by Jc Emery
Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.
Lao Tzu
Earlier that day…
BEING WITH RYAN, in whatever capacity we’ve been together these last few days, has been amazing. He’s so good at distracting me from the hell that’s about to be brought down on my life, and even worse—those around me. My family. I catch him watching me, just like he watched Jim and Ruby the other day. There’s a longing in his eyes that he doesn’t want me to see. And I don’t really understand it. I want to know what screwed him up so bad that he shut himself down. It won’t last for too long though, I can tell. I’ve been prying past his protective armor. Maybe I should have warned him that I’m persistent.
But right now isn’t about Ryan and me, and it isn’t about Ryan’s issues, either. Looking in the mirror, I take stock of my appearance. For the first time in days, my eyes aren’t red with sorrow. There’s so much to be sad—even scared—about, but Ryan’s right. Avoiding Ruby—my mother—will only make the waiting that much more difficult.
I look down at Tegan, who’s lying by my feet, and snap my fingers. She sits up, chest puffed out—confident, in control—and waits for another command. I’m envious of her confidence. This is really damn pathetic, being jealous of a dog who sniffs crotches as a way of greeting.
“I guess we have to just do it, huh?” I ask. She doesn’t move until I snap my fingers again and pat my leg twice. Leaving my room and walking into the kitchen, slowly, with Tegan at my side, I can’t help but fidget. I spent two months with Ruby, growing to love her, willing up the courage to ask her about my mother. All the while not knowing, never really suspecting. Looking back, I suppose there were myriad clues, had I been paying attention.
I round the corner of the fridge and come into view, and wait to be noticed. It’s an old nervous habit from life with my father, a man who didn’t like to be interrupted unless it be absolutely necessary. Ruby stands at the peninsula, chopping carrots and tossing them into a commercial-sized pot beside her. Her hair is up in a butterfly barrette, and her face is free of make-up. She looks tired, worse than I’ve ever seen her. Selfishly, I hope she’s worried about our relationship and not the impending threat. I hope she wants to be my mother as much as I want to be her daughter.
I can’t kid myself though. I don’t envy her position. She has three children—four if you count Ryan—and one of them might have to hurt another one in order to protect me. What might happen isn’t something I can process, so instead, I avoid thinking about it.
“Hi,” I whisper, praying like hell she hears me. Then when she stops the knife in mid-air and slowly lifts her head, giving me a soft smile, I almost want to disappear. It’s so different now, knowing who she is, knowing what she did. She’s still Ruby, but now she’s something else, something bigger. And I’m—I don’t really know who I am or how I fit anymore.
“Hey,” she says back, just as softly, setting the knife down.
“Do you need any help?” I ask, pointing to the pot. It takes her a moment before she nods her head and waves me over. I cross the kitchen and get to work chopping celery after she hands me a knife. Standing here like this reminds me of Gloria and how much I miss her. I shut the thought down immediately, knowing I won’t come back from that place if I let myself slip into those kinds of thoughts.
“The guys eat like pigs,” she says. “I don’t know when was the last time I cooked something that didn’t feed an army.” The evening after Ryan and I made love for the first time, six more guys showed up. Jim has a total of ten men on the house. The only change since they arrived was that now Ryan has the man who was on my sliding glass door down in the grass. It was my decision. I told him I wouldn’t be able to be intimate with him if somebody could hear us.
Trying to lighten the mood and to move past this awkward place we’re in, I force out a small laugh and nod my head. “Yeah, Ryan eats like he’ll never be fed again.”
She—my mother—lets out a laugh and shakes her head, saying, “Sex will do that to a man.”
I freeze and keep my eyes trained on the countertop. She’d told me before we even got to California that Ryan was off-limits. Jim told me—and Ryan—more than once that we were to stay away from one another. Going against her wishes isn’t the best way to build a relationship with her. Perhaps I can blame my age for my poor judgment. But no, that won’t do. I think I can be good for Ryan, and apologizing for being with him goes against what I’m trying to accomplish.
“I’m not mad. Please look at me,” she says, setting her knife down and wiping her hands clean on a nearby dish rag. Finding the will, I look her in the eye and wince.
