by Wendy Cole
One of the boys holding my arms laughed. “Damn! She made his nose bleed!”
The one holding my feet sneered and wiped the trickle of blood from above his lip.
“She’s kind of hot,” the one holding my arm added.
I peeked to the right, saw the old man struggle to stand up straight, and for a brief moment, I felt true fear. Unlike the boy, Mr. Frankfire had more than a trickle of blood. His ran down the side of his mouth, coated his neck, and soaked his shirt. His face was swollen, and his eye was beginning to turn a nasty shade of purple. I ground my teeth and fought harder. I wouldn’t beat them. I wasn’t stupid enough to think I could, but if I could keep their attention away from him…
“Walk away, old man,” I said between my teeth. “Just do it.”
He grimaced and shook his head, but he didn’t answer me. There was hopelessness in his eyes that clenched my heart. This was worse for him than the beating, but I couldn’t let him be a hero, not for me.
A hand ran down the side of my neck, and I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw. Bile rose into my throat as the touch drifted down, and icy fear washed over me when I felt them carrying me away.
This was it. This was another shitty gift from karma; a prize for trying to help a defenseless old man.
Then, as if Karma herself had heard my thoughts, an engine roared.
I twisted at the sound, and a relieved cry echoed out of me.
It was a Camaro.
Tires squealed as the car barreled onto the sidewalk and almost collided with the guy gripping my legs. He stumbled out of the way, and my bottom half hit the ground.
Bard didn’t even cut the engine. He slammed the car into park and jumped out quicker than I thought possible. He was a whirlwind, a gust of power as his fist surely and accurately made impact with the closest of the three men and dropped him to the concrete. One hit and boom, he was out cold. His limbs sprawled out at unnatural angles, and his face fell slack.
The other two abandoned their hold on me and hurried to help their friend, but Bard’s eyes were wild. I’d never seen anything like him. He moved like water, fluid and graceful. Like an actor in an impossible scene from some unrealistic movie, he grabbed one of the men and rammed his face into his knee. Then, before the kid could hit the ground, he grabbed the other by the hair and headbutted him in the nose. A familiar crunch racked the air and blood gushed out like a popped balloon.
I thought it was over, but Bard didn’t stop. He kept going; striking downward punches one after the other even after the boy was unconscious. It was the kid who’d touched me.
“Stop!” I shouted, knowing too much more and he’d kill him.
Bard froze, breathing heavily, then stood up straight and spit on the bloodied face with a snarl curling his lips.
He turned that look on me and closed the space between us in long angry strides. “Get in the car.”
He reached down and jerked me to my feet.
“The old man, too,” I said, my voice awed. I’d never seen anything like what he’d just done. It was impossible. Incredible.
Bard was a fucking badass.
That was when he took in Mr. Frankfire’s mangled appearance and turned back to the discarded young men with white-knuckled fists.
Quickly, I reached a hand out and grabbed his arm. Bard stiffened. “Let’s go. The old man’s hurt.”
He looked back at me, eyes searching, probing. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” I pulled him. “Let’s go.”
Bard turned away from the boys and walked over to the old man. “Come on…There you go. I gotcha.”
Bard hoisted him up, and this time, Mr. Frankfire didn’t object to someone helping him. It was a testament to how much pain he was in.
“Get in the car, Tequila.” He eased the old man into the backseat. “You alright, old timer?”
“I’m fine. Just get the girl out of here,” Mr. Frankfire grumbled.
I got into the front passenger seat and watched Bard walk around. When he got inside and closed the door, I asked, “How’d you learn how to do that?”
His eyes sharpened on the view in front. “My father.”
His father. The bear on Zeke’s arm. What happened to him? What caused this reaction from Bard every time he brought him up? I could have been imagining things. It could still be adrenaline from the fight―anger at the men he’d beaten. It could just be the natural reaction of a man who’d lost someone close to him, but it felt like more. There was something there―something dark. It was the thing he drank to forget.
I shook my head. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t my business, but regardless of what’d happened in the motorhome, he’d saved me. “That was pretty badass.”
Bard cut his hard expression over at me. “Yeah, and what you did was pretty fucking stupid.”
“I second that!” Mr. Frankfire shouted from the backseat.
I bristled. Well, then. Fuck both of you.
“I had it under control.” I definitely hadn’t, but I’d be damned if I’d let myself be scolded like a child. “They were just kids.”
“Those kids were ready to…” His mouth clamped into a straight line, and the sentence hung heavy between us.
I didn’t respond. I turned my gaze to the window and watched the scenery fly past, seeing none of it. The ride continued in silence for a full five minutes before a hand gripped my chin.
Bard jerked my face over. “You realize that, don’t you?” He held me firm, forced me to meet the heat of his angry gaze. “Promise me you won’t do anything that fucking stupid again.”
“Don’t touch me.” I pulled away from him. “I told you! I had everything under control.”
It was another lie. I’d been in deep shit, and it would have been worse if Bard hadn’t showed up. I knew that. My pride wasn’t about to let me admit to it, though; not when he was talking to me the way he was.
Bard smacked a hand on the steering wheel and pressed down harder on the gas pedal.
