Beyond Her Words (Corrupt Chaos MC)

by Bink Cummings

  “What happened?” Lachlan asks, his hand tightening on my back as if he’s scared of what my reaction might be.

  I get that. I did just cry like a fool. Somehow, though, I feel better after that cry. I don’t cry much, or never did before my near-death accident. But I’ve come to the conclusion that crying is cathartic, even if it makes me feel like a weak woman.

  “He died.” I let it all hang out there for a moment before I explain the rest, because I know if I don’t, he’ll ask anyhow.

  The body below me goes ridged.

  “It was planting season. Brian. . .ran. . .his. . .father's farming equipment. I. . .was supposed to bring. . .him. . .dinner. And I ran. . .late, helping. . .my grams. Something. . .must have happened. . .that he got. . .out of the cab. . .and. . .ran over. . .by a. . .tire. By the time. . .I got there. . . he was ice cold. Called the. . .ambulance, anyhow. They took. . .him. . .away. His father. . .then had him...cremated. Even though. . .Brian wanted. . .buried. Never. . .got the. . .ashes. His father. . .kept them all.”

  I leave out the gory details, even though Lachlan could probably handle them. But I don’t think he needs to know about his organs being crushed, and rigor mortis had set in by the time the ambulance had finally showed up. Or that the cop that also came had to peel me off his dead body, because I refused to let him go. It’s also best I don’t tell him about being sedated by heavy medications for the entire month after Brian’s death just so I’d stop puking and crying day after day. At that time, nobody knew that only a few months later my grams would also be dead, too, and I’d be left in an even deeper pit of despair that I’ve had to live with since.

  Lachlan squeezes me in a hug, pressing my face to his chest. “I’m sorry for yer loss.” His arms loosen around me, and the one in my hair disengages, moving to curl around my side. I raise my head to meet his gaze.

  Somehow, I feel like a massive weight has been lifted, making me feel lighter.

  “How long ago did he die?” he asks.

  “Ten years.”

  Answering his question leads to another and then another. Soon, I feel like I’ve shed my skin and I’m opening up like I’ve never opened up before by telling him things that I’ve never spoken aloud to anyone. From Brian and I, and our car rebuilding, to my love for gardens, and obsession with my garlic bulbs. Which he reassured me he found under his ex’s car downstairs, somehow untouched. Divine intervention strikes again, and for that, I’m immensely grateful. By the time I’ve exhausted all of my stories about Brian, and a tiny bit about grams, the light of dawn begins to shine through the bedroom window.

  Covering my mouth with my palm, I yawn behind it, and Lachlan leans in, resting his forehead on mine. “My leannan, I think it’s aboot time for ye tae lay yer wee head down tae rest.”

  The urge to argue arises, because I don’t want to sleep. If I sleep, I’m afraid this entire night will have been a dream, never to have happened. I don’t want that. I want to remember sitting on Lachlan’s lap for hours, talking and sharing my life, while he listens contently, chiming in when necessary. The truth is, he’s not confided in me much, and Whisky has filled in most of the holes. But I hope one day he’ll feel comfortable enough to let his guard down, and maybe I’ll be the one to hold his hand through it. Then again, maybe not.

  Lachlan lifts his forehead from mine, rubbing his hand up and down my back. “Ye need some sleep.”

  Innocently shaking my head, I burrow deeper into his chest, snuggling my face between his pecs, while my arm curls around his thick torso, holding on. “I don’t. . .want to,” I whine like a teenage school girl, swirling my nose in the most amazing chest hair. I’ve never loved chest hair before this. Brian didn’t have any. Now, it’s like chocolate to me—addicting. I don’t want it to go.

  An amused rumble battles in his chest, and those arms lock tightly around me, keeping me just as close as I want to be. Taking pleasure in his tenderness, I expel a satisfied sigh at the comfort in this moment. There’s nothing like it in all the world. I just had to get over my closeness and insecurity issues and pretend that I’m beautiful, worthy, and not completely scared out of my mind to be here. With those falsities in place, I can indulge and bask in the airy lightness, and accept the sense of satisfaction that has budded and tunneled roots, deep into my soul.

  “I gotta workout, and ye gotta sleep.” He tries again to coax me from my Lachlan bubble. I don’t think it’s going to work.

