Blade (Archer's Creek Book 3)

by Gemma Weir

  She has no idea I’m out here watching her, and her body language is relaxed and comfortable. I’ve never seen her like this. Whenever I’m around her, she’s angry, or defensive, or sad. A pain stabs in my chest and guilt washes over me, but I force the emotion away. I have no reason to feel guilty. She invaded the club, shouting her mouth off and insisting we were the bad guys. She’s been nothing but aggressive and angry toward me and the rest of the club because she doesn’t like bikers. If she’s fucking miserable, that’s of her own making, I’ve only known her for two days.

  Killing the engine on the bike I sit and watch her. Time passes and before I’m aware, my ass is numb from sitting still for hours on end, and it’s 2:15 pm. She has a meeting to view her parents’ house in forty-five minutes.

  Through the window I watch her check the time and shut the lid of her laptop. She leans back in her chair and for a long moment she hugs her knees to her chest and leans her head against them.

  With the barrier of glass and space between us she looks tormented and alone. I recognize it because it’s how I feel every morning when the shadows finally catch up with me and the only escape is to wake up and let consciousness push them down again.

  I don’t want her to know I’m here, so with more reluctance than I’m willing to admit, I ride away from her. As Chestnut Grove disappears behind me, I head towards the clubhouse, but at the last minute I divert and instead ride toward a familiar address. The last time I was here was the day that Dove and Nikki’s parents died. That day I’d come here intending to kill Mayor Jefferies, and I would have done it, I would have ended his life to protect Dove’s. Instead fate, and an angry mob boss stepped in and did it for me. Carduccio, a dirty senator who Dove and Nikki’s father owed a lot of money to, ran the mayor and his wife off the road, killing them both when their car rolled down an embankment and into a tree.

  Parking just around the corner from the house, I kill the bike’s engine as I wait for Nikki to arrive. I don’t really know why I’m here, but it feels important that I am. I need to understand why she’s here and what happened two years ago to drive her from her home and her family. She isn’t my woman, and this isn’t my business, but the urge that drove me to watch her through a window for hours is forcing me to be here, to see what happens. Her reaction to simply seeing photos of her old home had been extreme, and even though I’d never admit it out loud, I don’t want her to be alone when she confronts whatever demons haunt her in this house.

  I hear her car before I see her pull down the street and then watch as she parks at the curb but doesn’t cut the engine. Her face is hidden behind oversized sunglasses and I find myself climbing off my bike and unconsciously moving toward her. After a full minute, she turns off the engine of her car, opens the door and climbs out. She hasn’t bothered to change, and she’s still wearing the shorts, oversized shirt, and long tube socks that are pulled up to just under her knees, with sneakers on her feet. This is the most casual I’ve seen her dressed and without the armor her sexy vintage clothes give her, she seems softer and younger than her twenty-four years.

  She closes the door behind her, but her hands linger on the handle, almost like she’s having to convince herself to let go. Watching her struggle with whatever emotions she’s processing right now makes me itch to go to her and crossing the road I cover the distance between us until I’m standing a few feet behind her. “Nikki,” I call quietly.

  Her back stiffens at my voice, and I watch as her shoulders rise and fall on the deep inhale and subsequent exhale of air. She pries her hands free from the door handle and slowly turns to face me. “Why are you here?” She asks, panic obvious in her shaky voice.

  Fisting my hands in my hair to stop myself from dragging her tense body into my arms, I sigh loudly. “Honestly, Duchess, I haven’t got a fucking clue.”

  “Go away, I don’t want you here,” she cries, her voice shrill and her eyes slightly crazed.

  “No can do. I didn’t plan to come here, but here I am and it seems like the right thing to be here with you while you do this. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I’m just about to shout at Blade that I don’t want him here, that I can barely stand to be this close to this godforsaken house and that him being here will just make it worse, when Eric, the realtor, arrives.

  I swallow down my words and force a smile onto my face. “Eric, nice to see you again,” I say cordially.