“Fine!” he shouted. “Then I’m teaching you how to fight!”
I snorted. “I know how to fight!”
“It looked like it,” Bard said, lips curled and eyes on the road.
I bit my tongue. I’d taken on women far bigger than myself in prison. I knew how to fight. Then again, I never stood a chance against Drake. I’d also never taken on three guys single-handedly.
“Could you teach me to do what you just did?” I asked. If Bard could teach me that, I’d be better able to defend myself when the club found me.
Bard studied me. “Yes.”
He was searching again. He was always searching. I stared into those intense eyes and realized what a bitch I was being. If, for nothing else, I was grateful he helped the old man.
“Thank you,” I said softly, “for helping us back there.”
Bard scanned my face then turned back to the road. “Don’t mention it.”
The shop loomed into view, and Zeke walked out as we pulled up. “Girl, you’re going to be the damn death of me!”
Bard cut the engine.
When I got out, Zeke looked me over. “Bard said you took off, and I’ve been out of my mind worrying about you.”
Mr. Frankfire hobbled out of the back, and Zeke’s eyes widened at his appearance.
“What the hell happened?” He turned his gaze back to me and looked as if he was scanning for similar injuries.
“Some punk ass kids thought they’d beat up on the old man.” I held my breath, praying Zeke would help him out.
Zeke was quiet for a long moment, his jaw tight. His eyes met Bard’s, and a silent conversation passed between the two. He nodded, “That’s good you brought him here. Come on, old timer. Charlene will get you fixed up.”
“I figured he could have one of the bunks,” I said. Since I was back, I could use a buffer between myself and big sexy like a security blanket. Not much could happen with the old man there.
Zeke shot a look towards Bard then shook his head.
“I’ve been clearing out the spare room in the shop. I’d planned to surprise you with it, but he could probably use it more.” He patted Mr. Frankfire’s back. “It will be much warmer, with a better bed.”
Motherfucker.
Mr. Frankfire grimaced. “Probably a hell of a lot quieter, too.”
I glared at him.
Zeke laughed then steered the old man towards the shop. I watched them go until Bard moved closer and forced me to take a step back.
“Follow me,” he said, turning away and heading towards the property line.
I ignored him and moved towards the RV instead. My feet had just hit the first step when his hand grabbed mine. “I want to show you something.”
“I’m tired,” I lied. The events of the night had my adrenaline pumping so hard, there was no chance of me ever getting to sleep. He didn’t know that though, and after everything that’d happened, I needed space from him.
Of course, he saw right through me.
“No, you’re not.”
I glared at him. “What happened to you wanting me gone?”
His eyes cut through me. “I was wrong.” He paused as if he was choosing his next words carefully. “I followed you…to make sure you were safe.”
Those eyes bore into me. His face was stoic and unreadable.
His hand still held mine, and his thumb moved in a light caress against my palm. A shiver shot through me at the contact.
I pulled away and finished climbing the steps. “It was a bad idea.”
He followed me inside. “It didn’t feel like it.”
“Don’t care,” I responded, heading straight towards the back. For some reason though, his words made my chest lighten. Why the fuck did I care? I wanted to scream at myself.
No men! No men! No men! I chanted the words inside my head, hoping my stupid brain would finally get the memo.
“Tequila.” His voice was silky smooth.
“Don’t call me that!” I whipped around and pulled at my hair. “I’m not your pet. I’m not your woman. I’m nobody’s woman. Just…stop!” My chest heaved. “You saw my scars, told me to leave, rescued me, brought me back, and now you want to talk?” I paused to catch my breath. “He hurt me, Bard! Is that what you want to hear? He hurt me, and I’m damaged! I get it, okay? You’re a man, just like any other man! But, please…I’m begging you. Go after someone else.” My voice cracked, and I fought against the emotions flooding me.
I was begging. I hated begging. It was one of the lowest things I could do, but I was desperate.
Bard was silent, his eyes searching once again. Only this time, there was an understanding in his gaze. “I’m not like him.”
My reply was barely a whisper. “It doesn’t matter. I’m broken, Bard. Barely standing. I can’t do this again.”
I turned my pleading eyes to him. I was tired, so damn tired. Not long ago, I had been prepared to die, and then I was given a second chance, and now, a third. It would be stupid to go walking down the same road. Alone, nobody could hurt me.
Bard stared at me for another long moment before walking over to the fridge. “Sit down. Have a drink with me.”
“I don’t think…”
He cut me off, “I’m not going to try anything. I get it. Please, we could both use a drink.”
It took a moment, but I relented.
Bard sat down at the table with a bottle of Wild Turkey and two rock glasses. I took the seat across from him.
He poured a small amount for each of us and didn’t comment when I downed mine. Just like at the bar, he added more without passing judgement.
I watched him down a few of his own, and we continued on like that for a while: silent, back and forth, one drink after another. Neither of us spoke. The only sound was the ticking of the old wall clock hanging in the corner. The only light emanated from the small lamp on the kitchen counter. It painted the room a faint yellow glow that helped to calm my nerves.
