by Evelyn Glass
But then Hope leans up, breaking off the kiss for a second time.
“I’m not that easy, Mr. Biker.”
I lean up, trying to bring our lips together again, but she raises a finger and brings it to my lips.
“Uh-uh,” she smiles.
“I’ll do anything,” I say, my voice intense and serious. “I mean it. Anything. I’ll do anything to make it right. Just name it. I’ll swim from here to England. I’ll go to Canada and punch a bear in the face. I’ll—fuck it, I don’t know—I’ll strap myself to a rocket and go to the moon for you.”
She giggles. “Is that your idea of romantic, Mr. Biker?”
Goddamn, I’ve missed her calling me that.
I shrug. “It’s all I can come up with.”
“I don’t need any of that,” she says. “But there is something you could do for me. If you really want to do something.”
“I do,” I say. “Tell me—anything.”
“Talk to Lucca, please. He’s been a nightmare these past—”
“It’s done,” I tell her. “I’ll never let anyone talk to you like that again. From here on, you’re my woman.”
“For real?” she asks, her voice oddly soft.
“Forever,” I breathe, and then press my lips hard against hers.
Talk to my woman like shit? My woman!
My woman!
It feels good to call Hope that again.
I walk into Berelli’s Gourmet at ten o’clock in the morning, a few minutes after Lucca walks in.
The kid at the bar—Willy?—nods to me. “Hello, how can I help?”
“Here to see your boss, kid,” I grunt.
I walk into the kitchen, through it, and into the back office, which Hope told me was where Lucca hangs out most of the day. When he isn’t perving on his staff. Or shouting at people.
When I barge into the office, Lucca leaps up from his chair. “What the hell do you think—” Then he sees that it’s me, and the words die on his lips. He begins to shiver and shake his head. “I thought you were done with that—”
“That what?” I say casually. “Go on, finish.”
I reach into my jacket pocket and take out my gun. When I point it at him, he pisses himself. A line of urine shows clearly through his brown khaki pants.
“Nothing,” he whispers. “I wasn’t going to say—nothing.”
“Listen,” I yawn, keeping the gun pointed at him. “I’ve warned you once, haven’t I? I told you. Stop shouting at my fucking woman. Men like you . . . man, what do think you are? Do you think these women give a fuck about you? You’re a goddamn pervert.” I shake my head. Lucca stares at the barrel of the gun in terror.
“From now on, you don’t have a cock, got that? If I hear one more whisper about you touching any woman who works for you, I won’t come alone next time. You know Gunny, the Remington brothers, what about my brother, Patrick? None of them are very fond of perverts. Oh, and I need to make sure you get the message.”
I jump across the table and smash the grip of the gun into his nose. Blood sprays across the desk.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hope
Three weeks, right up until the day before Christmas eve, Killian and I fall in love all over again—if we ever fell out of love at all. We drive out to the amusement park three times during this visit, but we avoid the ferris wheel and the ghost train—Killian told me about Lindsey’s creepy horror show in the tunnels. Instead, we wrap up warm in a quiet, unremarkable nook in the corner of the amusement park. Killian moves his hands up, up my legs. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted his touch until he touched me again. It sparks electricity in me, all over me. I long for it whenever I’m not with him.
And, finally, we use the L word.
I’m bent over with my head against bed, Killian drilling me from behind, and I’m begging, begging, screaming out in pure pleasure. I know Dawn can probably hear—hell, the entire street—but I don’t care. The pleasure is too intense, too consuming, too right.
When we’re done, I collapse onto the bed and roll over on my back, looking down the length of my body at him. He grins at me, the cocky grin I know so well, the grin that tells me Killian is back, Mr. Biker is back, and here to say.
“You’re getting good at putting on a show,” he says, and then winks at me.
“Shut it,” I laugh. “I’m not putting on a show. I’m enjoying myself.”
“I can’t help but think, pretty lady, that all those moans and the way you move that perfect ass is all for me.” He walks around to the side of the bed, his cock hanging huge between his legs, and then kneels down next to me. He brings his hand to my face. His fingers smell of our sex, hot and sweaty, but I don’t mind because so does the entire room. “I can’t help but think everything you do is for me,” he goes on, smiling wickedly, his bright blue eyes dancing mischievously.
Careful, Killian, I think. You’re still on thin ice.
But I don’t say it, because the truth is he’s not on thin ice, not even close. He wasn’t on thin ice two days after we reconnected. When I went into work and saw that Lucca’s nose was busted, and that Lily seemed happier, more carefree than usual, he wasn’t on thin ice. When he thrust deep inside of me, he wasn’t on thin ice. And now, weeks after all that, the ice is as thick as ever.
“Are you alright?” he asks, when I don’t reply.
“Oh, I’m fine, just waiting for you to abandon me again.” I laugh when he screws his face up. He hates when I talk like that, which only makes me talk like it all the more. I have to remind him what he did, even if it is in a joking away.
