He slides me a shot of tequila. "Sit," he says, mouth drawn.
I glance at Esther. She shrugs.
Cliff slides her a shot, too, then pours one for himself. "You're gonna need this."
I sit on a stool as if my body was made of wood rather than flesh and blood. Oh Vile Eye pulses through me, Greg's voice wrapping itself around my spine and cerebral cord, infiltrating every part of me. I need to focus on the present, not the past. I glance around for Mercy. "Where is he?" I ask Cliff.
"They're all MIA," Esther observes, holding up her shot. "Except you." She nods to Cliff. "¿Que pasó?"
In response, Cliff knocks back his shot, his eyes never leaving mine. "Mercy isn't here."
I don't even blink. "Where is he?" I ask again.
"He had me drop him off at his house."
"The white box?" I salt my hand and grab a lime, then down the shot. "He's there?" I climb down from the stool. He probably wants to look at my baby pictures or something silly like that.
"No, Olivia." Even though he has to yell over the music, his voice is soft.
I turn back toward him. The ache in his eyes sends my stomach plummeting.
He pours me another shot. "He got on his bike . . . and left."
"He left?" I shoot the tequila without even bothering with the salt and lime. "Where did he go?" My voice wobbles, and I nod to the bottle.
Cliff obliges, his eyes sad as he pours. "He went to find Bree."
I blink. "My mother?" Eyes watering, I squeeze them shut while I knock back the next shot.
"I'm sorry," he says. He reaches across the bar and entwines his fingers with mine.
I slam the shot glass on the bar. Esther flinches, then gulps down her tequila. "He couldn't even stop in to see me first?" I reach for the bottle, but Cliff puts it back on the shelf.
"He'll be back," he soothes.
I wrench my hand away. Even under the fuzzy blanket of tequila, my anger and betrayal burns. "Is that why the club had Church last minute?"
He nods. "We decided to let him go."
I scoff. "Of course you did." Shaking my head, I take a step toward the end of the bar where there's an opening for whoever's tending. I'm taking that bottle of tequila and holing up in Cliff's room.
Mercy can go fuck himself.
"Hey," Greg croons two inches from my ear.
My entire body freezes. I turn in slow motion, keeping my eyes low so I don't have to look into his.
Greg stands so close within my personal space, I could slip a knife between his ribs if I'd thought to bring one. I sidestep him, shoving down memories.
"I'm out of here," I call, then stumble out the door. Before I can think about what I'm doing or where I'll even go, I hop onto the Street Glide, then peel out of the parking lot, far away from The Wet Mermaid and all of the men who have ruined me.
24
Cliff
I watch her go, chest tightening hard enough to bruise my heart. I fucked this up. I should've broken it to her better. I don't know how, but better. Somehow.
"Watch the bar," I tell Esther, then vault over the thing. I hit the ground hard, the shock reverberating up through my legs, banging around in my knees. I sure as hell ain't eighteen anymore.
Springing up, I race through the crowd. A motorcycle revs—Olivia. I shove past the dick from Oh Vile Eye, just about knocking him over. I don't even bother to apologize.
"Move," I yell as I point a shoulder toward a cluster of dancing bodies. They part and I run through, their bodies stilling as they stare after me. I push through the door, bursting into the cool night air. Olivia peels out of the parking lot, her hair streaming out behind her in frizzy spirals. "Shit!"
I lunge for the Screamin' Eagle, hands and feet working in tandem even when my brain and heart are already chasing Olivia down 63. I barely register when I'm doing. My helmet clatters to the pavement and I leave it. I go after my girl.
When I get onto the street, there's no sign of her. I push the bike hard. I've got to find her. I close the distance between me and a Subaru, my front tire nearly kissing its bumper. The hippie's barely doing 25 on a 45 mph strip. I check for oncoming traffic. Both lanes are clear, so I duck into the left lane and pass the Subaru.
Moving back into the right lane, I push the Eagle to 50, then 60 mph. I pass two Hondas, a Toyota, and a pickup before I get stuck behind an eighteen-wheeler.
