by Evelyn Glass
Big talkers, but that’s all. Big talkers but small doers.
And what about his club life? I know it’s more dangerous than he lets on. I know so little about it, but I’m sure it isn’t safe. How can it be? Everyone in the Cove knows that the Satan’s Martyrs are outlaws. Outlaws. Like old Western outlaws, and how many of them had a happy ending? What sort of life would I be signing up to if I took him seriously?
The scene on the ceiling changes. I’m in the kitchen now, a brand-spankin’-new kitchen, a kitchen out of my dreams. Everything shines. Light slants through the windows and hits knives and surfaces and cooktops and ovens, and all of it is lit brilliantly in the dream. I’m dicing onions with a stupidly wide grin on my face, an—Say it! Say it . . . It’s an in-love grin.
Then the door opens and I look up, expecting to see Killian. But it’s not Killian. Instead, it’s a man, a gruff-looking man, one of Killian’s rivals, holding a shotgun. He points it at me and smiles, flashing yellow teeth, and then pulls the trigger.
I sit bolt upright in bed, gripping the mattress with my fingers.
How much do I really want to know?
Can you really have a life with an outlaw?
These are questions to which I don’t know the answers. I can’t even guess at the answers. I know I’m happiest when I’m with Killian, but I also know that Killian has done things, still does things, which put him in grave danger. With the other men, the biggest risk was they’d get bored, which was fine by me. With Killian, I could attend his funeral any day.
Stop it, I tell myself. You’re just driving yourself crazy.
I look up, and Killian is standing at the door.
“Tell me,” he whispers. He’s wearing shorts, but his torso is bare, showing his muscles, his tattoos. His blond hair is curly and messy, hanging low, and his blue eyes are brighter than ever, despite the drink. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I swivel, place my feet on the floor. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll tell you.”
“I meant what I said,” Killian says, once I’m finished.
“But you can see what I mean?” I persist. “You can see why I’m worried?”
We sit side by side on the bed, our legs touching, his hand folded over mine. “I can see, yeah,” he says. “You’re scared.”
“But not for myself. Well, maybe a little for myself. But mostly that one day you’ll be on a job and then . . . You’ll be gone, and then what sort of life will we have?”
“I get it,” Killian says. “I get it, Hope. An outlaw’s life is a hard life. You’re right. A dangerous life, too. I used to think that an outlaw who took a wife was a stupid man.”
“Maybe you were right,” I whisper.
His shoulders slump. “Maybe, but I’m not letting you go. Nothing could make that happen, not now. Nothing could make me do that. I’ll never let you go, Hope.” His voice grows fierce. “Nothing in the whole damned world could make me let you go. Not a man with a shotgun, not a hundred men with a hundred shotguns.”
“I know.” I squeeze his hand. “But sometimes it’s not as easy as that.”
He laughs bleakly. “I know that. I wish it was, though.” He yawns, stretches his arms. “Sorry, pretty lady, but I’m drunk and exhausted. Just think about what I said, yeah? And I’ll do the same. What you told me makes sense. Maybe one day I’ll let you know everything there is to know about the club.”
“I’m not even sure I want that,” I mutter. “I’m not even sure I could handle it.”
He stands up, stretching his arms. “I’m going to bed, beautiful,” he says. “Just know that I didn’t lie to you. I meant it. I meant every word.”
Then he leaves me, and I heard the door to the other bedroom open and close.
I sigh and lie back on the bed. He’s still saying he meant it. He’s still saying he wants it.
I look up at the ceiling, but it seems the invisible projector has stopped working. I don’t see a thing.
I need to take my mind off things, if only for a little while. I walk through the cabin and stop outside the other bedroom’s door. Placing my ear against it, I hear that Killian is snoring lightly.
I go to our bag and find my cell, turn it on, and call Dawn.
I need to see how she’s doing, for one thing, but there’s another motive, too. Dawn has always been skilled at taking my mind off things.
It’s around eight o’clock at night when I call. It’s crazy to me that Killian and I have wished the entire day away with fucking and drinking. While it was happening, it didn’t seem to take long, not at all. Or maybe it was that time seemed to stop; the cabin became a refuse not even time could touch. I shrug to myself. I don’t know, that’s the truth. When I’m with Killian, anything is possible. You’re rambling drunkenly to yourself, I think, and then Dawn answers the phone.
“Hey!” The voice which answers is chirpy and happy. It reminds me of Dawn long, long ago, when we were children, before Mom and Dad died, before she found the sweet release of drugs.
My first instinct is to ask whoever this is why they have Dawn’s phone.
But then the mystery person says, “sissy,” and I know it’s Dawn.
“You sound—better,” I gasp.
She laughs, a sweet sound which makes me feel about eleven. “I feel better,” she says. “I don’t know. All this stuff, the food and the medication and the rest, and Patrick. Patrick has been great, Hope, really great. I don’t know where you found him, but he’s a really great guy. We’ve been playing checkers. Me, playing checkers. Well, he’s much better at it, but I’m getting pretty good, too. You wouldn’t think checkers would be such a hard game, would you? But it can be really tactical.”