As always, he doesn’t take it as a joke. He grabs my hands in his and brings his face close to mine, so close I smell myself on his lips. Couples are disgusting, I learn, and they don’t care; I learn that it’s part of the fun.
“I’ve never said this to a woman before, Hope, but—”
“You want to put it in my ass,” I say solemnly, and then let out another peal of laughter.
He shakes his head, the shadow of a smile on his lips. “You’re not making this any easier, you know. A man like me tries to be romantic, and what does he get? Laughter!”
“Okay, okay,” I say, forcing the laughter away. “What have you never said to a woman before?”
He looks deep into my eyes, and suddenly I know what he is going to say. It’s what we both feel, but for some strange reason neither of us has said it. Now he’s about to say it, I want to say it.
He sees that I know, and I see that he knows. We lock eyes, and then we open our mouths at the same time. Before the words are out, we each know what the other is going to say.
“I love you!” we laugh together.
I’ve never seen Killian look so happy when he says it. It’s like all the weight of his life—the fighting, the killing, the outlawing, the riding—it’s like all of it drops away from him with those three words. When he smiles at me, he is a man reborn. He’s no longer just an outlaw. He is my man.
I move aside on the bed. He climbs up and lies next to me, wrapping his arm around me and holding me close to his bare, muscular chest. It is damp with sweat, but I don’t care. In a strange way, I like the feel of the sweat. It reminds me of what we’ve just done.
“How long will you love me for, then, Mr. Biker?” I ask.
“That’s a silly question,” he says. “I’ll love you until the day I die, I can promise you that.”
“What about after that, though?” I urge.
“Oh, when we’re both dust and blowing around on the wind or whatever poetic thing it is you want me to say?” He chuckles. “I don’t know about any of that, Hope. You’re the artist, not me.”
I can’t help but laugh. He’s right. This life is enough. “Maybe we should stop all this lovey stuff before I make you sick,” I giggle. I reach down to his cock and grab it at the base. One moment it’s flaccid. The next it’s rock-hard, growing large in my hand.
“That’s an idea,” he groans,
reaching across and placing his hands between my legs.
We play each other like instruments, hitting all the right notes, singing out a crescendo at the end.
Berelli’s Gourmet has been closed to the public tonight, Christmas Eve, which in itself is amazing. I can only assume that the Satan’s Martyrs has paid Lucca a hell of a lot of money, or is teaching him a lesson. It doesn’t matter. The result is the same.
The tables have been pulled together so that they form a large, conference-style table, spanning almost the entire restaurant. Bikers from the Satan’s Martyrs crowd all around it, laughing and drinking, glasses piling up on the tables. Killian must’ve told the men to be extra nice to the waitresses, because almost each time they come to collect glasses, one of the bikers tips them. Killian and I sit at the head of the table, as though this is a medieval feast and we are the royalty. To my left, Dawn and Patrick sit together. To my right, next to Killian, sits Declan, the old man Killian told me about. To Declan’s right is Gunny and the Remington brothers.
The most amazing thing about this night is that the waitresses bring out meals tailored to each individual Numb member. Each member is served his favorite, no matter how different it is from the last. Pasta is served after beef stew, chicken chow mein after steak and home-cut fries, minted lamb after home-cooked pizza. I watch in amazement as dish after dish is carried out of the kitchen by the waitresses.
When Lily brings Patrick a thick burger and chunky fries, I call her over.
“What happened?” I ask.
Lily shrugs, smiling. “I have no idea,” she says. “But Lucca’s the one back there. He’s alone, as well. You should see him. He’s sweating like a pig.” She looks around, making sure she’s not being listened to, and then leans into me. “He keeps grumbling that he needs help, so I asked him why he doesn’t call the chef in. He told me he’s not allowed! And there’s something else, too.” She licks her lips. “He hasn’t, you know . . . He’s been as quiet as a mouse. I just hope it keeps up.”
I look lovingly at Killian, who’s laughing raucously at something Declan said. “I’m sure it will,” I tell Lily. “But if it doesn’t, just let me know, okay?”
Lily nods and leaves the table.
Killian turns to me, that sexy smirk on his lips. “Everything okay?” he asks.
“You did this, didn’t you?”
He shrugs, a picture of innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, pretty lady.”
“The meals, forcing Lucca to cook, it was you, wasn’t it?”
Killian tilts his head at me like I’m mad. “Me?” He laughs. “I wish I could swing something like that. No, Lucca’s doing this out of the goodness of his heart.”
He scoops up a glass of champagne and hands it to me. Then he takes a glass of his own. He knocks his glass into mine. Clink-clink. “To us.” He smiles.
I grin back. “To us.”
“Killian,” I say, once we’ve both had a sip of our champagne.
“Yeah?”