“It’s that obvious?” Shame creeps up my spine and washes over me. My father would have smacked me around a good bit if I’d had sex under his roof—if he knew I’d ever had sex at all. There was never, ever such a thing as equality in that house.
“No,” she says with a smile. “But I suspected. Why do you think I’ve been watching my programs at such a high volume?” I blush under her knowing eye.
“I’m sorry. You asked me to stay away from him, and I should have respected your wishes,” I say.
“I don’t blame you. That boy has his father’s looks and attitude. You didn’t stand a chance. Besides, Jim knows nothing. He’s been staked out at the barn.”
“He really doesn’t know?” I ask, nervously.
“I think this is one of those don’t ask, don’t tell situations. At least that’s how I’m treating it until I can knock some sense into the club.” She huffs out a deep breath and taps her long fingernail on the countertop.
“Will Ryan really lose his patch over me?” I ask. I hate having this conversation about Ryan, especially when there’s so much history I wish I could bring myself to ask her about. But right now, I need to know she’s okay with me and Ryan being together. I need to know what I might cost him and if I’ll have to let him go.
“No,” she scoffs. “Men, they’re all a bunch of blowhards. This will pass, you just wait.”
“Is there anything I can do to show them I won’t hurt the club?”
“Loyalty and time, baby. They’ll see. You just take care of him and don’t let him push you around. Sooner or later they’ll see,” she says.
MY HEAD THROBS and my eyes can’t focus. I think I can hear Michael’s voice at a distance, but I’m not sure. It’s a deep bravado that escalates into angry shouts. Footsteps slap against concrete, growing louder, getting closer. Rusty hinges squeak, bathing me in florescent light. It’s only now that I realize I’m sitting up. My frame is held secure to the chair by rough rope, binding my legs, feet, waist, wrists, and torso. My mouth is dry, but when I try to open it and let out a dry cough, I find it’s bound by tape.
I would be afraid right now, if I could bring myself to focus long enough to understand what’s going on.
“Alex!” Michael shouts. His deep, familiar voice doesn’t fill me with the warm fuzzies it once did. Cold fear washes over me. Michael’s here, and that means my father’s men are here. Michael’s one of his men now, I guess. His soft hand lifts my chin, shaking it a little. The room comes into view. Concrete walls, concrete floor, no windows that I can see, and one dull bulb swinging from a string overhead.
“Where are they, Alex?” he asks, viciously ripping the tape off my mouth. It stings, but takes away from the pain in my head, so I don’t curse him for it. His voice sounds nearly as cold as my father’s right now. He’s so distant, and emotionally removed from the situation. The only thing that gives him away is his hands—they’re smooth.
“Who?” I ask, confused.
“The club,” he says, tightening his grip on my chin. “I need to find them.” I can’t figure out in my head what he wants with the club. He has me. Isn’t that what he came for, to kill me? Or does he want to make them watch?
“The house,” I say. It’s something he already knows, but if he’s asking, that must mean t
hey’ve left the house. Tegan. She tried to protect me and one of my father’s soldatos killed her—a knife to her throat. A painful cry escapes me at the memory. I tried to stop them, to lunge in front of her, but she was faster, and he cut her then knocked me out for my trouble.
“Shut up and focus,” he snaps. His command shocks me into silence. Despite the circumstances, I didn’t expect to hear him talk to me like this. He’s never talked to me like this. But then, he’s also never had me tied up to a chair like this, either. Reaching around my head, he grabs a chunk full of my hair and pulls back on it. My chin points to the ceiling, my neck muscles ache from the position, and it’s hard to breathe like this.
Leaning in close, he whispers, “I’m trying to get you out of here, okay? If dad thinks you’re dead, he won’t send anyone else. You’ll be safe. But you have to trust me. Do you trust me?”
I want to trust him. I want to believe that he can keep me safe. But pretending to be dead means leaving the club behind. It means leaving Ryan behind, and leaving my mother behind. If I leave them, where will I go? Panic seizes my chest, and I shake my head. A firm hand comes down hard on my cheek. The painful sting Michael leaves behind is nothing compared to the blow to my soul.