I let her voice run on, savoring the sound of it.
“The worst is over,” she goes on. “I’m sure the worst is over. Oh, Hope, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did it. I mean, I do. I’m an addict. Patrick’s been talking to me about admitting that you’re an addict. I don’t know, the way he put it, it seems to make more sense than all those other people, the rehab people, I mean. They said it judgmental, but Patrick’s been through the same thing. He knows. He understands the pain and the struggle. So, Hope, I’m sorry and I’m an addict.”
I’m dumbstruck, literally dumbstruck. I feel as though my tongue is stapled to the floor of my mouth. I try and talk, but I’m too stunned. I feel as though I’m talking with a different person, as though the Dawn who for the last few years has sneaked and lied has been replaced.
“Can you forgive me, sissy?” Dawn asks. “I know it’s a lot to ask—”
“Of course,” I breathe. “Of course I’ll forgive you. This has happened so—”
“Quick! I know!” I can almost see her bright, smiling face. “I’m as shocked as you are.” She lowers her voice. I imagine her glancing at the door to make sure nobody is listening. “To be honest, I think Patrick has a lot to do with it. The others are nice—that Gunny guy, and Craig, you know, the one with the gun tattoo—but Patrick is really great. You wouldn’t think one of those bikers could be so kind, would you?”
“Sister, you don’t know the half of it,” I laugh.
“Oh, really?” she giggles back. We’re kids again, I think, a smile spreading across my face. We’re teenagers again, talking about boys, and everything is okay. “You’ll have to fill me in at some point.”
“I will, Dawn, but not now.”
We talk for a while longer. I tell Dawn about what Killian did to Lucca, and Dawn laughs so hard that she has to put the phone down while she rolls around. When she returns, she says: “I wish I was there to see that. He’s always been such a pig, hasn’t he?”
“Worse than a pig, but Killian put him right.” I realize there’s pride in my voice: pride for my man.
“Ooh, sorry, sissy. Patrick just come in. Do you mind if I . . .”
“No, of course not.”
“Okay, great! I love you!”
“I love you, too,” I smile.
She
hangs up the phone. I stare at the phone, unable to stop from smiling.
She’s getting better, I think, and it’s all thanks to Killian.
I go to the bedroom. He’s sleeping on the edge of the bed, but he must sense me, even in sleep. When I approach, he shuffles aside, leaving a space for me. I climb in and he wraps his arm around me, pulling me close to him.
I fall asleep with my face buried in his chest, smiling against his skin.
Chapter Eighteen
Killian
More than a little hungover, Hope and I ride back to town. She clings to my chest even harder than usual. I think it has something to do with what I said last night. In the cold dim light of an autumn morning, I still mean it. I meant every word. Nothing has changed. But as we enter Rocky Cove, I know that I’ll have to put that to one side for now. I have to deal with Patrick, find out what went down.
I stop outside of Hope’s apartment. She climbs from the bike, and then stands uncertainly, stubbing her foot on the pavement. I turn to her, tilt my head. “Kiss, pretty lady?”
She smiles, leans in, pecks me on the lips. That’s what she needs, I think. To know that everything is normal. To know that everything makes sense. To know that we’re still close.
“I’ll see you later?” Hope says.
“Yeah, course,” I reply. “Just got to sort a couple of things out first.”
My bike rumbles, quakes, and then growls away from her apartment building toward the clubhouse.
When I enter the clubhouse, the first thing I see is one of Hope’s paintings, hanging above the inner entranceway door, the woman in the hospital gown. Two more of the paintings hang inside, one over the bar and one over the pool table. I go into the bar, take off my jacket, and throw it over the chair. A few of the men sit in the bar, two of them in the corner, drinking. They stand up and mutter, “Boss,” when I enter. Another stands behind the bar, ready to pour the men drinks. Finally, Declan sits in the corner seat.
I take out my cell and text Patrick: Clubhouse, now.
A few moments later, his reply arrives: On my way. Gunny is with Dawn.
I wander over to where Declan sits, chin slumped against his chest. He blinks up at me, his eyelids saggy, fluttering. “Hello, boss,” he says, smiling slowly, lips twisting as if with a great effort. “I was waiting for you.”
“Is that so, old man?” I ask.
He nods. “I wanted to tell you how much I like those paintings. They’re beautiful, very beautiful. They professional?”
“Yes,” I say. “They’re professional. They were painted by my girlfriend.”
Girlfriend!
“That’s not like you,” Declan comments.
I sit beside him. “No,” I agree, “it’s not. Let me ask you something, old man—”
“All I’m good for these days.”
“Were you ever in love?”
“Love?” He rubs his gnarled hands together. “Love? Yes, I was in love. Twice. First, to a woman who was as fierce and angry as me. Second, to a woman as sweet and delicate as a rose. Both times it ended because I didn’t have it in me.”
