Still Standing: Wild West MC Series

by Ashley, Kristen

  I jerked awake when Tatiana was gently pulled out of my arms.

  It was light, just dawn, and I shifted to see Buck settling his daughter against his big frame. He was on top of the covers. He still had his boots on. There was blood on his shirt and on his hands, especially around the knuckles.

  I knew what that meant.

  Earlier, after I soothingly talked her into letting me take pictures of her with my phone, I’d cleaned up Tatiana and got ice for her eye and her lip. I held her as she held the ice to her face and slowly, stiltedly told me about the three boys who attacked her.

  Three.

  There had been three.

  God, it was a miracle she’d been able to get away.

  Then, my stomach burning with a despair so deep I wondered how I could move, fury so great I wondered how I didn’t combust, all of it I felt for a pretty, spirited, sixteen-year-old girl who didn’t really like me, I helped her to the shower. While she was showering, I shoved her clothes in a plastic grocery bag and hid them in Buck’s closet.

  Once she got out, I helped her into her pjs, sat her on the toilet and combed her hair for her.

  I then followed her to bed, got in it with her and rocked her, speaking softly to her until she fell asleep.

  Now Buck was home.

  “Get your ass to bed,” he ordered quietly to me, but it wasn’t a gentle order, it was a command.

  Tatiana’s head came back, and she looked up at her dad.

  “Can she stay?” Tatiana whispered, and Buck looked down at her.

  “No,” he answered his daughter then his eyes came up to pierce me.

  I bit my lip and gathered enough courage to slide Tatiana’s hair off her neck and give her a squeeze.

  After I did that, I slid out of her bed and went to Buck’s.

  I pulled the covers up high and stared at the pillow.

  It didn’t take long before I twisted so my face was in the pillow, and forcing myself to be silent, I burst into tears.

  19

  You Were Standing in My Way

  I never got to sleep.

  And when the sun was high enough in the sky, I got up, went to the bathroom and did my bathroom business.

  That done, I pulled up the courage to lift my arms, and I stared at them in the mirror.

  Four, livid purple bruises had formed on my inner biceps.

  On each arm.

  Four imprints of the pads of an angry man’s fingers.

  Slowly, I turned and looked over my shoulder.

  A deep purple bruise had risen in stark relief against the white of my skin on my shoulder blade.

  I closed my eyes.

  He’d marked me.

  Buck.

  My protector.

  He’d marked me.

  I forced the bruises from my mind, put my robe on over my nightgown and went to the kitchen.

  I made coffee and avoided the Pop-Tarts.

  I wasn’t certain Buck would be in the mood to cook breakfast, but first, if he was, I wasn’t fired up to upset him in any way, and second, I was far from hungry.

  When the coffee was brewed, I poured myself a cup, and was standing at the window, looking out and considering putting on socks and a pair of sweatpants and going out there. We were in the foothills and it was late September. The heat was still on in the Valley. Up here, the days were warm, the nights and mornings chill.

  Even so, if any time was deck time, that time was deck time.

  Since I was staring out the window, I saw the sleek, shiny, British racing green Jaguar gliding up the drive.

  Two questions sprang immediately to mind.

  Who on earth?

  And…

  What now?

  The house was silent, and the clock over the microwave (one of only two in the house, the other one on the DVD player, both had been flashing twelve until I set them a week ago), said it was going seven thirty. I figured the house would be quiet for a while and I figured its inhabitants needed their rest.

  So my coffee cup and I went to the door.

  I pulled it open and stood in it, watching a man of average height, built like a golfer, wearing a long-sleeved polo neck shirt and chinos, with black hair shot with silver, stomping to the door.

  Oh dear.

  I stood with a shoulder against the doorframe, pulling the door to closing me on the inside, but I could see him.

  And he could see me.

  “Can I help you?” I asked when he got close.

