having problems with the other kids, always getting into fights. My dad decided it would be best to send him to live with our uncle, his brother, Craig, in Scotland. Lach lived there until his junior year of high school, and moved back to finish out school here. I only saw him in the summer for a day or two. My mom missed him, but my dad said he was a Scottish lad, and Scottish lads needed to live in Scotland.”

  “That. . .explains. . .his. . .ac-cent,” I state.

  “Aye, it does.” She copies his accent and winks at me.

  I grin, stifling a chuckle.

  “After graduation, he joined the US Navy and was stationed in San Diego. . .This was when Meredith came into the picture,” she warns before going on.

  “From what he said, they met before he was due to be stationed in Virginia. The guys had thrown him a farewell party the weekend before he was leaving, and that’s when he met her. They shared a hot weekend. Two weeks after he arrived in Virginia, he was put on an extended deployment, and when he got back, he had papers for child support waiting on him. Found out Pip was a few months old. When he went back to San Diego to meet her for the first time, he talked Meredith into moving to Virginia with him. But the Navy wouldn’t grant him on base housing without being married, so he married her in Vegas on their drive across country.”

  Shock. That’s all I can seem to feel at this point. It’s a good thing Whisky’s not done talking, because my mouth has run dry and my mind is whirling with so many thoughts. Lachlan married Meredith because she had Bridget? I can’t believe he’d do that. But then again, I could because he’s that type of a person. A genuinely nice one if you can get past that scary exterior and jagged tone.

  “Meredith started partying as soon as they moved to base. Got a DUI. Lachlan had to find babysitters for Pip when he worked, because he couldn’t trust his drunk wife with their daughter. He put her in rehab three times. The booze was an issue, and so was emptying their account to buy outlandish shit; and she was also fucking random men whenever she could. Lachlan tried to keep their family together and to get her help. He wore condoms when she wanted to have sex with him, because he was afraid of the STDs she might have. He took her to the doctors and paid all her bills. Her ass never worked. She just drank and fucked her way through life.” Whisky shakes her head in disgust, and I follow that same motion. I can’t believe this. Can you? What a terrible person.

  She keeps on. “Lach was fine until our parents died and he lost it, went on his own binge, and blamed her for everything. That’s when she went and got knocked up by some random dude and got an abortion to spite Lachlan. He fell deeper into his hole. She blamed him for her dead baby, even though she’s never taken care of Pip a day in her life. She’s an awful mother.”

  Yes, she is. I can’t believe Bridget is such an amazing girl in spite of her mother being so horrible. It’s Lachlan’s and Whisky’s doing that she turned out to be such a beautiful, smart, young woman. Now, I hold a whole new respect for Lachlan than I did before. He’s not a good dad; he’s the best there could ever be. Considering I never had one, I should know.

  “They moved back to San Diego when he was re-stationed. Then, as soon as Lachlan’s twenty was up, he got out and moved here. He wanted Pip to know her family. Decided to join the club, and moved into our parents’ old place.”

  I voice the first thing that pops into my head, “If. . .she. . .was. . .so. . .bad—”

  “Why did she move here with him and he not divorce her?” Whisky finishes for me, and I nod. “Fuck if I know. I guess he felt like he owed it to Pip to keep her mother around. Not sure why, though. The woman never went to a school play, took her shopping, or even painted the girl’s nails. If it wasn’t Lachlan doing those things, it was me, and since I don’t have any daughters, I was happy to do it. She’s a great girl.”

  “Yes. . .she...is,” I agree.

  “You know Dad’s going to be mad if he finds out you just told Mags all that,” Bridget pipes up.

  Crap! I forgot she was here. She shouldn’t be hearing all this about her mother.

  Whisky cocks her head to the side, looking at Bridget. “You think I care? Do you think he woulda told Magdalene that he can’t stand the woman who beat the bloody shit outta her?”

  Bridget lifts one shoulder and drops it, deflated. “Probably not.”

  “Do you think Magdalene should know that the woman who was kicking her and beating her on the floor, is a piece of shit? You think your dad would tell her that? You think he’d tell her that he doesn't sleep in bed with her? Or that he has to pick her off the bathroom floor after a binger? Or maybe he should tell her that he’s been married to a fucking cunt for the past seventeen years and never cheated on her once.”

