by E M Lindsey
Wyatt smirked then and let his hand fall back to the box. “To what question?”
“God,” Mat groaned, then reached out and flicked the box open. “Marry me, cowboy. Be mine.”
Wyatt closed the box, but before Mat could panic, Wyatt set it aside then used both hands to drag Mat onto his lap. Seconds later, they were kissing like they needed it to survive, and Mat only pulled away when he was dizzy from lack of air.
“Did you just…use Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday to propose to me?” Wyatt asked, breathless and pink in the cheeks.
Mat couldn’t help his laugh. “I guess I did. Stupid I know.”
“Not stupid,” Wyatt breathed out, pressing their foreheads together as he stretched up on the tips of his toes. “Perfect.”
Matt grinned. “Parfait?”
Wyatt huffed, but his grin looked like it might split his face in two. “Ouais. But you need to know, mon âme…I was already yours.”
Mat surged into him and kissed Wyatt once more. “Thank god for that, because you own me. And I can’t wait for our future.”
Wyatt pressed their foreheads together. “Me too.”
* * *
The End
Glossary of Terms and Phrases:
Si le verbe aimer n’existait pas, je l’aurais inventé en te voyant-
If the word love did not exist, I would have invented it seeing you.
* * *
Bien que je sois aveugle je vois tellement de soleil dans tes yeux que je bronze quand tu me regardes-
Although I’m blind, I see so much sun in your eyes that I’m torn when you look at me.
* * *
Et j’aimerais être une goutte de sang pour mieux connaître ton cœur-
And I would like to be a drop of blood to know your heart better.
* * *
Aide-moi, je ne peux pas respirer! Te regarder m'a coupé le souffle
Help me, I can’t breathe! Watching you took my breath away!
* * *
Si j’étais un chat, je passerais mes neuf vies avec toi-
If I were a cat, I would spend my nine lives with you.
* * *
Savais-tu que j’étais un voleur? Et je vais voler ton cœur-
Did you know I was a thief? And I'm going to steal your heart.
* * *
Où as-tu caché tes ailes-
Where did you hide your wings?
* * *
Si t’étais un char, tu serais une Ferrari-
If you were a car, you would be a Ferrari.
* * *
Sur une échelle de un à dix, tu es une poutine.
On a scale of one to ten, you’re poutine.
* * *
Mon coeur-
My heart
Book Six
Scarification
Irons and Works: Book Six
If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.
Oscar Wilde
Chapter One
There were a few things that Miguel knew for certain. One—that his father was a dirty bastard who didn’t deserve to be pissed on if he were on fire, and two—that he was going to live a long life. That second part felt like more of a curse than a blessing if he was being really honest with himself. Especially when he woke up in the hospital feeling like he’d been flayed alive and left for dead.
It would have been kinder if they’d let him go up in flames with the house, really. At least, it felt like that at the beginning. Miguel had always been a rough and tumble kid—growing up in a motorcycle club would do that to anyone. He’d had more broken bones than he could count, gashes in his skin, and before he was sixteen, he’d been shot twice. But nothing compared to the searing pain of being burned alive.
He didn’t remember much about the fire itself. He was home—his dad and his latest bitch had taken off for the lake in spite of Miguel warning him it was a bad time to go. Miguel hadn’t yet started prospecting, but he was around enough, he listened enough. He could be found at the clubhouse with a sketchpad propped up on his knee, looking lost in his world of art.
No one ever suspected he was cataloguing it all away. His memory wasn’t echoic, but it was close enough. It was damn near impossible for him to forget anything he’d heard, and he knew the boys were pissed. They were pissed that Chuck had wormed his way into the presidency after Raul died. They were pissed that he’d mismanaged funds and people to the point where they’d lost at least ten percent of their men to other, more profitable clubs in the area.
The Leviathans had been run by one family since most of them were sperm in their daddies’ balls. It was by chance that Chuck had met Marisol, and it was through clever planning and being somehow far more charming than the drunk asshole he was after her death that he’d won her heart. It was her father’s weakness for her happiness that allowed Chuck into the club, and through that marriage he found a path to a place he didn’t belong.