I ain't fucking with that.
I follow the truck until I'm nearly in Waterbury. Still no sign of Olivia. I pull into the Mobil at the bottom of the on ramp to CT-8 N. It's a small gas station, so instead of taking up space in front of a pump, I pull off to the side.
Despite the cool air, sweat dampens my hair. Wish I had a bandana or one of Olivia's hair ties. I put it up in a bun once, just to see what she'd do. She laughed so hard, her face turned bright red. I almost didn't want to take it out, because I'd never seen her let go like that.
I put both feet on the ground but leave the Eagle idling. Now I've lost her—I'm not sure in how many ways. I'm not even sure where to look for her, aside from her place or Lucy's. She might've just gone for a ride to clear her head.
Which means she could be anywhere.
I pat down my cut for my cell phone, but come up empty. I don't even have any cigarettes. I left everything at the club. Luckily, I've got my wallet. I put down the kickstand, ready to shut the bike off and go buy a pack, when it hits me.
The house.
She called it the white box. She was only a baby when he went inside, but maybe she and Bree stayed there for a while. I gave the key back to Beer Can, but maybe there's a spare and she let herself in.
I roll out of the gas station and take a left back into Naugatuck.
I've only been to the house once, but I think I can get back there. If not, I'll go back to The Wet Mermaid and get directions from one of the guys.
Before I went in and for the twenty years I served, cell phones were way out of my grasp, but it's crazy how much they come in handy now.
I get lucky again, finding my way back without much trouble at all. It helps that when I pull up, I spot Olivia's Street Glide in the driveway. It's just a little crooked, but I'm grateful she made it in one piece. I should've never let her ride drunk. I slide in behind her bike, then shut off the engine.
If we're breaking and entering, it's probably better to not draw too much more attention.
A single porch light is on. No interior lights. I glance down the side of the yard. Nothing moves.
"Olivia?" I call, checking up and down the street. No one's paying attention.
I stroll into the yard like I live here and call her name again. I don't see her, and she doesn't answer, but I smell menthol cigarettes. I follow the scent until I'm in the backyard.
Another porch light illuminates the yard, shining down on Olivia. She sits at a rusted patio set, its cushions long gone. She holds a cigarette between two long fingers, the light glinting off her maraschino cherry red nail polish. Smoke curls into the air, disappearing up into the night.
I take the seat across from her. Without a cushion, the metal chair digs into my tailbone, already sore from driving back and forth to Pennsylvania. I gesture to her pack of cigarettes and lighter. "Do you mind?"
She nods, eyes luminous. Her lips close around the filter and she shuts her eyes, taking a drag. It reminds me of the first time I saw her, when she lit up the second she slid out of the Uber. The only difference is, then she didn't have a care in the world. Right now, in this dim backyard, she looks ten years wearier.
I light up too. "I'm sorry," I say on the exhale. Those two words are hardly enough. I should've made Mercy stay.
Maybe he thought she didn't need him anymore. Maybe he didn't want to face her after leaving her for the club—after leaving her to the care of strangers. I should've made him see that she needed him to stay, at least for a little while.
I try to find the words to say all of this—words that don't sting. There are none.
I reach across the table, but her arm is wrapped around her torso, her fingers clutching her ribs. Her other elbow rests on the table. She'll have the mesh pattern from the wrought iron imprinted on her skin later.
"If I'd known Mercy was gonna pull that shit, I wouldn't have brought him here," I say. "I would've brought him straight to the club."
She shakes her head. "It's not that," she says, her voice scraping her throat. She laughs. "Well, it is that. Too. Two." She brings the cigarette to her lips.
"What else?" I ask softly.
"I mean," she continues, sliding down in her seat a little, "I guess he didn't miss me as much as I missed him." She flicks her finished cigarette into the grass. Then she lights another. "He goes after my mom? They haven't even been together since I was born. What the fuck."
I drum my fingers on the table. "Maybe she reached out to him before he got out."