  Until he kissed me in the hospital, I tack on for her. And according to Meredith, he cheats all the time. At first, I might have considered it; not anymore. I trust Whisky. Not sure why, but she’s a straight shooter and I respect that.

  I watch as Bridget’s face shuts down, her eyes become watery, and her bottom lip trembles. “Dad won’t tell anyone that stuff. He won’t even tell me.”

  “Exactly!” Whisky jerks her chin, throwing her hands up. “He doesn’t want his daughter to know this shit. How do you think he’s gonna go tellin’ a woman who’s sleepin’ under his roof? A woman he obviously likes.”

  He what?!

  Swiping at her eyes, Bridget smiles through her sadness. “He does like her,” she mutters.

  I open my mouth yet again to ask what in the world they mean, but Whisky beats me to it when she cuts her eyes to me. “Now, I’m a woman, I know that look. It’s one of disbelief.”

  She’s right. It is.

  My mouth falls open.

  “I’m sure you’re telling yourself all sorts of shit, denying that he could like you. That he’s married, and he’s this and that. My brother doesn’t like anybody. But, he likes you.”

  I didn’t know it was possible, but my mouth falls open further.

  What the hell?

  “Let’s just cut to the chase. His wife’s a bitch. After what she did to you, I know he won’t be tolerating her shit anymore. First time he’s ever changed those locks. And you didn’t see how angry he was in that waiting room.”

  “He saved. . .my. . .life. . .That’s. . .wh-y.” It has to be why. Has to be.

  Whisky shakes her head, and behind the counter, Bridget bursts into a fit of laughter. Apparently, what I said is funny.

  “He’s saved a lotta people. Never had one at his house before. And, seeing as though you’re young, and not covered in wrinkles and missing teeth, I’m sure he’s noticed how good looking you are,” Whisky states.

  I am not!

  She won’t let up. “I don’t know your story. I’m not gonna pry. But I’m here if you need someone to talk to.” She nods her head to the side, toward Bridget. “Pip’s young, but she’s smart and a fine listener. She’s been through a lot. Dealt with having a piece of shit mother. She’s good people. . .” She pauses for a beat and rubs her chi
n. “And I’m not gonna jerk your chain. My brother carries his own set of baggage. He’s clueless about women. And he’s harder on himself than anyone I know. But he’s a good man. And if you like him, too, tell him. He’s too thickheaded to figure it out on his own.”

  What? Huh? Tell. . .

  My thoughts are cut short when the bell chimes and all of our heads swing to the front door. Whisky jumps out of her chair and runs full throttle to the front of the bakery, throws her arms around the customer’s neck, tugs him down to her level, and smashes her lips to his with a moan that he swallows. His tan, lean hands cup her thick bottom, and he lifts her. Whisky’s legs wrap around his waist, and he stumbles until his back collides with the door, jingling the bells on impact.

  I know it’s impolite to watch, but I can’t stop myself. They’re going at it like hot and heavy teenagers in the front of her bakery. Whisky’s mewling to his mouth, and he’s grinding himself to her front. Their breathing is so heavy it’s starting to fog the windows.

  A hand taps my shoulder, and I sideways glance at Bridget, whose face is a mixture between grossed-out and sentimental. She bends at the waist and rests her elbows on the tabletop. Unable to help myself, I swap my eyes between her and the hot and heavy session that people would pay good money to see. Despicably, wetness dampens my panties.

  “They do this almost every day,” Bridget whispers, amused. “Sometimes they stop after a while, and sometimes Sniper takes her to the back. I’ll put a closed sign on the door if they do, and we’ll go over to Cas’s across the street. Trust me; you don’t want to hear them when they start having sex.”

  A bang against the door rattles the bell once again as Sniper turns the tables, and now has Whisky’s back pressed to the door. One of his hands is folded between their bodies, and Whisky has started to moan louder, her body rocking to his.

  I’ve never seen anything like this!

  Sniper’s lips trail down her neck, and Whisky screams in pleasure when he sinks his teeth in. Her back arches against the door and her hands claw at his shoulders, legs tightening around his trim waist. I can now make out that she’s wearing a skirt and he’s doing something up it─something naughty.