Fractured (Devil's SixGuns MC Book 2)

by Scarlett Holloway

  It had been the day of her Quinceanera, a celebration of her rites of passage from being a child into young adulthood. It was an all-day event and celebration for the Latin community. Every member of the family, along with their friends and godparents were invited to witness the spectacular event. It started out bright and early in the morning, with a Misa de accion de gracias, or mass to give thanks for a completed childhood, where she was dressed in an elaborate pale pink formal dress that could be misconstrued as a wedding dress. She was presented with gifts as she sat in the front pew with her damas and chambelanes, young ladies and gentlemen that were close friends.

  The mass was a solemn ceremony for Thorne with a baptism welcoming her into adulthood. Thorne then presented a colorful bouquet of flowers to the Virgen de Guadalupe, where in turn, she would present her friends and family with gifts of remembrance.

  That was when the party began.

  Thorne had been upset because Maggie had not given her a gift and tried her best not to show it. She was a junior model and Elks Rodeo Princess; she was capable of keeping her feelings hidden, right?

  She had waited patiently all night for her sister, who she had looked up to her whole life, to give her a gift, but it never happened.

  Finally in bed, she couldn’t sleep, wondering what she had done to Maggie for her to wish her such ill will in her journey, to not give her a present into her new passage of life. A quiet knock on her door drew her attention, and she jumped out of bed and raced to throw open her door.

  It was Maggie and she was holding a beautifully wrapped gift in her hands. She had apologized for not giving it to her sooner, but she wanted Thorne to pay special attention to her gift, not have it lost in the hundreds of other trinkets she had received.

  And now Dalton was holding that gift in his hands.

  Finally finding her voice, though it sounded strained and full of pain, she managed to choke out her question to him. “Please, please tell me you didn’t open that.”

  The inflection of her question must have startled him as he looked up to her, his eyes widened slightly. “No, I didn’t. Why was it hidden in the garage? It’s beautiful.”

  His admission to being in her garage was enough to get her feet moving. Thorne snatched the box out of his hands and cradled it protectively against her chest, snarling at him. “Don’t you Kilpatrick boys ever mind your own fucking business?” That was when she caught her profile out of her peripheral. “Why the hell is there a mirror in here?”

  “Whoa there, Thorne. Chill the fuck out.” Dalton rose up, his brows furrowing as he settled his crystalline blues on her. “You may be able to function without a mirror, but I can’t. Besides, that is just a damn jewelry box. I was just curious why you had it boxed up. Not that big of a fucking deal.”

  Not that big—oh yeah, Romeo was about to get a fucking earful. This shit was not going to work out.

  “Maggie gave me this, and I will never be able to open it because of your fucked up brotherhood.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? The club doesn’t have shit to do with whatever she gave you.” Dalton’s voice was laced with malice as he snatched the box back from her, like he was trying to prove a point.

  Thorne clenched her fists, allowing her nails to bite into her palms, giving her a temporary reprieve from the anger that threatened to boil over. Jaw tensed as she ground her teeth together, her voice taking on a venomous tone. “She gave me that with specific instructions that I can never open it until I get on the cover of Sports Illustrated Bathing Suit Edition. The SixGunss fucked that up and now I’ll never know what is inside.”

  Dalton’s head flinched back slightly, his hand coming up to pull at his earlobe as he frowned. “Uh, you have serious fucking issues if you think the club did this to you. Diablo and the TG did this, not me, not Saber, not Romeo. Diablo and his ball-licking fucktards did this to you and then killed your sister when he wrecked the fucking bike with her on it. Don’t take your shit out on me, Thorne.”

  Thorne physically blanched at Dalton’s verbal assault, only hearing the words that constantly haunted her thoughts and nightmares: Diablo killed her sister. When Dalton stepped toward her and away from the bed, he carefully tossed the box to the mattress and turned his now hard and flinty indigo gaze toward her. Thorne nearly folded and conceded to him. Instead, she squared her shoulders and met his gaze head on, lifting her chin to an angle of defiance.

  “You could open that box any fucking time you wanted to.” Dalton’s hand jutted out from his side as he thrust his finger in the direction he tossed the golden box. “Just because you’ve got it in your head that you’re ugly and can’t do shit and are feeling fucking sorry for yourself, doesn’t mean your life has ended.”

  She couldn’t believe what he was saying to her. He had no right to verbally assault her like he was. He didn’t know what she was going through, or know what it was like when her world came crashing down around her and her career was tossed out the window over some feud.

  Thorne was about to give him a taste of his own medicine, but he cut her off again, standing boldly intimidating before her.

  “You have a fucking scar. So. The. Fuck. What.” His voice emphasized each word as he closed the space between them, the veins in his neck popping out as he narrowed his cold, emotionless gaze at her. “Maybe you need more dick in you to open your fucking eyes that you’re not ugly. It’s your fucking attitude that is making you ugly and a bitch.”