Not just because of the fact that he was an outsider, but that he was a greedy, selfish son of a bitch who didn’t give a shit about anything except himself. Which was what led to the coup—led to the anger, and the fire. Later, Miguel would learn that no one knew he was in the house, that they hadn’t wanted to hurt him, because he’d been the last piece of Marisol and Raul the club had.
It was an unfortunate mistake which left a teenage boy writhing in a hospital bed. His hip had been crushed by a falling beam, sixty percent of his right hand amputated, and the left side of his face was burned, which would leave scars defining him for the rest of his life. But it was what it was, and Miguel had never believed luck was on his side. His sole parent hadn’t shown up at the hospital for six weeks—not until he was in rehab and patches of his hair were starting to grow back—that the bastard showed his face.
Miguel couldn’t stop the wince when his father openly reacted to the compression mask. “Shit, those boys really did you in. You gotta wear that forever?”
“No,” he grunted, then fell silent. It hurt to talk, his lips still cracked and blistered, and honestly it was the last thing in the world he wanted to think about. He had half a dozen surgeries in his future to put Humpty Dumpty back together—cracks and all—and any reminder of it was a reminder of what he’d lost.
He’d never really wanted to join the club. Prospecting was expected, but not his dream. His dream had gone up in flames, the box full of hundreds of art pieces hadn’t stood a chance against gasoline and a match. Now, what was the fucking point? The hand he’d done all of his work with was nothing more than a scarred mass of flesh with a small nub of a thumb left, and there was no bringing it back. Even if he could learn to use his left—and what choice did he have—it wouldn’t be the same. The men angry at his father hadn’t hurt the old man at all, they’d only crushed the boy who hadn’t asked for any of it.
Resignation had sunk in when Chuck decided to show his face, and even in his state of pain, Miguel knew the old man was angling toward something. He hovered by the bed, his gaze flickering to Miguel’s wrapped arm, to the compression sleeve, to the mask on his face once more. Eventually he walked to the IV machine and tapped the edge of it.
“They got you on the good shit, boy?”
Miguel swallowed thickly, but he didn’t answer. No doubt Chuck was trying to figure out a way he could siphon the morphine out for himself.
After a beat of silence, Chuck dragged a chair over to the bed and plopped down. “Cops showed up at the house. Thing’s ash, nothin’ left in there for me to grab, and wasn’t like we got insurance.”
For a brief moment, Miguel wondered if Chuck had confronted anyone at the club. Chances were, he had at least a few loyal guys, but it only took him a second to realize he was seeing his dad without his cut for the first time. He looked naked without his leather, without his patches. He looked skinny and over-used, his thinning grey hair in a ponytail down his back, his white t-shirt hanging off his deflated arms.
A half-drowned rat, though instead of water it
was booze and meth, and Miguel knew it wouldn’t take long before his dad got desperate. He’d be reckless and careless soon, and that was what had driven those boys to torch the place. Even if they hadn’t meant to hurt Miguel, they had. They hadn’t done even a cursory check to see if anyone was inside. They moved silent, rolling their bikes up the drive instead of riding up. Maybe they were hoping Chuck was in there. Maybe they were hoping this would put an end to it.
But it hadn’t been Chuck. Miguel’s head was still foggy about the whole incident, but he knew he’d woken up choking on smoke, body drenched in sweat from the heat of the flames. He couldn’t see as he shouldered his bedroom door open and began the slow crawl toward the front door. He hadn’t made it, though.
Miguel had a very vague memory of being crushed by a beam, and then screaming. Then there were hands, and a leather jacket beating his seared, bubbling skin. The grass beneath him had been cool where they left him, but it didn’t do much to ease the pain. He’d passed out long before the paramedics arrived. It was the only proof those boys hadn’t wanted to hurt him. They’d saved him—for all the good it did.