“Let me help you.”
“Let me go,” I beg. He isn’t having it. Rearing back, he brings another hard slap down to my other cheek. My neck jerks under the pressure, sending an ache up the back of my skull. Still, I try to right myself. When I do, he delivers another blow—this time higher up and across my right eye.
“Why do you want the club?” I choke out, pushing through the pain in my throat. He grabs the back of my neck, pulling my flesh hard against my binding, straining my neck to reach. Our noses touch, and our eyes lock.
“I’m going to kill them,” he says, a smile creeping up on his face. Without losing eye contact, I muster the ability to hash this out. I won’t give up the club, but maybe I can reason with him. Maybe he isn’t so far gone that he won’t be agreeable to a compromise.
“Why? They did nothing to you.”
“Sis, listen, please,” he pleads in the voice I’m used to, telling me that somewhere deep in there is still the boy I once knew. The boy I love and worry that I’ll never see again. But we’ve made our choices, haven’t we? We’re not allies anymore. “If I can kill them—all of them—and burn the clubhouse, and tell Dad you died in the fire, he’ll leave you alone. Don’t you see?”
His eyebrows raise, hopeful, naïve. Stupid fool. Our father will want proof. It’s not that easy, and Michael will never be able to pull it off. I have to believe that if he were to kill me, that it would tear him apart. Otherwise, if my own brother can kill me in cold blood, I’d rather already be dead.
“I’m not going to let you hurt them,” I say. Rage fills his eyes, and he pulls back, then slams his fist into the side of my head. The chair tips to the side, sending me to the concrete. A new flash of pain emanates from my elbow, and I grit my teeth to stop the tears that spring into my eyes.
“You would turn your back on your family for them?” he shouts.
“No, I’m protecting my family,” I shout as he kicks me in the stomach. His undiluted anger pours out of him with every kick he delivers my abdomen. The first few make me queasy and send my eyes rolling into the back of my head in agony. Every inch of me hurts so bad, I’m almost numb. It’s like I can feel everything and nothing. I feel delirious, and the world around me is hazy. I catch myself dozing off, only to snap to, confused. Then I remember where I am and wish I hadn’t, and I pray that I’ll lose consciousness.
Finally, he stops after what feels like a couple dozen or a couple hundred kicks. I widen my eyes, trying to focus on the world around me from this vantage point. Michael towers over me, cursing in frustration. Deep in my heart, I know he’s trying to help me. Once the anger dissipates, I can see the fear. The only reason he could possibly be here is because he volunteered to either kill me or bring me back so someone else can kill me. And if he doesn’t deliver, then he’s in danger, too. A horrible sorrow engulfs me, and, for the first time since I talked to that stupid cop, the gravity of my choice really hits me. I was trying to help my brother back in Brooklyn. But I was also angry and spiteful. I couldn’t have predicted what’s happened, but maybe a piece of me was looking for a way out.
Through Michael’s legs, I see dirty black boots in the distance through the doorway. Forcing myself to focus, I’m able to make out several pairs of dirty boots, and then I spot them—worn black steel-toed boots—Ian’s boots. I’ve never seen him without them. Relief floods my system, then fear takes hold. If I tell Michael the club’s here, he could hurt or kill one of them. I can’t bear to lose a single one of them, even the ones I don’t know. If I don’t tell Michael, they could hurt or kill him.
“Please pick me up,” I whimper. He spouts a few curse words in Italian then leans down and picks up my chair with one hand. The other holds a gold Desert Eagle gun all my father’s men own. Any lingering doubt or hope I had that my brother wasn’t officially connected flies out the window.
“Are you going to tell me where they are?”
“I love you,” I say. And I mean it. It doesn’t matter how much pain he’s inflicted. I may have chosen the club, but I still love him. I’ll always love him. “No,” I say in defiance. Before I can get the word out and take a breath, he slaps me across my temple again. Then again, and again until I lose count. I can’t even tell where the club is now. I’ve lost all sense of my surroundings.