  Thorne reacted before her brain could stop her. She didn’t even consciously realize what she had done until it was over and her hand was throbbing. She had slapped Dalton as hard as she could across his face. His head snapped to the side, but that tree trunk body never wavered from the blow. “You son of a bitch…”

  “And?” Dalton turned his head back toward her, his cheek red and inflamed. “Truth fucking hurts, doesn’t it?”

  Thorne spun around on her heels, raced down the hallway to the living room, and scooped up her phone. Her fingers assaulted the keypad as she looked up Romeo’s name then hit dial. Her pulse raced and her heart pounded in her chest as she tried to catch her breath. Dalton had pushed the wrong buttons, and she wanted him gone.

  “Romeo? I want this baboso chingadera out of my fucking house!” Thorne couldn’t stop herself from yelling, not caring about the possible consequences that could come from it. “The una culero has crossed the fucking line. Quiero que elha ido!”

  She wanted Dalton out of her house and out of her life. Now. Not later. Now.

  Romeo’s laughter echoed through cyber space as he answered her outburst. “Suck it up, buttercup. He’s there until his sentence is up. Sorry, but you agreed.”

  “I take it back. He’s not welcome here.”

  “Yeah, okay, Thorne. Call me when you’ve actually killed him. Until then, adios.”

  The silence that followed was deafening. Romeo had just hung up on her. Thorne outwardly seethed as she dropped the phone from her ear. That was one thing she could not stand: being laughed at. She turned to see Dalton’s smug face. He was trying not to laugh at her, though his eyes were cold and void of the laughter that was displayed.

  “Oh!” Thorne stomped her foot, huffing at him and the missing Romeo. The SixGuns men were infuriating. Thorne walked away from Dalton, her back rigid while she stalked to her gym and slammed the door behind her.

  WITH EACH REPETITION OF the weights Thorne shredded the anger that Dalton had fueled with his words. He was right and she knew it, she just didn’t want to admit it. That would be like admitting that she was an alcoholic, the first step in the twelve step program.

  Thorne was hiding behind her fear of unacceptance. There was no other way to explain it; then again, she didn’t want to. She had found comfort in her bitterness, and it protected her from the hurt that she knew would find her if she allowed anyone in.

  After ending her last set, she grabbed her towel and wiped the sweat from her face, meeting her own gaze in the mirror
. She had beautiful olive toned skin, flawless and youthful. Her eyes were the color of toffee, framed with thick lashes. A button nose led to full sensual lips and a strong chin. Her cheekbones were high, showing her Latina heritage along with her thick dark chestnut hair that held a slight curl.

  The scar split the classic beauty into something detestable. At least in her eyes. It was a permanent necklace, a reminder that she was not invincible. It destroyed all hopes and dreams, making her feel unattractive and undesirable in many ways. That was all Thorne seemed to be able to focus on; she couldn’t see past it, no matter how hard she tried.

  Thorne was distracted by an empty feeling in her stomach, which was currently growling at her. How long had it been since she had eaten a real meal? A month? Two? She couldn’t remember. The smell wafting under the door was mouthwatering and distracting as all get-out.

  She opened the door with a sigh of exasperation, and headed toward Dalton’s room to get her trinket box back. She didn’t have to. There it sat, on the tiny table in the hallway, right before her bedroom door.

  Thorne felt like shit for yelling at Dalton like she had, and she slumped her shoulders as she ventured into her bedroom to grab a shower. Her mouth wouldn’t quit salivating while she got cleaned up, the delicious scents calling her to the kitchen.

  Her brows shot up in surprise as she stepped into the kitchen and saw him humming softly, looking at peace at the stove. Head tilted as she leaned in the archway, arms crossed over her chest allowing her to relax against the wall, she watched him as he bustled about. It looked like he belonged in a kitchen by the way he moved with a confidence that came from years of practice.

  “You’ll make someone a good wife someday,” Thorne grumbled to him as her belly echoed her tone.

  Dalton casually glanced over his shoulder, eyes washing over her, then he turned his attention back to the skillet he was stirring. “Maybe. Helps that my mom taught us boys to cook. She didn’t want us to starve when she pushed us out of the nest.”

  Using her shoulder to push off the wall, she pulled out a stool from the bar and perched on it, her chin falling into her cupped hand. “Good idea.”

  “Let me guess, by the lack of real food in the fridge, you don’t cook much?”

  Thorne snorted and shook her head, keeping it rested on her hand. She didn’t bother pushing back the hair that fell over her eyes. “I only eat healthy foods, usually just veggies or tuna. That really doesn’t require cooking. Plus…” Thorn smiled a tiny smile. “Your mom comes by and leaves premade meals in the fridge and freezer for me.”