  “Nikki, a pleasure as always,” he replies.

  I take his offered hand and shake it, then he turns to Blade. “Hi there, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Eric.”

  “Blade,” Blade says, taking Eric’s hand and shaking so hard he grimaces.

  Blade releases his hand and Eric stumbles forward wiggling his fingers as he quickly turns on his heels and strides to the front door, a key in his hand. “Now, I remember that you don’t like a guided tour so, if you don’t mind, I’ll just open up and then I have to make a call real quick.”

  “No, that’s fine,” I say, relieved that he won’t be here to see any reaction I have to being in my parents’ home.

  “As I’m sure Trish told you, the house is a foreclosure and is being sold as is, complete with all the furniture. Obviously if you don’t want any of it then we can help find you a house clearance company to come empty the place. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Go have a look around and see what you think,” Eric says enthusiastically.

  “Thanks,” I say, as he pushes open the door and then scurries back to his car, his cellphone already pressed to his ear. Stepping upto the door, I freeze, my body physically refusing to cross the threshold. I want to turn and run, I want to get back into my car and drive as quickly as I can back to my safe house in Chestnut Grove, where I can pretend that Archer’s Creek doesn’t exist. Except I can’t do that anymore. I’m moving here, to this town, only streets over from this house. I need to confront this, and no matter how much I want to, I can’t hide from this anymore.

  Steeling myself, I lift my foot off the ground and force it across the doorstep. My other foot follows and then I’m inside, standing in my parents’ hallway. The familiar smell hits me a moment later and my nose burns with remembrance. Memories attack me all at once: my sister, my mom, my dad. Smiles and laughter; shouting, pain, and fear.

  A shiver of despair pulses through me and I almost turn and walk away. Why am I doing this? Why am I here, in this house, when I’ve spent the last two years trying to forget?

  The stairs are immediately ahead of me and not ready to enter the living room, I slowly climb one step at a time. I’m vaguely aware of Blade’s presence behind me but I don’t acknowledge him, and he remains silent. I walk past Angelique’s room. Her bed is still in her room, her lilac curtains still hanging at the windows. I pass my parents’ room and glance in, their old-fashioned dark wooden bedroom set still gleams like it was recently polished.

  When we reach my old bedroom, the door is closed. I reach out to grip the handle when a memory rips through me.

  Three Years Ago.

  My legs burn as I run up the stairs and my lungs ache with unshed tears and anger. Grabbing the door handle to my room, I shove it open, darting inside and slamming it shut behind me. Frantically, I put all my weight against my antique dresser and slide it in front of the door, barring it.

  Once the entrance is blocked and I’m safe—at least for the minute—I collapse onto the floor and let the tears flow. Lifting my hand to my cheek, I wince at the bruise I already know is forming, the black mark will match the handprint that’s already visible on my arm, and the footprint I suspect will soon be clear on my stomach.

  Covering my mouth with my hand, I stifle the sound of my sobs. I won’t ever let him have the satisfaction of hearing my pain or anguish. He doesn’t deserve the pleasure of knowing he’s breaking me. I’m strong, and even though I can’t find the courage to laugh at his punches and kicks, I’ll be damned if I’ll beg and cry either.

  Staring at the window, I contempl
ate jumping. Would I die? Or just hurt myself more than he already has?

  Present Day

  “Duchess?” Blade calls, his nickname for me more of a question than a desire for me to address him.

  His voice is the motivation I need to turn the handle and step into the room. It’s empty. Everything is gone, like I never lived here, like I never even existed. The air whooshes from my lungs and a surprised cry falls from my lips.

  They removed me from their lives.

  Most parents when they lose a child, immortalize their rooms and belongings to try to keep them present in their lives. The people who gave me life did the complete opposite, they erased every piece of my existence.

  Stepping further into the space, I scan the empty room. For the three years I lived here, this room was my solace and my prison. I hid and cried and recovered all in this room and yet when I was gone they emptied it like I hadn’t mattered at all.