  “This West Hardy’s place?” he asked back, coming to a halt outside the door, eyes narrowed, the entire line of his body communicating fury.

  “May I ask who you are?”

  “I’m the man who’s going to be pressing charges in about ten minutes when the sheriff gets here.”

  Oh dear.

  “Sorry?” I asked, buying time.

  “If West Hardy and that hoodlum he calls a son are in there, you better wake their asses up. They’ll probably want to be dressed when they’re cuffed and taken to the station.”

  My back went straight, and it did this because he’d called Gear a hoodlum.

  Gear was not a hoodlum.

  “Sorry?” I whispered, but it was so I wouldn’t shout and wake anyone.

  “I’m telling you, you better get their asses up,” he advised, leaning in, nasty sliding in to keep the angry company on his face.

  “Why would the police arrest West and Locke?”

  “Interesting,” he muttered, crossing his arms and leaning back. “He doesn’t come home and brag to his bitch when he goes out and beats the shit out of a bunch of kids.”

  Oh no.

  He did not just call me a bitch.

  This man, who was clearly the parent of a goddamned monster, did not just call Gear a hoodlum and me a bitch.

  “Did you just call me a bitch?” I was still whispering.

  “Isn’t that your lingo?” he asked sarcastically.

  I pulled in breath.

  Then I wrapped one hand tight around the edge of the door in an effort to force some of my anger into my fingers rather than releasing it by tossing my hot coffee in his face.

  Once I’d done that, I spoke.

  “I advise you to call the sheriff and tell him you were mistaken,” I said quietly.

  He stared at me.

  That was, he did before he grinned an unattractive grin.

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because the bunch of kids you’re fired up to protect attempted to rape my sixteen-year-old girl. She came home with a swollen cheek, a fat lip, a bloody nose, her clothes and hair filled with dirt. And no underwear.”

  I watched his face pale.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “She did. I still have the clothes. I also have pictures. But I remember exactly what she looked like. I remember exactly how she felt when she was weeping in my arms on the bathroom floor. So now I see something interesting. I see your bunch of kids didn’t share that, did they?”

  “I—” he started.

  He’d said enough.

  So I didn’t let him say any more.

  I kept going.

  “She said they’re at ASU. If they’re at ASU, then they’re hoping for a bright future. That future won’t be so bright, the sheriff gets here, finds out they tried to rape her. Three boys, three, beat her up and tried to rape her. The sheriff finds out about that, he sees the pictures I took, takes one look at her face, sees how small she is…dainty…I give him my girl’s clothes, that future gets a lot dimmer.”

  He was now not pale.

  He was ashen.

  “So, you have a choice,” I informed him. “You can call the sheriff, call him off and accept the painful but swift and quiet punishment that West and Locke dealt last night. Or you can push this, and your boys will be behind bars right alongside West and Locke, but attempted rape with assault is worse than just assault. Especially when there’s no purpose behind it, no motivation a jury would understand, like a father seeing his
daughter bleeding and dirty on a bathroom floor. And then their punishment will be far more painful, but it won’t be quiet, it won’t be swift.” I leaned in. “It’ll be very public, and it’ll be very, very long. Because, you see, after they get out once they serve their time, for the rest of their lives, they won’t only have a record, they’ll also be on a certain registry. And they will not ever escape that.”

  He stared at me and didn’t move or speak.

  When this lasted awhile, I offered, “Do you not know the number for the sheriff? I’m happy to get the Yellow Pages.”

  His eyes flashed behind me, he paled even further, and then suddenly the door was no longer in my grip because it was being pulled wider.

  I turned my head and saw Buck’s bloody t-shirt. Then they moved up, and I saw Buck’s angry face.

  “You got a choice, Conley,” Buck growled. “And three seconds to make it. What’s it gonna be?”

  The man, clearly called Conley, opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

  “You can’t run around beating up kids,” he stated with more face-saving bravado than courage.

  Buck stepped back, pulling me with him with his arm around my waist, and he slammed the door.

