Beyond Her Words (Corrupt Chaos MC)

by Bink Cummings

  Lachlan’s hand smooths down her back. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he soothes. “Shhh, shhh; it’s gonna be all right.”

  Bridget hiccups a sob, and the tears I’d hoped would stay away, teem down my own cheeks. This is so unfair. My heart breaks for what she has to be feeling. Life really does suck sometimes.

  Sirens cut-off, and we hear the sound of tires approach from outside. Lachlan breaks from Bridget, and she sags, exhausted. His eyes float to me. “They’re gonna need tae talk tae ye.”

  I nod, then tug on Bridget’s hand, tilting my head up to look at her. She swipes a tear from her reddened eyes. “It’s. . .going. . .to. . .be. . .okay.” I try to sound convincing, although I know it falls a bit short. Her attempt to smile at me falls a bit short, too. Guess that’s as good as it’s going to get right now.

  She sighs. “Thanks.”

  A police officer wades through the opening, joining us inside. “We’ve got her untied and in the back of the cruiser, but I’m gonna need y’all to give me a statement.”

  Lachlan turns and nods. I nod too, and the officer dismisses himself without another word. The noise of men talking with a hysterical woman outside filters through the gash in the side of the house. I try not to pay attention; it’s impossible not to, though.

  Lachlan pats his daughter’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Whisky’s on her way. Ye’re gonna go with her tonight.”

  “Okay,” Bridget mutters in reply.

  “Go pack a bag, sweetheart. Daddy snuggles.”

  Daddy snuggles? Huh?

  “Love you too,” she says, then bends down, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Thanks, Mags.” She releases my hand and shuffles back to her bedroom to pack her bag.

  She kissed me on the forehead! Oh. . .my. . .geee. I feel all squishy inside. Dabbing my eyes with my fingers, I attempt to keep my emotions in check. I’m not going to cry anymore.

  Lachlan snorts his amusement. “She likes ye,” he comments, and moves closer; into my dang bubble. The bubble I want him out of.

  I like her, too, a lot. But that doesn’t mean I like him the same way. Five feet is the perfect distance for us. Now he’s too close, again!

  He kneels at my feet, his hands touching my thighs. Why does he always touch my legs?! Why doesn’t he put on a shirt? Or wear a paper bag over his head so I don’t have to see that ridiculously attractive face? It’s even better looking up close. Geeze.

  Placing my hands on my wheels, he shakes his head, apparently knowing what I’m up to, so I stop. “I gotta carry ye outside. Yer chair won’t fit through.”

  Sighing heavily, I resign myself to the fact that he’s correct. So I nod and fold my hands into my lap. He makes his move, scoops me up, and carries me like a doll through the house and out of the broken door. Outside, only one chair remains that isn’t damaged. He carefully sets me in it and I thank him.

  “Welcome,” he grumbles, moving away.

  Three cop cars are out here, and Lachlan wades over to talk to a group of officers. A woman’s scream tears my eyes from them.

  The back window to one of the cars is rolled down and Meredith sticks her head out. “You stupid, fat bitch! You stole my home from me!” she screeches.

  “Meredith, stop,” a youthful cop scolds, resting his back against the passenger side door of the cruiser, ankles crossed.

  “Fuck you!” she spits at him.

  Shaking his head, and grumbling under his breath, the man moves his attention to me. “Ma’am, just ignore her.”

  “I. . .will.” I give him a tight lipped smile through the dark.

  Meredith is relentless. “You can fucking talk! The fatty can talk! Lachlan! Your fatty can talk!”

  Like a prowling animal in the pride, Lachlan moves away from the officers and closer to the car. He stops two feet away from where her head is poking out of the window. Tipping her head to look at him, she grins, and he growls fiercely. Her eyes widen at the sound and the grin is wiped off her nasty, beautiful face. My insides tremble in a good way at the display. It serves her right.

  Lachlan’s grizzly noises simmer to a heated breath that rumbles in his chest before he speaks. “Firstly: Mags is not fuckin’ fat,” he snarls. “Secondly: ye will stop talkin’ tae her, or aboot her. We clear?”

  “I will do whatever I want,” she barks.