  Had my sister helped? Had she kept any part of me, so I wasn’t forgotten completely, or had she been pleased to forget me when she thought I was dead too?

  Disgusted by the thought, I spin around and walk quickly through the door and onto the airy landing. My sister mourned me. She had loved me in life as she had in mistaken death. She wanted me in her life now, even though I’d missed the last two years. Over seven hundred days when she’d suffered because of me and yet she’d still opened her life to me with arms wide.

  Running my hand along the polished wood of the bannister, I slowly make my way back down the stairs, chanting silently that Dove loves me and wants me in her life. The door to the living room is open and tentatively I walk in. The plush couch is the same as it was when I’d lived here, and the room still has an uncomfortable, formal atmosphere that is only exacerbated further by the lifelessness of the empty house.

  I force myself not to look at his office door. I’ll have to deal with it, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make myself open the door and confront what’s beyond it. Not yet anyway.

  Walking toward the kitchen another barrage of memories hit me.

  Two and a half years ago

  Stiffly, I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen, the smell of freshly baking bread hits my nose and my stomach grumbles loudly.

  “Sit, sit and I’ll make you a sandwich,” mom says, pointing at a stool, a wooden spoon in one hand and a dish towel in the other.

  Cautiously I lift myself onto the wooden seat, the bruises and cuts on my thighs protesting at the stretching of my abused skin. Silently, mom watches me. She knows why I’m struggling to move. Three days ago she was wiping away the blood and helping me into bed. She knows what he did and yet again she behaves like it’s nothing.

  “I think they’re going to scar this time.”

  She pointedly turns away from me, busying herself in the refrigerator.

  “Mom,” I say, but she continues to ignore me, pulling out sandwich stuff. “Why are you ignoring me? He hit me with a belt. He punched me in the face, and the stomach, and the ribs. My father, your husband, hit me and hurt me and scarred me and you have nothing to say. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Her movements falter and I think, just for a second, my words have permeated the bubble of denial she lives in. Holding my breath, I wait for her to turn around, to look at me, really look at me and see the black eye and the swollen cheek. To see how much pain I’m in and accept that he did it and that it’s wrong.

  But she doesn’t.

  “Ham or cheese on your sandwich?”

  Hot anger spikes inside of me and I pick up the closest thing and throw it across the room. The wooden salad bowl crashes into the cabinet and falls to the floor, but mom doesn’t even duck to avoid it, she just continues slicing lettuce and tomatoes like nothing happened.

  “He comes into my room at night,” I say, my voice low.

  “What?”

  Finally a reaction, and yet she doesn’t care if he beats me unconscious. “He comes into my room and jerks his cock over my sleeping body. The sick bastard only does it when I’m covered in the bruises or blood he’s caused. When I can’t move because he’s beaten the shit out of me and I’m incapacitated.”

  Mom’s mouth drops open and a stricken expression crosses her face. Her eyes fall closed and I hear her audible inhale of breath. When her lids part, she clears her features and simply turns and carries on making the sandwich.

  Present day

  It hurts to breathe, the memory more painful now than her actions had been at the time. Perhaps I should feel sorry for my mother. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why, when she knew what he was doing, she didn’t leave. Perhaps she was scared, perhaps she was ignorant to how wrong his behavior was.

  In my opinion she didn’t want to. She was weak, spineless, and pathetic, and I hope to God that if I ever have children of my own, I won’t be anything like her.

  I ran away.That choice doesn’t make me brave; in fact some days I wonder if that decision doesn’t make me as weak as she was. But I did what I had to do to survive. I didn’t accept my lot in life. I stayed for as long as I could, but after that day, I had to save myself, put myself first.

  Breathing in and out through my nose, I slow my heart rate and force myself to calm down. Blade’s still behind me, his silent presence more reassuring that I’m willing to admit. I don’t like him, he doesn’t like me, but right now he’s the only thing standing between me and a full-blown meltdown. I’m grateful he’s here, that he’s standing sentry on my sanity and silently keeping me afloat.