  Stubbornly, I shake my head this time and lightheartedly argue. “You. . . need. . . sleep. . . too.” He hasn’t slept any, either.

  In reply, I’m gifted an untamed growl from his chest that vibrates through me. If it were any other day, I’d probably be terrified. Now, it awakens other parts of me to take notice. And to distract those parts, I inhale sharply to focus on his scent, which does nothing to ease the hunger igniting below. If anything, it makes it worse. Next, to offer further distraction, I shift enough so I’m able to lay my hand on his stomach. Hair tickles my palm, as does the heat of a warm, feral man, who is now growling louder, deeper; so fiercely that it’s making him breathe harder, and by doing so, I, too, begin to pant.

  God, listen to that noise.

  I shudder.

  Distracted by him, I don’t realize where my hand travels. Heading north, it glides between the hard rippling plains of his abs to the base of his pecs, where I am forced to stop when my fingers meet my own chin resting there. I jerk away in surprise, staring at my palm in astonishment. I can’t believe how bold I’ve suddenly become.

  Lachlan doesn’t let me go far, for too long, when he yanks me back to his chest. My arms instinctually hug his torso, head tucked back in its rightful place.

  Lips graze the top of my hair, and my body shivers again, my southern parts throbbing. “I’ll stay until ye go tae sleep. Then I’ll go tae the barn.”

  “Okay,” I whisper before pressing a tiny kiss between his pecs. Not sure if he feels it or not. And secretly, I hope he doesn’t so that I can treasure the memory for myself. “Thank you. . .Lachlan.” My eyes grow heavy, body turning into emotionally sated mush.

  “Goodnight, Mags,” is the last thing I hear before the sandman takes me away, to sweet dreams of a warm Scottish man and his perfect body melded to mine.

  Bliss.

  Punchin’ the heavy bag hangin’ from the rafter in my barn, I try tae focus on my need for exertion as the throbbin’ music of Rob Zombie fuels my adrenaline. Not that I need his help. I could run twenty miles nonstop in this fuckin’ state.

  Mags slept on my chest? On. My. Chest. Lips, on my bloody fuckin’ chest! Didnae take her long tae pass out. I knew she was tired by the way her body kept saggin’ against mine. Not that I minded, but fuck, all that soft, warm plushness rubbin’ all over me─I’m half surprised I didnae black out from bein’ so wound up. My cock even stayed hard through her tragic stories. That’s fucked, I know. I just cannae help it.

  Hell, her fiancée died in a farmin’ accident. What was I supposed tae say aboot that? Then, she decided tae tell me all that other shit, aboot them, aboot her life back then, aboot fixin’ up her car, and all that other important stuff that made me jealous as bloody fuckin’ hell. I cannae believe I want tae kill an already dead lad for proposin’ tae her durin’ sex in the back of her car. I dinnae want tae think aboot her havin’ sex with anybody, in any place, even the back of her car. Just aboot saw red at that juncture, until she shook in my arms, aboot tae cry again. I cannae stand watchin’ her cry. It rips my own damn heart out.

  Dinnae take this the wrong way, I’m happy she told me. But, when a woman ye seem tae care aboot is tellin’ ye aboot the lad she’s still in love with, it’s a slow agonizin’ death. Thought I knew what pain was until I got tae hear how great and perfect the lad was. And I’m not gonna deny that he was. From her stories, he seemed like a perfect fit for her. Which tells me, even more than I already know, that I’m the last lad she could ever want. Cannae blame her. Meredith thought I was shit; m
akes sense that Mags would feel somethin’ similar.

  Throwin’ my bare fist into the bag, it swings wide and I plow it with a one-two twist, and pitch a roundhouse kick. Movin’ back tae stance, I bounce off the balls of my feet, shakin’ my arms out at my sides. I’m gonna need a good three hours out here today tae work some of this aggression out. If not, I might as well never set foot around Mags again, or I’m liable tae bite her bonnie little head off. That, or somethin’ worse—like try tae fuck her.

  One thing I now know for bloody sure, is I need tae keep my distance from her. It’s for her own good.

  6 Weeks Later

  I can’t flippin’ believe it! I just can’t! Today is my first day on the new job. Yes, that means at Cas’s shop. I’m nervous, and a little excited, too. It’ll be nice to have some time away from the house. Lord knows, I’m in desperate need of it.