  “The bloody fuck, ye will.” Lachlan crosses his arms tightly over his chest. From this angle, I can see the side of him, his pecs popping over his forearms, his biceps flexing. The noise in his chest deepens, expanding with his heaving muscles. When she doesn’t respond, he continues. “I’m done with yer arse. Already filed for divorce on Tuesday.”

  “You did not.” She sounds surprised. Almost sad, yet, still surprised.

  “Aye, I bloody well did. Hell, I cannae believe I didnae do it sooner.”

  A cop approaches me from the side. I have to force myself to stop listening to Lachlan and give him my undivided attention. They continue their bickering match back and forth as the cop—a very handsome grey haired police officer—kneels by my feet, but doesn’t touch me like Lachlan does.

  I swipe the sweat off my brow, grateful for the distance.

  “Ma’am, I need to get your statement,” he explains with a southern drawl. For the next ten minutes, I run down everything that Meredith did to me. I don’t leave anything out. It serves her right for hurting her daughter, me, and Lachlan. She’s a sick piece of work.

  By the time I’m finished, most of the officers have retreated back to their cars, and the one that has Meredith inside pulls away. An all-consuming sense of relief washes over me as the car rolls up the hill and out of sight.

  The cop finishes my statement just as Whisky, riding in a pickup truck, descends the incline.

  “If you need anything, give me a call.” Smoothly, the cop flicks his wrist down, a business card secured between his two fingers. I slip it out and fiddle with it. “My cell number is on the back,” he explains, strolling back to his cruiser. I wave goodbye, saying thank you. Lachlan two finger waves, grumbling something I can’t catch under his breath before sliding closer to me, leg brushing the side of my chair. Too far into my bubble, but at least he isn’t touching me.

  Whisky climbs out of the passenger seat of the truck, and Sniper gets out of the driver’s. They meet us on the patio. Lachlan doesn’t waste a second, leading right into the explanation of what happened.

  Bridget wades outside through the mess, a suitcase in her hand and her purse over her shoulder. Whisky takes her bags and puts them in the back of the truck before rejoining us.

  “How are you?” she asks, and I shrug.

  I guess I’m okay. Nothing really bad happened, for once. Which is an enormous relief. Although the house is in shambles, and that really sucks. But nobody was hurt, Meredith is being carted off in a police car, and justice has been served. Plus, if what Lachlan said is true, he filed for divorce and she won’t be comin’ ‘round here no more, no more, no more, no more. I could almost do a little jig. But I won’t. Now’s not the time.

  Once they finish chatting, Sniper convinces Lachlan that the brothers of their club will help fix the house. Bridget gives her dad a final hug before leaning down to hug me. “See ya soon.” My arms wrap around her tightly, and I pat her back as I inhale her scent, locking it away in my memory bank.

  I never knew I’d love to hug someone so much as I do right now.

  Afterward, all three climb back into Sniper and Whisky’s truck, Bridget between them in the cab. Lachlan and I both wave to them as they leave. Once the sound of the trucks loud muffler dies in the distance, we are suddenly submerged into an uncomfortable silence.

  A hand lands on my shoulder, and I flinch, caught off guard. “Ye sleep upstairs tonight,” Lachlan orders, not giving me any chance to object.

  Since it’s early and I’m still tired, I give in with a nod. Sleeping upstairs, the same floor as Lachlan. . .this isn’t going to bode well for me. I’ll probably be
clinically insane by the weeks end.

  Dang it.

  “Lachlan, I am. . .not. . .sleeping. . .in. . .her. . .bed,” I’d argued twenty minutes ago when Lachlan tried to convince me to sleep in his soon-to-be ex-wife’s bedroom. Not sure what in the world he was thinking, but sleeping in that wench’s bed would never happen. Obviously, he refuses to sleep in there, too. Whisky had been right; he’s been sleeping on a brown leather couch in the dang living room. I don’t know how he can even fit on the thing, let alone sleep comfortably. Guess he’s been doing it for years; by the unfortunate shape of the couch, it shows.

  Succeeding my stubborn refusal, Lachlan decided to throw Meredith’s mattress out of the front door, and carried up the one I’ve been sleeping on in the basement. Now, I might not be thrilled about staying in her room, but from the looks of it, he’s already packed away most of her stuff in the boxes that are now currently lining the walls in the bedroom. There are no personal touches left. Kind of like the rest of the house.