“Have what in you?” I ask eagerly.
“I didn’t have the ability to love and be an outlaw. It’s too hard, my boy. Too damn hard. One night you’re hugging and kissing and the like. The next you’re aiming a twelve gauge at some punk’s head. Maybe you pull the trigger; maybe you go back to your lover with blood spatters on your face. The fierce ones push you to do more, to make more. The delicate ones are disgusted. Either way it’s hard. Or you can pretend that the other life does not exist. When you’re with them, you’re not an outlaw. But then what do you have? A husk. A half-life. A movie.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Yeah, old man, that makes sense.”
“Don’t listen to me, Boss. I’m just talking.”
I stand up. “You’re a good man, Declan.”
“All men are good men when they’re old, aren’t they? Or so people think. Don’t forget that once I was just as tough as you.”
“Never could forget that.” I tap him on the shoulder. “I’ve got to go. Patrick’s on his way.”
“Trouble?”
I shrug. “Something like that.”
I lean back in my chair, boots resting on the desk, hands behind my head, staring at the door. He met with the leader of The Headsmen, I think in disgust. The bastard went behind my back and met with the leader of The Headsmen.
There’s a knock at the door and I say, “Come in.”
Patrick shuffles into the room, smiling at me, oblivious. “Dawn is doing amazing, brother. I’ve never seen anyone recover as quickly as her. I think she’s better, really better. She’s so full of life. She’s like a child sometimes, giggling and playing. I think I like—”
“Sit down,” I say, my voice hard.
Patrick drops into the chair opposite me. “Is something wrong?”
I lower my boots to the ground and lean forward in my chair, leaning my arms on the desk. “Tell me,” I say, looking directly into his eyes, eyes which are mirrors of mine. “You tell me if something is wrong. You tell me if you think it’s necessary that we meet with the fucking Headsmen!” At the last words, I thump the desk. My knuckles make a crack noise against the wood, and a piece of paper flutters to the floor like a feather.
Patrick flinches back. “Dammit,” he whispers. “Who told you?”
“Who told me?” I laugh darkly. “It doesn’t matter who told me, does it? All that matters is, is it true? Did you meet with another club behind my back?”
Patrick looks around the room, like he’s searching for an escape route, like he’s a rat stuck in a maze and he’s desperate to find somewhere he can scamper to. When his search fails him, his chest deflates. He picks at the arm of his chair, his jaw becomes defined and then hidden as he clenches and then relaxes the muscle, over and over.
“I met with them,” he sighs.
I keep my eyes locked on him, ready to leap across the table and take him by the throat if I have to. My body is trembling. My hands are aching. My head is heavy and hungover, but also heavy with rage. “Why?” I growl through clenched teeth. “Tell me that. Why?”
Patrick throws his hands up and jumps to his feet. “You know why!” he exclaims, before pacing up and down the office. “You know exactly why! Don’t play dumb with me, brother!”
“Because I won’t let you fuck up our operations?” I snarl. “Is that it? Because I won’t let you go off the rails?”
“Because you won’t let me work!” he fires back.
I jump to my feet, pound my knuckles into the desk, tense my muscles, lean forward so much that I could topple over the desk at any moment. But I try to keep my voice level, try to get through to him. “This job is not about cowboy shit,” I say. “You knew that, before you went away. This job isn’t about feeling like a big man. This job isn’t about being the big bad wolf. This job is exactly that—a job. This job is for money. That’s it. Just money. We make money when we don’t take stupid risks. Don’t you understand that? Can’t you get that through your fucking head?”
“You made me deliver flowers, Killian,” Patrick says, looking at me with his forehead creased in confusion. “You made me deliver flowers. Me, the man who took a goddamn bullet for you—”
“Lower your voice,” I say. “If you want to talk about that, lower your voice.”
“I went to prison for you,” Patrick says, voice low, leaning over the desk. “They found those drugs and I said to myself, ‘No way, not my brother,’ and I went to prison for you. I did that time. Years, I rotted in a cell for you. Years. I love you. Don’t you get it, brother? I love you.”
I want to follow my anger, but at these words I feel about ten again. I fall into my chair and Patrick does the same, so we’re staring across at each other, both tired, both somewhat lost. “I’ll always be grateful to you,” I say. “But just because you did that for me, it doesn’t mean you can do anything you want. This is a business.
Not your playground.”
“I just needed something to do,” Patrick laments. “That’s it. Just something. And you weren’t giving me anything—”
“I’m the boss,” I say. “I’m the boss. If I don’t give you anything, then you do nothing. You don’t go behind my back.”
I cover my face with my hands and close my eyes. I wish this was simple. I wish Patrick had never gone to prison for me. I wish I could just be angry at him. I wish I didn’t understand why he went behind my back. I wish I didn’t love the big lumbering thing so much. I wish I could just be tough and nothing else.
