Trace stared at her, his face mostly hidden by shadow, but his eyes were hard. Harder than she’d ever seen them. He was just like her. When the real threat snuck up on him, he stood his ground, but his face was a mask and he erected impenetrable walls around his heart.
“It was all for you,” he said roughly. “I wanted out, but I couldn’t figure out a way until I found you again. I’m going to get out this time. For good. I have a way. It has to work.”
Sandra nodded. “I really want that for you. I want you to be safe and well. I want you to learn how to be happy. I just- can’t be a part of it. I’m sorry.”
“We have a son together,” Trace protested, clutching at straws. She’d winded him with her refusal. He didn’t know what to say and it was clear he didn’t want to just walk away. She didn’t want him to either, but what she wanted and what she needed to do were two very different things.
“I know we have a son,” Sandra said softly. “But you can’t be in his life like this. I’m not willing to have you walk in and out of it and like I said, I don’t know you. It would be like me letting a stranger into my house. Would you want me to just invite other men in? To make them a part of Alex’s life without knowing a single thing about them?”
Trace’s shoulders rose and fell as he sighed. “Of course not, but I’m not just anyone. I’m not some guy. You can trust me. I promise that I won’t break your heart again. You can trust me. I would never do anything to hurt my son or endanger him or you.”
“I want to believe that,” Sandy whispered. Anger crawled up her throat when tears pricked the backs of her eyes. “I really do, but I can’t. You have to try and see things from my point of view. Words aren’t enough.”
Trace stepped forward, but she stumbled back. She couldn’t let him touch her or she’d come completely undone, just like before. “It’s not you that I don’t trust. Not really.” Her whispered confession left them both reeling. “It’s myself.” She whirled and stumbled blindly past the corner of the apartment building to the front door. Surprisingly, Trace let her go. He didn’t grab her and haul her back, take her hand, pull her, try and fucking kidnap her again.
When she reached the front door, she fumbled in her purse for her keys and was relieved when her fingers closed around them right away. Her hands were a mess and it was a miracle she could even get the key in the lock and the door open. She flew inside after, but the sense of safety and security she craved so badly when the door closed behind her eluded her.
She very much doubted she’d ever feel safe or secure again.
She’d always know that somewhere out there, half of her heart was missing. She couldn’t believe that the stupid saying was true. She couldn’t live with Trace and she couldn’t live without him. Literally. Because it felt like her heart had just been butchered in her chest. She actually reached up and rubbed it, the pain was so great. How could she even be alive and functioning when her lungs ached to the point where it was nearly impossible to even draw another breath?
Sandra’s heavy feet somehow took her down the hallway, right to her door. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cool, dirty wall. She had to compose herself before she went in, before she faced Alex. She had to pretend that everything was normal and that everything was going to be okay.
It shouldn’t be that hard. She’d been telling herself that lie for nearly a decade.
Chapter 14
TRACE
The sound of his footsteps scraping over the brick patio in the piece of shit Steven’s backyard was the only noise that disturbed the peaceful night. The moon was just a sliver overhead, giving him the cover of darkness. The backyard, a monstrosity of plants, a large pool, and a brick patio, was at odds with the modern frontage of the house. The house, by all accounts, looked minimalist, like the only pieces of furniture in the whole damn four thousand square feet were probably a bed and a couch. The appliances probably did all the cooking themselves. Fucking Steven probably had a robot to do all his chores for him too. Or a cook and a maid. Probably more likely.
His house made it obvious that he was the kind of man who liked to live well. No wonder he dealt drugs on the side to supplement his already enormous income. Tax free was the way to go. The backyard looked like it belonged to a Victorian monolith, one of those houses that always stood out on the internet because it was two hundred years old, painted black and purple, the kind people called haunted, but wanted to take photos of and spend a night in, all the same.
Trace’s hand hovered over the door. He almost considered not coming.
What was the point? Sandra didn’t want anything to do with him. Not that he could blame her. He wanted to kick his own ass for being so stupid. How could he just have assumed that if he showed up at her door that she’d take him back. She was right. He’d walked out on her twice. She had no reason to trust him.
He knew she still loved him the same way he’d always known that his heart would belong to her for the rest of his life.
How could he foolishly have thought that was enough?
She was right about him being a stranger too. He didn’t even know himself anymore. She didn’t know the half of what he’d done. He wasn’t that same man anymore.
He thought about letting Steven be, considering that there really wasn’t any point in finding out who the rat was. At least he thought so in his depressed musings the night before. After he’d left Sandra’s, he’d gone to some dive bar and drank himself stupid. He’d woke up in the morning on the side of some fucking downtown street with no idea how he got there. Luckily he looked like a mean mother fucker, even passed out, and he hadn’t been disturbed. His wallet and phone were still in his back pocket. His head felt like someone had kicked the shit out of him, but hell, it had been a long time since he drank himself into oblivion.
His hangover wasn’t much better and even the sound of his own knuckles on Steven’s solid wood, fancy ass, monolith of a back door, boomed through his head like someone had stuck him into the business end of a cannon and fired it off.