  I stared at the door but couldn’t do that for very long because Buck curled me into him.

  I tipped my head back, and my eyes caught his. He had one arm around me, and the other hand came up so he could run the backs of his raw, bloody knuckles along my jaw.

  “Thanks, baby,” he whispered.

  “Take your hands off me,” I whispered back, and his head twitched.

  “Come again?”

  “I said,” I pushed away from his arm and it fell, as did his hand, “take your hands off me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What the—?”

  He didn’t finish because I shifted around him and marched to the steps to the landing.

  I then marched to his bedroom.

  I closed the door and kept marching to his bathroom. I closed that door too.

  There, I slammed my coffee cup down on the vanity, bent over, opened the door under the sink and grabbed the cosmetics case I’d stowed down there.

  The door flew open, Buck stormed in and stopped, scowling at me.

  “What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

  I didn’t pause in what I was doing. I had one of the vanity drawers open, the one with my makeup in it, such as it was. It was mostly dregs I was eking the last bits out of since I hadn’t been able to afford makeup in months, and I was shoving it into the bag.

  “I’m leaving,” I announced, because I was.

  I just didn’t know where I was going or how I’d get there.

  “What?” he said softly, and my head jerked back so I could glare at him.

  “Leaving,” I spat.

  He shook his head and crossed his arms on his chest. “Clara, maybe it didn’t fuckin’ sink in, but I had a bad night, Gear had a bad night, and Tatie had a really fuckin’ bad night. I don’t need your shit right now.”

  My…

  Shit?

  “My shit?” I whispered.

  “Your shit,” he returned.

  I dropped the makeup and case into the drawer and straightened.

  “This isn’t shit, West.”

  “Nope, it’s bullshit, Clara.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I hissed.

  “That makes two of us, babe, seein’ as I don’t believe you’re havin’ a fuckin’ tantrum for reasons fuckin’ unknown the morning after my daughter nearly got raped.”

  So, Tatie had shared it hadn’t gone from calamitous to disastrous.

  I was glad she’d felt free to share with her father.

  But me?

  “This isn’t a tantrum,” I whispered.

  “That’s bullshit too.”

  “You hurt me,” I reminded him.

  His eyebrows went up. “What?”

  “You…” I pointed at him then pointed at my chest, “hurt me.”

  “Clara, for fuck’s—”

  I whipped the tie on my robe open then I turned as I yanked it down my shoulders.

  I twisted my neck to look at him and saw his eyes riveted to my bruise.

  What I did not do was allow the anguished expression on his face to penetrate.

  “You did that,” I stated, pulled my robe back up, turned to face him and tied the tie smartly, managing to do this with shaking hands. “You marked me,” I went on. “You did that. That isn’t the only bruise you gave me last night. One move, one second, nine bruises.”

  As I spoke, his eyes were still where my shoulder used to be.

  When I was done, they moved to mine.

  Then he dropped his arms, but his hand came up as he got in my space, muttering, “Baby.”

  He nearly touched my face, but I yanked it away and took a quick step back.

  “Don’t touch me,” I hissed.

  His hand dropped, and his gaze locked with mine.

  “Clara, honey, come here,” he said softly.

  “No, I’m packing and I’m leaving,” I replied.

  “Toots, baby, come here,” he repeated.

  “No. I’d like you to leave. I’d like to be gone before the kids wake up.”

  That wasn’t true.

  I wanted to see Tatie was all right and the same with Gear.

  But I thought, for them…clean break.

  They had their dad; they didn’t need me.

  “You got a step to take, I’m tellin’ you to take it before I take it,” he told me.

  I leaned forward and snapped, “I said no!”

  Before I knew what he was about, he took that step and my head was between his big hands, tipped up to look at him.

  He bent so his face was in mine. “They hurt my girl.”

  Yes, they did.

  And I hated that for all of them.