  Truth be told, I’ve been curious for some time about how the upstairs might look. The basement and its cool, beach feel was a far cry from the upstairs. Lachlan’s area of the house is a shell, devoid of most things; like a sad bachelor pad. And considering a woman has lived here, it surprises me.

  There are two bedrooms, a living room, and an open kitchen-dining room blending as one. The other bedroom is a junk room and office, from what he says; I wasn’t shown, so I’m not sure what it looks like. The living room, though, is bland. It has a boring, old coffee table, an old TV on an even older stand, and a couple pictures of Bridget hanging on its stark-white walls. There’s no rugs or knickknacks—nothing. The kitchen’s about the same; it’s sad.

  Don’t even get me started on the bathroom. I peeked, and it’s way outdated. Definitely modeled in the 1970s. It has this geometric, puke-green and orange tile covering all of the walls. It’s hideous and in serious need of a renovation. The toilet has a wooden toilet seat, for cryin’ out loud; if that’s not old, I don’t know what is.

  Slipping out of the bedroom, Lachlan walks around the couch and drops into it with a weighted sigh. His eyes set on me after he throws his arm wide, stretching it over the heavily worn back. “Bed is made.” He tips his chin to where I’m seated, in my wheelchair, on the opposite side of the room. To say this is uncomfortable would be putting it mildly. The insane asylum is already beckoning me. I don’t think I can do this. Downstairs was already enough to handle; the upstairs is hell.

  Picking at the rubber on the ends of my chair handles, I keep my eyes glued to the wall above Lachlan’s head.

  Why did I agree to this?

  “Did ye hear me?” He sounds friendly enough at this juncture. The question is: if I tell him that I’d rather sleep outside in the barn than inside here, would that ruin the levity? I’m willing to bet it would.

  Instead of speaking, I nod. It’s my perfect scapegoat. A dang good one.

  “Are ye gonna go tae bed?”

  I shrug at his question.

  Lachlan’s voice drops to a low mutter. “Are ye not talkin’ tae me?”

  Crap! Fine. . .

  “I don’t. . .um. . .want. . .to. . .sleep up. . .here,” I stumble, not because I can’t talk, but talking to him when we’re alone, when it’s pitch-black outside, it’s disconcerting. My stomach won’t stop doing nervous somersaults.

  “Because of my ex?”

  My eyes drop to his. He’s already calling her his ex? That’s. . .umm. . .different than I expected.

  Lifting my right shoulder, I drop it in a lazy shrug. “I. . .this. . .this. . .is your home.” I gesture to the nearly barren room.

  “It’s yers, too,” he comments, propping his bare feet on the coffee table and crossing his ankles. Even his feet are sexy. Big, long, and perfect. Dagnabbit!

  With difficulty, I try to ignore the squishy feeling his words ignite in the pit of my stomach. If I don’t, who knows what might happen.

  Turning my head away, I quit looking at his feet before I start staring like an idiot. “And your wife’s, too,” I reply stupidly.

  Lachlan growls under his breath at my words, sending a row of goosebumps to sprout across my body, as I shiver. I hate that I like when he sounds like that. All manly, and grizzly, and yum. And to think: not too long ago, I thought those sounds were scary. Funny how things change.

  “I filed for divorce,” he states, and my shivering intensifies.

  He takes notice. “Are ye cold?”

  Shaking my head in response, I rub my hands up and down my arms, trying to make it stop, but it doesn’t work.

  Kicking his feet off the table with a thud, Lachlan stands, crosses the room, and sweeps me from my chair without my frickin’ permission. I bark out a startled cry as he tucks me close to his bare chest. I’m pretty sure my lungs forget to breathe when he tips me into his torso so that my body is melted to his, causing me to go ridged in his arms and for my brain to freeze.

  Oh. My. God. His. Chest!

  Carrying me into the bedroom, he gently deposits me on the freshly made bed. As soon as my body hits the mattress, I scurry as far away from him as possible. Then my voice finally unfreezes. “Why. . .did you. . .do that?! Your. . .naked chest. . .touched. . .me!” I shrill, wagging my finger at him.

  Eyes wide, mouth gaping, chest heaving, I try to inhale enough oxygen as my body trembles uncontrollably.

  I think I’m going to faint!