I have no one but myself to blame for that. For all of this. Sandra was right. I made my fucking bed. It’s only fair that I keep laying in it. A-fucking-lone.
The door opened and Steven stepped out. He was dressed in a suit of all things. An expensive looking one that was navy blue and had a slight shimmer to it. He looked well groomed. It pissed Trace off that the guy should look so good when he himself stood there looking like the reaper was breathing down his neck.
He’d gladly give in to the fucker too. After a decade he’d finally come to his senses. He wanted a better life. He wanted more. He wanted Sandy. He wanted his son. Without them, what did any of it matter?
“I’ve- been waiting for you- to- to show up,” Steven stammered. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other and Trace really hoped the fucker wouldn’t piss himself again. He didn’t think he could stomach it at the moment. Although, on second thought, it would give him a perverse amount of satisfaction to empty his stomach all over the guy’s three thousand dollar designer suit.
“You know, if you lived a simpler lifestyle, streamlined and downsized and all that shit, you wouldn’t have to deal on the side. You could avoid this whole unsavory back alley style bullshit.”
Steven had the nerve to actually roll his eyes. “I like my house. Nothing wrong with wanting nice things and working to get them.”
“Right. I forgot you’re a hardworking, tax paying citizen.”
“I pay my taxes like everyone else.”
It was Trace’s turn to roll his eyes, though the movement hurt. “Please. Fucking save that shit for someone who cares. You might pay your goddamn taxes, but we all know you’re not a fucking saint.”
“I never claimed to be.”
“Obviously you thought you were worth something, since you dared to ever lay a hand on Sandra. You thought that a piece of shit scum fucking bag like you was good enough to be in her life? You were wrong. You’re nothing. Fucking
lower than dirt. Or maybe you do know it. You’re obviously over-compensating for something with this house. Your three sports cars. Your seventeen watches. Your vacation property in Jamaica.”
Steven’s eyes widened and Trace laughed. It was a hard, bitter sound that sent a shard of glass racing straight between his eyes. It embedded itself in his brain and he barely suppressed a painful groan. “That’s right, dickwad, I know all about you. I know everything there is to know. I know that you like to watch porn at seven sharp on Tuesday nights, like it’s some kind of sacred ritual. I know the contents of your laptop and your bank accounts. I won’t touch them. I’ll actually let you go in peace if you give me what I want.”
“You- the rat,” Steven stammered, all his earlier confidence gone.
“That’s right. The rat. Do you have a name for me?”
Steven’s face went stark fucking white. The back door didn’t have a security light or any kind of light. The moon was barely bright enough to illuminate Steven’s complexion, but Trace could tell that his face was definitely devoid of blood.
“I- I don’t have a name. I couldn’t find out who is leaking information in your club. Your own fucking president should figure that out for himself and control his own organization.”
“Thanks for the lecture,” Trace said, sounding bored. “I guess since you don’t know, I’m going to have to break your fucking legs and end you though.”
Steven began to blubber, his mouth opening and closing, working double time, without a single coherent sound making their way out. “W-w-w- wait,” he stammered.
Trace sighed. “Damn. I really thought that I was going to have some fun tonight. I could use it right about now.” He cracked his knuckles loudly.
“I- I- I…”
“Just shut the fuck up and tell me,” Trace ground out. “I’m losing my fucking patience here. Not that I had much to begin with. I had a rough night. Don’t test me on this, douchebag.”
Steven started to quiver, his hands visibly shaking. His mouth did that blubbering fish bullshit again and Trace wanted to slam his fist into the bastard’s lips just to make it stop.
“I- I- I-”
“I got that. You, you, you, just spit it the fuck out. Right. Fucking. Now.”
Something must have clicked in the weasel’s brain, because he did spit it out. Amazingly enough. “I have something better than the rat. I wasn’t able to figure out who that was, but I did find something else out. Your club is worse off than you think. Bone’s shipment of drugs, coming in four days, the heroin, it’s a trap. There is going to be an assassination attempt on him by a man named Sergei Yurokov. He’s a Russian who is trying to make a name for himself here. He was big in Philly, but he wants to expand his operations to other states. Detroit is ripe for it, for obvious reasons. If you want to keep your Prez alive, I suggest you tell him.” Steven shrugged. “Although from what I heard, you’re all better off without the bastard.”
Trace found his hands balled into fists at his sides. “How do I know you aren’t feeding me some bullshit line to buy yourself time to skip town?”
“Because,” Steven hedged. “You know everything about me. If I left, I know you’d track me down. You’d find me and make me pay. You might not like me, but I’m not a stupid man. I got the information from John Anders himself. It wasn’t hard. I told him that Bone knew he’d taken the drugs, that I found out through a mutual friend who overhead a conversation. I warned him, and in turn he gave me something else. That information. He literally told me Bone wouldn’t be a problem because soon he was going to be taken the fuck out. I got the rest out of him easily enough.”
“John Anders isn’t a stupid man either.”
Steven shrugged, a little more confident once again. His face was still stark white, but his shoulders were back, his spine straight. He sensed that the tides had turned and the night wasn’t going to end with his funeral. At least for the moment, he was safe.