Olivia rolls her eyes. "Lord knows she's always running to the club for help. God, the two of them. Why the fuck did they even have me?"
This is a conversation for Lucy. I don't know the right things to say. Not because I think it's a woman's job to deal with another woman's feelings, but because Lucy has fourteen years of Olivia experience on me.
I wasn't there when she lost her parents to the life.
I can't relate to having both my parents walk out on me, but I do know what it's like to have lost them.
"I don't think they know what they're doing at all," I tell her. "I'm glad those two fuckups had you, though."
"You should talk," she scoffs. "Your father makes mine look like Santa fucking Claus."
"You're not wrong." I stretch, reaching for the sky. "I'm pretty sure he killed my mother."
"Get the fuck out." She taps her lighter against the metal. "You never told me that."
"It's more of a hunch. The official cause of death was a suicide, but I've always wondered. Mom didn't have any trouble with depression. She wasn't even on medication or anything." I take a long drag, blinking away the memory of her lying in the tub, fully clothed. "They didn't bother to look into how she got ahold of the fentanyl and Ambien in her system."
"I'm sorry," she says softly.
I need to close that door. I change the subject. "It's kind of romantic that Mercy went after your mom, in a way."
"In a psycho circus kind of way." Olivia sighs.
"He taught you how to shoot. And ride. That's got to count for something," I point out.
"But I must've made that up," she says. "Or remembered it all wrong. How could he have taught me any of those things when he was inside this whole time? I don't even know what he went away for. Maybe it was really bad. Our dads are best friends, after all. No offense."
"Were," I correct. "Mercy told me he was going to kill Bastard if I hadn't."
"The plot thickens." Olivia's gaze drifts into the dark corner of the yard. She bursts into laughter. "What a shit show. You and me, Cliff. I just, wow." Her giggle thickens into a sardonic laugh. "Nothing good comes of our blood."
I want to say that a lot of good could come out of us. I don't.
She scoffs. "We're like oil and water. Fire and gasoline. Napalm and . . ." She taps her lip.
"Napalm," I suggest.
"Napalm and napalm." She finishes her cigarette, tossing it into the dark. "I've got daddy issues."
"Don't we all?"
"That's probably why I can't move in with you. That and Greg."
I straighten in my seat. "Greg?"
"I'm going to kill him," she promises, her voice so cold, I fight off a shudder.
"Who is he?"
"My ex." She reaches for her pack, then frowns. "This is really more of a tequila discussion. Or something stronger than tequila. He's the lead singer in the band Mark hired."
"The one at the bar?" The guy I just about knocked over.
"Yeah, the redhead." She flips open the pack as if she expects cigarettes to materialize. "It's too bad no one actually lives here," she says, glancing at the sliding glass door. "I'd break in and hunt for smokes. Or weed. This is definitely a weed conversation."
"He comes off as a shit head." I flip back through all of my conversations with Lucy about Olivia. She never mentioned a musician ex.
"He's just as bad as Sebastian." Her eyes meet mine.
"You mean Bastard?" I ask, voice hushed.
She nods, just once.
"He hurt you," I say.
"Yes." Her lips tremble, and my heart shatters.
I push back the chair and go to her, falling on my knees in front of her. "I'm here. If you want to tell me, or if you don't. I'm right here." I take both her hands in mine. Her fingers are so cold.
"If I tell you, it'll ruin everything," she whispers.
"Olivia." I hold her hands, hoping the warmth from mine finds a way into hers. "What he did to you doesn't define you. It reflects on him, not you."
"It might not define me," she says, "but he polluted me. I killed Eli because of him. Because of him, I can't even be in the same room with a man without questioning his motives."
"Eli was coming after you," I remind her. "He was going to hurt you. You didn't have a choice."
"He's got family, Cliff. There's a silver alert out for him. The semester ended and somebody realized he didn't walk that stage." She turns her hands in mine, laces her fingers through mine. "Regardless of what he did, someone loves him and has no idea what happened to him."