  Smirking—yes, freaking smirking—Lachlan leans against the white bedroom wall with his arms tucked over his broad, tattooed chest. I’ve never seen him smirk, or smile, or anything. It’s sexy. Ridiculously sexy and lopsided. Lord help me.

  “Aye, my naked chest touched ye. And my hand was close tae yer arse, too.”

  Did he just make a joke? I think he did.

  Knitting my brows together, I frown. “Did you. . .just. . .make a. . .joke?”

  The smirk that I didn’t know even existed, until now, grows. The damn thing grows! Something between my legs takes notice and likes it; likes it a lot. This isn’t good.

  “Aye, I did.” He sounds like he’s making fun of me.

  “You made. . .a joke,” I reiterate, because I’m lame and apparently want to make myself sound even dumber than usual.

  Way to go, Magdalene.

  He nods this time, and those gorgeous teal eyes of his light up with humor. Then, out of my periphery, I swear I catch something enormous twitch in his sweats. This cannot be happening!

  Keeping my eyes tipped, so I don’t look at something that may or may not be moving in his pants, I fumble with my hands in my lap to distract myself, and blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Why. . .didn’t. . .you. . .leave her. . .sooner?”

  This is none of my business; I know I shouldn’t have asked. However, I’m still curious to know. Ever since Whisky explained that stuff, my curiosity has been eating at me.

  Parting my lips to apologize, because I know it’s not my place, Lachlan beats me to it as his smirk drifts away. “I’m sorry she hurt ye. And I’m sorry I didnae make ye come with me tae the party that night.”

  Ummm. . .that wasn’t his choice to make.

  “I didn’t want. . .to. . .go.” It’s true; I didn’t, and he needs to understand that.

  Lachlan’s body twists back and forth like he’s uncomfortable with the subject. “Aye, I know.” He stops twisting. “But, I woulda bloody well preferred ye bein’ there. And if ye’d come, then she wouldn’t have hurt ye.” His tone turns sour. “I know I shoulda left her arse years ago.”

  I’m not going to argue with his last statement, because he’s right. He should have. She doesn’t deserve to breathe in the same room as him or Bridget, let alone living under the same roof. Not that I deserve that either, but I’m nothing like Meredith, I can tell you that much.

  Why in the bloody fuckin’ hell am I standin’ here, actin’ like her sittin’ on that bed, in that pretty little nightdress, isn’t all that I can think ab
oot?

  Did I crack a joke? What was I supposed tae say? Na? That her talkin’ aboot my chest makes me just as uncomfortable as it does her? Then I had tae fake a smirk, which turned into a real one after that expression of wonderment crossed her bonnie face. Why cannae I act like a normal fuckin’ lad in her presence?

  My cock jumps.

  Aye, that’s bloody well why. I like her too much. Even after pukin’ in the bathroom after jackin’ off, I still cannae keep from gettin’ hard. I’m at half-mast now, lookin’ at her look at me, with those big green-blue eyes, tryin’ not tae stare at my chest. When she falters, my cock happily takes notice. Not sure why, but I like her eyes on me. And I sure as bloody hell love havin’ my eyes on her. That creamy nightdress she’s wearin’ barely covers her luscious tits that are now heavin’ out of the top. Na wonder the officer takin’ her statement couldn’t take his eyes off her, and went and gave her his number. I’m gonna find that card and throw the damn thing in the trash.

  Pokin’ my tongue out, I sweep my bottom lip as Mags shifts on the mattress, yankin’ up the covers tae meet her waist. Leanin’, her shoulders rest against the wall where a headboard should be. Pirate chooses then tae enter the room, and jumps on the bed. Tuggin’ him closer, she sets him in her lap and scratches him as he nuzzles closer. Lucky bastard.

  Yawnin’, she tips her head toward the ceilin’. The long, slender skin of her neck has me samplin’ my bottom lip again as I wonder what her skin tastes like right there─below her ear. Bet it’s sweet. That thought has me springin’ rock-solid. Pre-come drips off the head of my shaft, dampenin’ the cotton of my bloody sweats, as my ravenous guilt rears its ugly head once more. I think it’s time tae leave.

  Pushin’ off the wall, I turn tae the door and stop when she calls tae my back. “Lachlan, I’m sorry. . .you. . .have to. . .divorce her.”