“I have ways of getting the information. Anders doesn’t see me as a threat. We’re friends, of a sort. He knows that I’m good for my word. That I’m a businessman, like he was before he saw an opportunity to go into business for himself. We’re cut from the same cloth.”
Trace just about did vomit at that. “Just because you both wear expensive suits doesn’t mean you’re cut from the same cloth. You did me a solid, I guess, lucky for you, so I’ll give you a tip. If I was you, which I’m fucking thankful that I’m not, I wouldn’t go saying anything like that to John Anders. He might take offense. He might not be as forgiving as I am.”
If it was possible, Steven’s face whitened further. His eyes widened and his mouth parted again. Before it could start the horrible fish lip flopping that was so completely abhorrent, Trace reached out and set his hand on Steven’s jaw. The guy’s skin was cold and clammy and he just about gagged for the third time since he’d walked into Steven’s back yard. He snapped Steven’s mouth shut, patted him on the shoulder, and flashed him an extra creepy, extra greasy, shit-eating grin.
“Thanks for the info. I really appreciate your cooperation.” He gave Steven’s shoulder one last pat. “And just in case you forgot, stay the fuck away from Sandra and her son.”
The piece of shit nodded so hard it looked like his head was going to snap off his neck and roll down the patio stones. It would probably still be nodding when it came to a stop, mouth opening and closing uselessly.
Trace shuddered at the thought. What a vile fucking image.
He turned and left the way he came, blending seamlessly into the shadows. He made sure that Steven saw him disappear, like a wraith, like a man who belonged to the night, like a soulless creature who wasn’t altogether human.
The worst part?
He knew all those things were at least partially true.
Chapter 15
SANDRA
On Monday afternoon, Alex came home from school, as excited and energetic as always. Sandra wished for just an ounce of her son’s boundless energy. After a long shift at the diner, she was exhausted, as usual. She’d had two cups of coffee, but the caffeine hadn’t exactly kicked in yet. She was tired just watching Alex flit around the apartment.
“Can you pick up your backpack and put it on the chair or in your room?” Sandra gently reminded. She walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and got out the container of chocolate milk. She poured a huge glass full while Alex gave her a sheepish smile, tucked his runners into the closet, and picked up his backpack. They went through the same routine every other day. He knew he had to pick up after himself and she knew she’d keep having to gently remind him.
“Chocolate milk!” Alex took the glass from her. “You’re the best, mom.”
Sandra smiled. She ruffled her son’s hair, even though she knew that he hated it. He wasn’t a baby anymore. No, he was rapidly growing into a young man who very closely resembled his father in appearance.
She used to like that, that Alex looked so much like Trace. Now… now it hurt a little bit. Now she knew he was never coming back. Now she’d crushed all her own foolish hopes and banished all the fantasies, and extinguished the flame she’d kept burning foolishly and uselessly in her heart for so long.
Sandra crossed her arms, more to ward off the hurt and wall up her heart than anything else. She leaned hard against the counter, so hard that the edge cut into her lower back painfully. She liked the little shivery burst of discomfort. It took her thoughts off of her inner pain.
“Do you like living here? In the city I mean? I- overall.”
Alex snapped his head up. He had a chocolate milk mustache, but for once, Sandra didn’t comment on it. He realized a second later anyway, and wiped it off with the back of his hand, which he promptly wiped on his jeans. She said nothing, though she eyed the mark.
“Uhhh yeah, I guess. I like my school. I like that I have lots of friends. Why?” Alex eyed her suspiciously. “Are we moving?”
“No, no,” Sandra was quick to assure him. “I just
wanted to make sure that you’re happy.”
Alex frowned. “I’m always happy, mom. I like living here.”
“You- it’s okay that we don’t live in a house like some of your friends?”
“Not all my friends live in houses.”
“And it’s okay that- that it’s just me?” She nearly winced when she asked the question. She’d never actually voiced her doubts about her own inadequacy, or asked Alex what he felt about not having a dad. It was something that they’d never brought up. He’d never once asked her about his father or where he was or why he wasn’t in the picture.
Alex nodded solemnly. He set his glass on the table, eyes wide. He was so mature for his age. He’d always been an incredibly smart, perceptive, compassionate child, but Sandra also made it a point never to lie to him about anything. If he asked her a question, she tried to find a way to explain it to him so that he could understand, no matter how young he was.
Her son wrapped his arms around her waist. She hugged him back automatically. She closed her eyes against the tears welling up. She’d also always made it a point to be strong for Alex. She couldn’t remember there being a time when she’d ever let him see her cry, unless it was over silly things like a stubbed toe or a banged funny bone or something that naturally produced tears of pain. Tears over a broken heart… she saved those for behind closed doors.
“I love you, mom. You’re always enough.” Alex pulled away a fraction and stared up at her solemnly. “You don’t even need to ask me something like that. You’ve always been here for me. You always will be.”
Lonely Rider - The Box Set: A Motorcycle Club Romance - The Complete Series Page 60