“What exactly is this party for? When I asked you before, you just said: to celebrate. But to celebrate what, exactly?”
“Ah, I can’t tell you yet. You’ll have to wait until later.”
“We’re celebrating something which hasn’t happened yet?”
“Exactly.”
“Uh, okay.”
Declan leans across slowly and opens his mouth. Killian and I lean in, so that we can hear him over the sounds of the bikers—shouting, jostling, cheering, glugging, banging, swearing. “Killian’s a good kid,” he says. “He won’t just help an old woman across the street. He’ll tool up the old woman’s abusive landlord in the same afternoon.”
Killian holds his hands up. “Ignore him, Hope. He’s a senile old man. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Killian!” I gasp.
Declan and Killian exchange a small smile.
“I’m used to it, Miss Jackson,” he says. “Ever since I met him, this bag of muscle and leather has been abusing me.”
“Well, I think he’s very cruel,” I say, shooting faux-disgust at Killian with my eyes. “In fact, Declan—may I call you Declan?—in fact, I think you’re much, much more handsome than Killian. I’ve been meaning to ask you, actually, if you’d go on a date with me? Please, it’d be such a nice change from this thing.” I point playfully to Killian.
Killian throws back his head and lets out a booming laugh.
Gunny jumps up in his seat and shouts: “Hope has chosen the old man over the boss! Shit, boys, he’s goin’t’be crazy after this! Run while you can!”
The bikers cackle madly, some of them spilling their drinks. Killian laughs the loudest of all. Declan coughs out a laugh.
Once the laughter has passed, Dawn tugs at my elbow. It’s the first time she’s tried to get my attention all night, but I can’t blame her. She and Patrick are deep into each other, constantly in quiet conversation, constantly looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. The love surrounding me . . . it’s unbelievable.
“Yeah?” I say, turning to her.
I have to raise my voice because one of the bikers has just put “Jingle Bells” on the jukebox.
Dawn looks around in wonder before reply. Her cheeks are blooming with life, her eyes are bright. When I look at her, I can’t help but see her as a little girl, my little sister who I have to protect over everything.
“I want to apologize,” she says, leaning into my ear.
I roll my eyes. “You have apologized,” I reply. Only about ten thousand times. Every day it’s been: “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“Yes, but you need to know how sorry I am,” she pushes on. “I never should have doubted you. I feel like such dirt. I just didn’t believe you. Without even giving you a chance, I just didn’t believe you. That’s messed up, especially after everything you’ve done for me. I’m so, so sorry Hope.”
I place my hands firmly on her shoulders.
“The time for apologies is gone, Dawn. We’re good. We’re better than good. We’re the closest we’ve been since we were kids, aren’t we?”
Dawn nods. Tears spring into her eyes.
“None of that,” I say, wiping her eyes with my thumbs. “If you start, I’ll start, and my makeup will be ruined.”
“Always the vain one,” Dawn pouts, before breaking into a smile.
“If I recall correctly,” I reply, “it was you who ran off in the mall so you could try on different hats. Two hours we were looking for you, and when we find you, there you are, a pile of hats next to you.”
We share a smile as the memory comes to life between us: Mom and Dad and me rushing through the mall, searching desperately for her; and when we find her, we find a girl who doesn’t have a care in the world, who’s laughing and grinning, flashing a gummy mouth with few teeth in it yet.
Then Dawn collapses into my chest. I hold her close, rubbing her back. Patrick glances over and nods at Dawn, mouths: Is she okay? I nod and mouth back: She is now.
“Turn that damn thing off!” Gunny roars. “The old man has something to say!”
One of the bikers thumps the jukebox into silence.
I feel a swelling in my chest when Killian takes Declan by the elbow and helps him to his feet. When Declan is standing, he nods his thanks to Killian and then stands with dignity, though from where I’m sitting I can see that his knees are shaking with the effort.
“I want to say something, but I won’t take all day about it.”
I expect the bikers to hoot and holler, but they sit silently, looking up at the old man with respect.
“I don’t know if Boss has told any of you why we’re here tonight. He hasn’t told me a damned thing. It scares me, ’cause we all know Boss to be most dangerous when he’s holding something close to his chest.” The men chuckle in appreciation. Killian smiles like a wolf. “But I’m not so old I can’t figure some things out. I think tonight has something to do with the lovely lady sitting next to Killian, Miss Hope Warren.�
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At the mention of my name, and with all those bikers’ eyes turned on me, my cheeks burn. Killian reaches across and grabs my hand.
“Our life is a hard life, a damn hard life. We ride and we die. The Satan’s Martyrs, that’s our name. The Satan’s Martyrs, ’cause men like us got the devil on our shoulder and we don’t feel a thing. Well, any of you who’ve been alive longer than five minutes will know that’s shit. We all feel. Sometimes we feel so much it hurts. And I’ve got to say, I’m glad Boss has found someone worth feeling something for.”