  Then he hurt me.

  I tried to yank my head from his hands, his fingers tightened, so I stopped trying, but my hands came up and my fingers curled around his wrists.

  “I understand that and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for you and Locke and Tatiana. That doesn’t forgive what you did.”

  “I wasn’t thinkin’ straight.”

  “No, I agree. You probably weren’t. That doesn’t forgive what you did.”

  “No one hurts my girl.”

  “Unfortunately, last night, that wasn’t true. And, again, I’m sorry. Truly, truly I am. For you. For Locke. And especially for Tatie.” I tried again to pull at his hands, though I failed, I kept trying. “But you marked me, and I wasn’t the one who hurt her.”

  “You were standin’ in my way.”

  “Take your hands off me.”

  His face got closer. “Baby, I woke up when I heard she got home, felt you get out of bed, decided to let you have a shot with her before I got in there because I was still angry at the way she took off. Heard you two in the bathroom, and you weren’t leaving it. So I had to take a beat because I thought she’d come home drunk again, but this time she’d been driving drunk and I needed that beat because I was getting angrier. Then I got a look at my little girl, and I was beyond pissed. And you were standin’ in my way.”

  “West. Take…your hands…off me.”

  “When I get like that, which, I promise you, darlin’, isn’t often, but it happens, you cannot stand in my way.”

  “Thanks for the advice, but I won’t be around the next time you get like that. Now, I asked you to take your hands off me.”

  He didn’t take his hands off me.

  In fact, he put them on me more.

  He did this by stepping fully into my space, one of his arms locking around my upper back, the other hand sliding in my hair, fisting and tugging gently. The whole time, his face stayed a breath away from mine.

  “This is not better,” I informed him.

  “You aren’t leaving,” he informed me.

  “Sorry, but I am.”

  His arm around my back
got tighter, his hand in my hair tilted my head, and he bent his head so his face was in my neck.

  Against my skin, he murmured, “I’m sorry I hurt you, baby.”

  And he sounded sorry.

  So, so sorry.

  I closed my eyes as my heart squeezed, that despair in my belly shifted, cutting through me, reminding me how much I loved it when he was sweet and gentle, just as much as I hated it right in this moment. I forced my hands into the minimal space between us to push against his abs, but he didn’t budge.

  “I wasn’t thinkin’, I was just feelin’,” he went on.

  “West, let me go,” I whispered.

  “I’m not lettin’ you go.”

  “West, let me go.” I finished my words with a shove on his abs.

  His middle rocked back then surged right where it was before.

  He lifted his head and looked down at me. “Clara, baby, I’m not lettin’ you go. We’ll get past this. You just gotta learn not to stand in my way.”

  Against my will, I felt my eyes get wet.

  “Why?” I whispered. “Why won’t you just let me go?”

  “You stake a claim, you stake it because you want what you’re claimin’. Then you keep hold, no matter what you gotta do to keep it. I claimed you and I’m keeping hold.”

  “I’m not a piece of land, West,” I told him, lifting a hand to swipe angrily at the weak, stupid tears sliding down my face. “I’m a person. You can’t do that with a person.”

  “Babe, you stood in that room out there and made a decision. You gave me you when you did. I accepted. I staked my claim. You can’t take that away.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  Okay, so maybe I was wrong about the whole “what your man says goes” rule in the Biker Babe Rulebook.

  A book that seemed to have a lot more written in it than the biker one did.

  “I’m mine to give or take as I please.”

  “Maybe somewhere, in some other place, a place you’ve never lived, and you know it. A place where I don’t want to live.” His face got closer. “Not in here, not where we live.”

  “I don’t want to live here anymore.”

  And he was not wrong.

  Neither was I.

  I didn’t want to live where I was shunted from place to place, person to person, man to man with no will of my own.

  “Like I said yesterday, Toots, you made that decision. You. No one forced you. And once you make the decision, with me, there’s no going back.”