Halfway through the bottle, my muscles eased, and the silence grew comfortable, almost companion-like. A few drinks after that, Bard finally spoke. His gaze stayed fixed on the bottom of his glass, and his voice was low, deep, and smooth.
“When I was a boy, my father taught me a lot of things: how to hunt, how to fish, how to fight. He taught me what it meant to be a man. Zeke and him were brothers, but he was older and taught Zeke a lot, too. He was the greatest man I ever knew.”
I couldn’t do anything but stare and listen. He mesmerized me with the sound of his voice and the way his words flowed like water down a stream.
Bard poured another drink and held the bottle up in question. I nodded, and he added more to my glass.
He took a long swallow before continuing. “I grew up in the mountains. For generations, my family has owned the same stretch of land. It goes on like it never ends, and sometimes, it feels like it never does. There’s a two-hundred-year-old cabin up there that my great, great, great, great grandfather built with his own hands.”
He looked at me and paused as if gauging for my reaction.
Silently, I begged him to go on, to let me hear his voice. It was soothing, and the mystery of him was too compelling to turn away from.
“My mother had a heart condition.” He downed his glass, and poured another, filled to the brim this time. “My father couldn’t afford the medicines or the treatment she needed. So…” He downed the drink and slammed the glass down onto the table. “He made a deal to store illegal weapons on the property in exchange for enough money to cover my mother’s medical expenses. She hated it, but without the income, she would have died.”
He snorted, but not in humor. His hand curled around the glass so tightly, I was afraid it would shatter.
“Things were good for a long time. Then when I was sixteen, the man he did business with died, and his son took over.”
I gasped, and Bard looked at me. Drake. Bard’s father did business with the club. This was how he knew them, how he knew him.
Bard took a long pull straight from the bottle. “When he came, he insisted we not only start holding drugs, but that we do it for less money. My father refused. He wouldn’t mess with drugs. He’d always made that clear, but Drake threatened him. He sent me to get my mother, but when I went to look for her, she wasn’t where she should have been.”
He took another long drink then reached over and filled my glass before downing a second. “When I made it back, he was arguing with them. My mother had wandered outside and was watching. She looked so… scared, so fucking terrified. She’d never liked the club coming around…had always been against it.”
He swallowed hard and his eyes shut tight. Pain etched his face, and my heart lurched at the sight of it. I kept silent and sat perfectly still.
“Next thing I knew…” He took another long drink and slammed the bottle down onto the table. “Next thing I knew,” his teeth clenched, “he pulled out a gun and shot my father in the head.”
I sucked in a harsh breath. It didn’t surprise me, little did when it came to Drake. I’d seen him do way worse. When Bard told the story though―to hear that raw pain in his voice―it was enough to rattle me to the core. It was worse than what I’d seen. My heart broke because I knew that pain. I’d lived with it.
“My mother saw it all, and it was too much. Her heart couldn’t take it. She died right there in the front yard.” He gripped the bottle, took a long drink, ground his teeth, and stared at the table beneath him as if he could see the scene in its worn white surface. “They didn’t see me on the side of the house. I’d just been walking up when it all happened. I ran, took to the woods. I left them there…”
He sounded so broken, ashamed, and angry. All of these things were wrapped into one giant ball of emotion. It rolled off of him in waves and choked me.
“It wasn’t your fault. They would have killed you,” I said, unable to stay silent any longer. His pain was mine. We were the same. He did this to us.
“Sometimes I think it would have been bette
r if they did.” He looked at me, and his eyes were hollow. They were the same eyes I’d seen in the mirror a thousand times.
“I know the feeling,” I whispered.
Bard nodded. “My father was a great man. Zeke is a great man. Not all men are like Drake, Tequila.”
“I know there are men who aren’t like Drake,” I admitted. “There are great men like your father and Zeke. You may be different, Bard. Maybe you’re a great man, too, but great men should stay away from people like me. We’re poison.”
Bard reached across the table and took my hand. “You’re more than what he did to you. I’ve never met anyone like you, Tequila.”
His tone was so genuine and honest that it made me uncomfortable. Now I knew Bard was innocent. He was wrapped up in this for the most noble of intentions―to save his mother. He was too good for me.
I was dangerous.
“How about another drink?” I pulled my hand away.
He filled them both then lifted his. “To men that deserve to die…” He clinked his glass against mine and drank, his eyes intense and searching once again. “…and new beginnings.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Charlene woke me up at the crack ass of dawn in the most motherly way possible. “C’mon, sweetheart. Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey.”
I grimaced and pulled the pillow over my head. “I’m going to need you to take all that sunshine outside where it belongs.”
She chuckled. “Come on, sleepyhead. Zeke wants you over at the shop, and he hasn’t had his coffee yet. Trust me. You don’t want him to come get you.”
That got me. I sat up and stared at her as the memories of the previous day came rushing to the forefront of my mind. Bard had probably told him about the tattoo and my affiliation with Drake.
He was kicking me out.
I rolled to my knees and crawled off the bed. My head throbbed, and my stomach felt ready to purge itself of every vital organ I had.
Ever the angel, Charlene handed me two painkillers and, go figure, a whole carton of orange juice. “Bard told me to give you these.” She grinned.