  Standing in front of the dresser, I stuff my legs into my overalls and click the metal tabs together at my shoulders. My matching white tank top, bra, and panties are concealed underneath, along with my leg brace. I can’t decide if this itches more, or if the cast was worse. I’m just happy to be on the mend and able to walk again. It’s only been a couple weeks, but my freedom has never felt so sweet, and I don’t think I’ll ever miss that wheelchair for as long as I live.

  Finishing with socks and my worn work boots, I slip out of the bedroom and into the bath to finish my hair and makeup. While I do that, why don’t I fill you in on my boring life for the past six weeks? Sound good? You nodding? Yippy skippy. . .I thought so.

  Other than my voice turning back to normal, and my cast coming off, there’s not much else to explain. The basement took two weeks to fix with the help of Lachlan’s club brothers. Who knew there were an entire slew of heavily tatted bikers to lend a hand? Not me.

  During those two grueling weeks, where hammers and saws worked at all hours of the day, I stayed in my room, as far away from them as possible. I’m not comfortable around Lachlan part of the time, and adding half-dressed men, some of which are quite attractive, made me not want to risk embarrassing myself—or worse, Lachlan. So yeah, it’s fixed now, and Bridget’s back to living downstairs while I remain upstairs. I like it better up here, anyhow. It gives Bridget more privacy, and me a covered front porch or the raised back deck to lounge on while I indulge in fictional fantasies.

  Hum. . .what else can I tell you? Bridget’s back to school and still working part-time for Whisky. Not that you really need to know that. Lachlan’s continues to work two days a week, and any time he’s not working, he’s working out, or gone. He hasn’t spent much time here, other than to catch a few winks and grab a bite to eat now and again.

  To be helpful and pass some time, I’ve made it my duty to have sandwiches and lemonade stocked in the fridge for whenever he does drop in to munch. He must like it, because the food’s always gone.

  A couple of days ago, I whipped up a batch of brownies, which I’m sure aren’t even close to as delicious as something Whisky can bake, but I was craving chocolate. Not much good that did me. By the time I’d made them, took a shower, and had a nap, I woke up and found most of the pan empty on the stove and no Lachlan anywhere to be found.

  Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, there’s not much I can say on that front. . .Lachlan-wise, that is. Our conversations now resemble those of a traveling roommate, or neighbor; always basic and straight to the point. We haven’t shared anything of importance since the night Meredith was carted off by the cops. Sometimes I wonder if that night ever happened at all. It seems like more of a fantasy that I concocted in a state of emotional exhaustion, not one based in reality. Yes, I’ve been tempted to ask why he doesn’t speak with me anymore. But every time I see him, he looks worn-out and irritated. And I don’t want to poke at the bull, because I’m sure I’ll get the horns. Instead, I keep it light and pretend I don’t care. Even though, I do. I care so much it hurts.

  Hey, now don’t you frown, too. One of us has to try to stay upbeat. I’m leaving that to you. Okay?

  On a less of a Debbie Downer note, on nights I know Bridget’s going to be home, I make us supper that we eat on her little table in the basement. It’s really nice, and highly informative, since she’s always spilling girly gossip; sometimes more than I care to hear, but like it anyhow. However, most days and nights, I read. I’ve also taken to walking around outside with Pirate, and through the woods surrounding Lachlan’s property to try and regain strength. Other than that, life’s been boring, and for once, anticlimactic. Except for the two days a week I travel into Carolina Rose for therapy. That is one experience that is an utter waste of my time and not something I need bother you with right now. So I won’t. Instead, I’ll finish coating my eyelashes in mascara, and dab on the lip-gloss that Bridget gave me.

  “Ye aboot ready?” Lachlan startles me and I jerk to, dropping the lip stuff into the sink. On instinct, my hand clutches at my chest, where my heart pounds, as I use my free hand to snatch up the rolling lip-gloss before I swing to face him.

  “You scared me,” I breathe, flustered.

  He shrugs, standing in the doorway, arms hanging casually from the frame. The blue Harley shirt he’s wearing today leaves nothing to the imagination. Not that any of his shirts afford me that reprieve. Guess when you have a body like that, you should show it off. Some women probably love it. I don’t, not anymore. It tends to make the attraction I feel more potent. When really, I need it to be watered-down. Watered-down is ideal. Ideal, is a pipedream. Damn it.