Miguel felt phantom tingling in his right hand and tried the trick the physical therapist had showed him. He clenched fingers that weren’t there anymore, and after a second, the feeling eased. “Why are you here? What do you want?” he finally managed to ask.
Chuck gave him a long look. “I need that cash you been squirreling away, boy. We need to get the fuck out of this town. My buddy Rob up in San Antonio said he got a place for me in his club.”
Miguel snorted. “You just said everything’s ash, old man. Where do you think I kept my cash?”
For a split second, Chuck looked murderous. His eyes blazed, cheeks splotched with red. Then he let out a breath and sat back, dragging a hand down his face. “Just as well. I got enough on me to get there, and you can figure your shit out when they spring you from this place, right?”
As though it was that easy. As though Miguel didn’t have a mountain to climb before he was ready to leave. And he didn’t want to consider the bill when it was over. The club rarely used hospitals, but they had a fund once for those rare occasions when their club medic couldn’t do to the job. But hell if any of that was coming his way. He wasn’t part of them—he was the product of the man they’d tried to murder.
Since waking up, he’d wondered if the doctors were going to kick his ass to the curb when they realized he didn’t have insurance, and he sure as shit didn’t have money. He knew he’d be welcomed into the Leviathans if he wanted to be. Most of them would, anyway. But it would be a life of suspicion and little trust. Of constantly looking over his shoulder, because his old man wouldn’t forgive him for that. And he didn’t think the Leviathans would want to call him brother—not for years to come, not until he proved his worth.
And that in itself would be the hardest part. Scarred, amputated, terrified—what good would he be to anyone?
“Call me when you get sprung, boy, and we’ll see what we can do,” Chuck told him. He gave Miguel’s leg a pat, ignoring the sharp cry from the tender burns, then he strolled out, casting the nurse a wink as he went.
Miguel let his head fall back against his pillows and for the first time felt like there was nowhere left for him to go.
Chapter Two
Miguel curled his hand around the drink, letting the cold bite into the tips of his fingers as he listened to the rhythmic thumping of the ED music rolling through the crowd. Austin was better than San Antonio when it came to trolling for dick, but it wasn’t the best, either. He fucking hated Texas. He fucking hated his dad’s club—a bunch of low-life racists in the meth biz, using more than selling. His old man fit right in, and for the first time ever in his life, Miguel was grateful for the way the fire had ravaged his face. With his puckered, shining skin, with the missing hand, he was conspicuous. People noticed him, stared at him, and it made him all-but useless to the club unless they wanted to scare someone off.
He worked as a mechanic, and he was used as a training method for prospects. “This is what happens to men who try to fuck us over.”
It made him sick to his stomach, but it was his life. He’d been there with his old man for a decade, tucked in the closet as he fended off the occasional bitch who was too high to realize he was disfigured. It was bad enough being the sore thumb, it would have been worse being the queer. He’d attempted to take back his autonomy—used the club tattoo guy to ink over some of his scars, found some guy in Dallas who split his tongue at the tip—and fuck if his dad hadn’t lost his ever-loving shit over that one.
“Why the fuck you tryin’a make it worse boy? Your face looks like roadkill as it is. You want to look like a goddamn lizard next?”
He didn’t have an answer for the old man, at least, not one that would satisfy either of them. He wanted scars of his own choosing, he wanted to change his face by his own hand. If he did that, maybe he’d start feeling like himself again, even if he could never come out.
His only reprieve from club bullshit were his trips to Austin. He’d ride over on the bike he’d meticulously put together himself from parts around the shop, which allowed him a freedom he wouldn’t have had otherwise. Not that the club gave a single shit where he spent most of his nights as long as he wasn’t dragging bullshit back to their home base.
In Austin, he might get noticed, but not for his uselessness to the men around him. There were enough dudes in the smoky, dimly lit clubs who were curious enough to blow him in the bathroom stall, and that’s all he actually wanted. He didn’t expect true love. That shit wasn’t for him.