“Keep hitting me,” I say as loud as I can, but it comes out as a mumble. My jaw isn’t quite working right. I’m slurring words, and my tongue keeps getting in the way. “I won’t hurt them.”
Michael’s smooth hands wrap around my neck, squeezing so hard I lose sense of place and time. “Tell me where they are!” he screams into my face.
But then a second later, they’re gone, and he’s gone. A loud crash sounds across the room. A figure kneels in front of me, and a sharp blade closes in on my skin. Shouting ensues with so many voices going at once, I can’t even make out who’s who or how many of them there are. Internally, I panic at the very real possibility of being sliced up just like Tegan. Only, the blade yanks and pulls at my rope binding, and suddenly I’m free. My body slumps into the one crouching in front of me. Strong arms reach out, holding me. And it only takes a moment to know from his scent and his touch, that it’s Ryan.
“I got you, baby,” he whispers in my ear.
“My brother,” I cry out.
Holding me close, he says, “He’s alive.”
It’s not much, but it’s something—the best I can hope for. I have no right to ask them not to kill him, even if I want to. With one arm beneath my knees and one supporting my back, he scoops me up. Moving into a standing position, he walks us out of the room, though to where, I can’t tell. As he walks us to safety, he whispers his apologies in a strangled voice. “I’m so sorry, baby. Please be okay. Please be okay.”
But they’re not the words I want to hear, so I tell him. Or I try to. Through the steady thumping of my heartbeat in my ears, I can’t make out much else besides his voice. With a raspy voice, I mumble, “Are you done fighting it?”
“I’m done, Cub,” he says without hesitation. “Let’s not make a big deal of it, but I love you, too.” It feels good to hear it even if I knew it already. It’s just a little confirmation that he’s willing to go to the mat for me—for us. And once I’m healed up and I can think clearly, we’ll get this mess sorted out with the club. Once everything settles down, I’m going to dig into his commitment issues. Because I’m determined to make this work with him.
As we slide into the back of a SUV, someone else crawls in to our right. Panic swells in my chest at the arrival of another person until I hear the deep, familiar voice. “It’s just me, Princess,” Duke says. Ian slides in to our left, also confirming his presence. The SUV fills with men I can’t identify.
“You’re okay, k
id,” Jim says, his voice breaking in-between words. Ryan’s hand reaches out for mine and he slips his pinky around mine. And for the first time, despite the mild confusion and inexplicable pain, I do feel like I’m okay. More than okay, I feel protected, and whole.
“It’s just a scratch,” I say in a slur. The men around me laugh, all except for Ryan. He remains perfectly still and solid beneath me. I let myself drift off despite Ryan’s attempts to keep me awake. Lost in thought, I think back to all the ways my life has changed these last few months. I’m not that same girl I was back in Brooklyn. I’m braver, stronger, and maybe even a little less co-dependent. But more importantly, I belong somewhere—to someone.
They came in leather and jeans, whisking me away from everything I knew—everything that was about to get me killed—all of the Armani, and bullets, and death. They made me one of them, a part of a family in a way I never had been before. Beyond gratitude and obligation, I chose them. I chose them because they love me, because they accept me, and maybe because they’re wild and rowdy. Maybe because they brought me to my mother. And I still choose them.
They brought me to him, and for that, they’ll always have my loyalty. Because he was my salvation.
Epilogue
Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.
Winston Churchill
SNUGGLED DEEP INTO the covers with Ryan at my back, I let out a heavy yawn. He pulls himself up and peers over me, moving my hair out of my face.
“You okay?” he asks, for what I swear is like the hundredth time today. I bite my bottom lip to keep from telling him that he’s being annoying with all of his questions. I may pout or even give him a dirty look when he does it, but deep down, I live for these moments when he’s all paranoid. I just wish he didn’t have reason to be paranoid.
“I’m okay,” I say and give him a soft smile. He’s got almost a week’s worth of stubble on his chin, as he hasn’t shaved since the morning of the day I was taken. I had a bath yesterday, and that was interesting—he insisted on crawling in there with me. I’m not sure how clean I am, as my skin’s a little filmy, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him he did a poor job.