  Moving further into the empty room, I touch the counter, the wooden stools that are still slid underneath the breakfast bar, and then the rows of glass jars still neatly lined up. I search for some semblance of home, something to say I did more than exist within these four walls, but I can’t find anything.

  The memories are painful, but it isn’t this room that haunts me. With a sigh, I leave the kitchen and thoughts of my mother behind me. It’s time to confront the real reason I’m here.

  One, two, three, four, five, six. I count my steps from the kitchen, to the door of my father’s office. Stopping, I slowly allow my eyes to drift upward from the beige, deep pile carpet, to the base of the white wooden door and then further to the silver polished handle.

  I should reach out and open the door, but my hand refuses to move. I should be brave. There’s nothing behind that door that can hurt me. Except there is. On the other side of that door are all the things I refuse to think about; all of the dirty, niggling thoughts that creep up on me in my dreams and steal my breath until everything goes black.

  Behind that door is the truth.

  A truth that I’ve never told anyone, that I’ve scarcely even admitted to myself.

  One foot in front of the other I count: one, two more steps. My hand reaches out and my fingers wrap around the door handle. The metal is cool to the touch, like it always was. Like the room is colder than the rest of the house, as if even the heat of a Texas summer couldn’t ward off the chill of the evil that lurked within.

  I twist the door handle until it clicks open and a whoosh of cold air escapes. The smell of the room is stale, and I push the door open further without moving inside. I can feel the memories bubbling, rushing to my conscious thoughts.

  Closing my eyes, I try to control my erratic breathing, but I can’t drag in enough oxygen. My lungs feel tight, and blackness starts to tinge the edges of my vision.

  Why did I come here?

  Why am I forcing myself to deal with this now, when I vowed never to think about it ever again?

  Taking a step backward, I prepare to turn and run, then my frantically roaming eyes land on the corner of my father’s desk. I instantly still, my mind clears, and my spine straightens.

  I didn’t cower from him the first time he attacked me. I didn’t cower the night he broke me, and I certainly won’t fucking cower from his memory.

  Back straight, I stride purposefully into the room, gasping in raspy
lungfuls of air. I can feel the tears swimming in my eyes, but I ignore them. Once I’m standing in the middle of the room, right in the position I was when it happened, I hold my breath.

  Then I close my eyes and let the memories come.

  Eight hundred and twenty-three days ago.

  Something isn’t right.

  Standing outside the door to my father’s office, the hairs on the back of my neck tingle and prickle with fear. Nothing is different, but at the same time this doesn’t feel the same as every other time I’ve been in this exact spot before.

  He’s been quiet lately. Silently watching me, judging me, but not doling out his usual type of corrective behavioral methods. Something’s been building. I’ve felt it in him and in the air that seems to oppress this entire house.

  Mom has taken Angelique with her to Houston to visit Aunt Clarissa. She’s my father’s sister and she’s never been fond of me, so mom suggested I stay home and finish up the college assignment I’ve got due this week. Normally I don’t stop in the house alone with my father if I can help it, but this assignment is kicking my ass, and if I don’t get some quiet study time I’ll never get it finished.

  I hate this house and I hate him. When Mom had told me they were leaving, I’d seen the look she’d given him and the weird nod he’d given in return. Perhaps he’s planning to really beat the shit out of me today; maybe he hopes today will be the day I’ll finally beg him to stop, to not hurt me anymore. Whatever he has planned for me it’s going to happen anyway, so I might as well get it over and done with.

  Knocking lightly, I wait.

  “Come.”

  His voice sounds odd, upbeat, almost happy. My heart starts to pound. My father happy is a dangerous thing. It usually means he plans to enjoy the lesson he intends to teach me. Gripping the handle, I quickly look down at myself and check my appearance. Pale-pink maxi-dress, cream ballet pumps, no jewelry; nothing he could legitimately criticize. Pushing open the door, I step inside, the chill of the air conditioning instantly brushing across the exposed skin of my arms.