“Need a refill?” The voice came from his left, and he knew the tone. In fact, he’d heard the voice before. A regular there at the bar who had tried to talk to him more than once. A pretty fuckin’ twink with platinum hair and a lot of glitter. Miguel never gotten a name, because the kid had hungry eyes that spoke of things beyond an anonymous fuck in the supply closet, and Miguel wasn’t in the business of breaking hearts.
He also wasn’t in the business of letting some kid take him home to get his clothes off just because he wanted to know how bad it was under the Henley.
But he’d take a free drink. “Jim Beam,” he muttered, glancing out of the corner of his eye.
The kid looked pretty as fuck right then. A mesh shirt, some sort of chain around his neck like a collar, pants that look like they’d been painted on. It had been a few weeks for Miguel, and this kid had been forbidden fruit long enough, he wanted to pin him down, strip him bare, and lick every inch of him. But he wasn’t about to do that. Tonight, he was in his old man’s sleeping bag, camping out under the stars. This boy belonged on rose petals and silk sheets, not on rocks and sticks.
He drained the rest of his glass, sliding it back toward the bar tender as the pretty twink leaned against the granite, giving him an appreciative look. Miguel hated him a little for it, because he knew it was bullshit. No one appreciated his face. He supposed the compression mask he’d worn for three goddamn years had smoothed him out better than he might have without it, but his entire right side was a mess. They’d done three more surgeries considered medically necessary—and he couldn’t afford the rest, so they’d discharged him and sent his dad to a collection agency a month later.
But he wasn’t pretty, wasn’t ever gonna be pretty, and he hated the type of assholes who wanted to say that it didn’t matter, that beauty was more than skin deep. He’d heard enough of that self-love crap from these barely-legal fetuses who wouldn’t have given him the time of day beyond the walls of the club. He was sick and tired of bullshit.
“You want to dance?” the kid asked after they got their refills. Miguel noticed the kid was drinking something unnaturally blue with a huge wedge of orange at the rim, and it made his stomach churn a little.
“I don’t dance,” he grunted out. “I’m too old for that shit.” A half-lie. Miguel couldn’t dance because his hip made him move like he was ninety, and he didn’t
need yet another reason to give this boy proof he wasn’t whole.
The kid laughed. “It’s not complicated, grandpa. You just move your hips to the music—like you’re fucking with your clothes on.” He reached out, bolder than he’d been the last few times he’d tried to talk to Miguel, and touched his wrist. “Come on, I dare you.”
Miguel’s brows rose. “You dare me? How fuckin’ old are you?”
The kid laughed. “Twenty for three more weeks. You won’t tell, will you?” he asked with a wink. He tightened his grip. “I love dares, love the thrill of them. Live a little. Tell me your name, then dance with me.”
Miguel tipped back his drink, grimacing at the burn, but he decided fuck it. If the kid was going to put in this much work, he might as well get a reward. And it’s not like Miguel made a habit of turning down something young and fresh—or well, maybe not fresh, he’d been watching this guy pull for weeks. But he was clearly someone who knew what he wanted, and obviously, for whatever reason, tonight that was Miguel.
He slammed his drink down, ignoring the look of triumph or the sound of the kid’s giggle as he stood. Before he could be dragged along, he seized the front of the kid’s mesh shirt and pulled him in, their chests bumping. Tipping his head low, he murmured, “I’m Miguel.”
“Kyle,” the kid replied.
Miguel tried not to grimace because he probably could have guessed. And it probably would end in metaphorical flames, but right now he wanted to be worthy of the look Kyle was giving him. He wanted to be wanted because he hadn’t felt that way in so fucking long. Back before the fire, it had been girls. Girls at school who knew he was wrapped up in club business—who were hot and bothered by a bad boy, but never who he wanted. Never Mikey—the baseball captain, or Mase—the head of the drama club. He wanted sharp lines and a firm ass, none of the softness of a woman’s body.