"Come here." Pulling her into my lap, I ease us down into the grass, damp with evening dew. "No one is going to find him. You're safe."
"That's not what I'm worried about, Cliff. He's someone's son. Someone's brother. Someone out there has no closure. They're like me, wondering where Bree is. And now Mercy, too. I did that to someone."
I wrap my arms around her. I never thought about who I might be hurting by killing Bastard. In my uncle's eyes, I took his brother from him. My aunt and uncle didn't believe Lucy, and I'll never forgive them for that.
There is always collateral damage.
"And it's not the first time," she continues.
"What do you mean?" Cupping her chin, I stroke her skin, my hand almost larger than her face.
"Greg got married." Her voice is so low, I have to strain to hear her. "Her name is Cami, and right now, his hands might be around her neck. Or he's having sex with her when she doesn't want to." She tenses in my arms. "I let him do this to another woman."
The blood in my veins turns to ice, then boils. Every muscle in my body contracts, straining, fingers itching to wrap around his neck. My fists feel hot and heavy, battering rams attached to my arms. "He raped you."
"That sums up all of the awful things he did to me, yes."
I'm torn between staying here with her and flying back to the club. I want to yank him off that stage, bludgeon him with his own guitar. Then it hits me.
She told me.
She trusts me.
I can't break that by racing off to kill him. Olivia let me in—something I never thought would happen. I'll be damned if I leave her here now.
I pick her up, carrying her to our motorcycles out front. I sit her on mine and straddle it, her arms wrapping around me. She nestles into my back, and I take us back to her place with the heat of her body keeping me grounded. Keeping me with her.
In her bed, I tuck her into my side and hold her until she falls asleep. I don't sleep at all.
All I can think about are the thousand ways I will kill him the next time I see him.
25
Olivia
I wake up wedged between the wall and Cliff. At least, what I think is Cliff. I roll over and find a body pillow and comforter instead. I sit up, the look in his eyes when I told him about Greg replaying. I shouldn't have fallen asleep.
I've got to get to Greg before Cliff kills him.
That's my kill.
I yank on the first clothes I find: a pair of ripped skinny jeans on the floor that should probably be washed, a wrinkled whit
e T-shirt. I can't find a bra, and there's no time. I shove my feet into my boots.
The alarm on my phone blares—my 6 a.m. wakeup call.
"Son of a bitch," I hiss. I can't get to Cliff, kill Greg myself, and get to work on time. Given the choice between keeping my job and keeping Cliff out of prison, I choose him. I can't let him go back in there.
I rock back on my heels. I choose him. I turn the words over in my head, trying to decipher them. I don't know what it means. I don't have time to work it out, either. I grab the keys to my Street Glide from the dresser and yank open my bedroom door.
The scent of coffee curls into my nostrils, beckoning me. It's a small ass apartment, so I don't even have to take a step to see Cliff standing at my stove.
Making eggs.
I drop the keys onto the carpet.
He turns, spatula in the air above the pan, mid-flip. "Morning," he rasps.
I go weak in the knees. Like, literally. He stands there barefoot, no shirt, just those dark wash jeans. A tingle zips through my core. I'm hot, panties soaked.
I glance at Esther's door—shut. I think she's home. I don't remember, because the second Cliff tucked me into bed, I went out like a light that desperately needs a new bulb.
"Morning," I say, and bend down to pick up the keys. I turn to just the right angle so that Cliff can watch my ass. The crown of my head points toward the carpet, and my hair falls, a thick curtain of dark curls. I close my fingers around the keys, ass in the air, lips tilted up. I just can't help myself. Not with that sight at my stove.
"Morning," Cliff says again, his voice even grittier than usual. My nipples harden against the cotton of my tee.
On my way back up, I do the hair flip—the one curly girls learn to do, the one that finishes it off after you've scrunched it upside down. It's also the same move strippers use. Different context. I've perfected it over the years, and thank goodness for that.
I'm not sure who to thank for my curls, since both Bree and Mercy have straight hair.
A Risky Prospect (River Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 2) Page 11