  Lachlan eyes me from head to toe, stopping on my face. “Ye’re not wearin’ that today,” he comments, non-threateningly.

  I’m not?

  Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I cock my head to the side. “This is my work outfit. I’m wearing it.”

  “Ye need to put more clothes on.” His eyes rake my form again, landing back on my face. Those intense eyes bore into mine.

  He can’t be serious? More clothes? I’m in jean overalls and a tank top. The only thing more concealing is a freakin’ parka. And I’m not doing that; it’s too hot out. Plus, it’s not his call. I can wear whatever I want. He never seemed to have this problem when I wore all those dresses. Now I’m back to normal clothes, clothes that I feel comfortable in, and make me feel like me. I’m not changing. He can eat dirt for all I care. Okay, I do care. I don’t want him to eat dirt. Ignore that.

  “I’m not changing. There is nothing wrong with this.” I stick my hip out, going for defiant attitude, and failing just a little at it. I’m not one for drama, and he’s slowly opening that can of worms.

  “Yer tits are aboot tae pop out.” He motions to my chest, which most certainly isn’t going to pop out anytime soon. I have a bra on, a full coverage one, and the tank top touches my throat. It’s not low cut. Someone is off his rocker today, and to prove my point, I untuck one hand from my pocket and tug on the collar of my tank.

  “This isn’t going to move from my neck.” I pluck at the collar once more, shaking my head in exasperation, my tone suggesting the same. “It doesn’t accidently drift down as the day goes on. I don’t know what imaginary clothes you think I’m wearing, but this is standard shop clothes. Clothes that are plenty appropriate for the workplace.”

  “Do ye know car magazines and porn show all of the lassies in overalls and white shirts? Ye’re wearin’ overalls and a white shirt. Ye need tae change.” He’s resolute, and too flippin’ tense about my clothes.

  I don’t even want to know what magazines and porn he’s been watching or reading. Most of them don’t have women covered. Most of the time, they’re in skimpy clothes, with their fake headlights flashing like shiny beacons for the men to feast their dirty eyes on. None of them dress like this. So instead of making a big scene and fighting with him, I travel the high road. Sarcasm.

  Clasping my hands in front of me like a shy school girl, I try my best to act the part and keep my voice timid. “Why, Daddy, I’m sorry I look
like a tramp. I shall go change into a velour pantsuit and parka.” I curtsy, bowing my head, and keep it bowed until he responds. I don’t have to wait long for a rushed growl and the word ‘fuck’ to ricochet off the walls in the bathroom.

  I glance up, still playing my part of the shy girl. I know it’s craptastic to act this way, but it’s fun, and he’s got to learn a lesson one way or another. I’m not sure what his deal is today. I just know that it has nothing to do with my clothes. Then again, I’m not going to pry either. This is the most he’s interacted with me in almost a week. The last thing I want to do is make him angry when he already looks broody and irritated most of the time.

  Taking a bountiful step forward, where I’m merely a foot away from him, I tilt my head back to meet his gaze. “Shall I pass, sir?”

  Not budging, he curses under his heavily accented tongue. Then drops his arms from the frame, standing tall and towering over me while his chest expands with each laden breath. “Go get yer coat, and I’ll meet ye out by the bike.” He slowly steps to the side, giving me just enough room to pass.

  Out by the, what?

  I’d spoken to Bridget just yesterday about driving the SUV to work, and that Whisky would pick her up from school. I’m not riding any bike. Especially not Lachlan’s.

  Frozen, feet glued to the ugly tiled floor, I expel a long bated breath that I didn’t realize I was harboring. Unable to look directly at Lachlan, I stare straight ahead, out of the bathroom door, and reply as strongly as I’m able, “I’m not riding on your motorcycle.”

  He doesn’t give me a chance to formulate a rebuttal before he shoots back. “Aye, ye are. Pip has the Tahoe, and ye need a ride tae work. I’m goin’ into town, and I’ll drop ye on my way. Then I’ll pick ye up when ye get off.”

  Snapping to face him, I glower. “Why would Pi—Bridget have the Tahoe? She told me yesterday that she would catch a ride with some friends in the morning, and Whisky would get her from school. We planned this,” I heatedly explain, which seems to be lost on him when my tone doesn’t penetrate his Macho Man exterior.