  Dalton paused, leaving the wooden spoon in whatever it was he was stirring. “You don’t know how to cook?”

  Thorne lifted her head from her hand, her body became rigid, that all too familiar defensive feeling rising up to choke her. She didn’t want him to know that she could. That was something private. She could see the curiosity on his face, though his eyes were now guarded. She couldn’t blame him. She had tried to rip his head off earlier and she was about to do it again. Thorne swallowed it down and tried to relax once more.

  She shook her head. “My parents were killed when I was almost sixteen, and Maggie raised me until I was eighteen. She always cooked; I was too busy to be bothered with it, with all of the extra-curricular activities I was in.”

  Dear God, she sounded shallow, but part of it was true. She was way too involved in school things to learn some of the fundamentals of life. “As soon as I graduated, I went to paramedic training at UC Davis, and with the hours that we worked, I never bothered with learning. I just bought easy premade foods like tuna, vegetables, and fruits. It was better to eat that anyway with the way I needed to look for the photoshoots I was doing at the time.” She left out the fact that she learned to cook in high school.

  “Plus, if I got too hungry, after Saber and I became partners, he always cooked. He was just as much of a health nut as me, so it made it less complicated if we were on the same foods and regimen.”

  Dalton nodded, then turned his attention back to the pot and pulled it off the heat. “Well, I’ve made poor man’s goulash, if you’re interested.”

  Wha-tha-fuck?

  “Uhm, no thanks.” The very sound of goulash was unappealing on many levels.

  Dalton turned toward her, hands on his hips, his face stone cold. “And exactly when was the last time you actually ate a real meal, Thorne?”

  “I—I don’t remember exactly.” Thorne couldn’t help but stutter from the look he was giving her, making her feel small next to him.

  “That’s what I thought.” Turning back to the stove, he dished out a healthy amount in a bowl for her, then got himself one and placed the same amount of the concoction in it. He set one down in front of her as his other hand pulled up a stool on the opposite side of the island. “Bon appetite.”

  Thorne’s brows shot up as she looked down at the bowl. It was some odd brown mixture of what looked like ground turkey and macaroni. The smell was completely inviting though. She hesitantly picked up her spoon and scooped out enough for a small bite. Her eyes grew big as she looked up in surprise to the smiling Dalton.

  “This is really good.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised, babe. I’m actually a pretty damn good cook.”

  * * * *

  Dalton wanted to laugh at Thorne for her nativity in the kitchen. It was almost cute. Almost. It was a shocker that someone as multi-talented as Thorne couldn’t boil water to save herself. He hated to racial profile, but 99.9% of Mexican women could cook better than anyone out there, except for the Sicilians, and he got stuck with the one who could burn water.

  He watched in amazement at how meticulously she ate, indicating that she was trying her hardest not to scarf the food down. How long had it actually been since she had an honest-to-goodness home-cooked meal? Apollo understood, better than anyone, healthy eating. The way she ate was for competitors that wanted a low body fat, but how they worked out, constituted for heavier meals to repair the torn muscles. Thorne needed more carbs and a shit-ton more calories if she wanted to survive and not tear her body down with the weights.

  As Thorne glanced up, swallowing a mouthful, her large amber eyes grew wide, as if she had done something wrong. “What?”

  Apollo couldn’t stop the chuckle, “Nothing. Just glad you’re enjoying the food.” He pushed around some of the macaroni in his bowl before he scooped up a bite. “It’s not every day that I actually get to cook for someone.”

  “Oh.” Thorne hopped off of her stool, stepped over to the skillet, and scooped herself out another healthy portion of the food. “Well, it’s really good.”

  “I can tell.” Apollo’s smile widened in approval. “Have as much as you want. Please.”

  His eyes trailed after her as she prowled back to her seat unaware of the way she walked. It was sensual and yet confident. When she sat back down, her hand unconsciously moved a section of her hair over the left side of her face, hiding the scar from his view.

  “So, what is it you do for a living?” Thorne gazed at him from under her delicately arched brows as she pushed her food around in her bowl. “I mean, I realize you take pictures. You got busted for it. But there’s got to be more to it than that.”

  Apollo laughed and took a drink of his coffee. “I do just that. Take pictures. I’m contracted by magazines and agents to take pictures of whatever they want. It could be models, scenery, animals, cars.” He lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “Simple really.”

  Thorne crinkled her nose up and her brows bunched together as her spoon dangled in her hand, hovering over her bowl. “It takes more than that, Dalton. Give yourself a little more credit. I’ve seen some of your work. Saber’s made sure of that. He’s very proud of you. To be as good as you are, you have to see things others don’t. You find symmetry in things. Give you sand and you’ll find the sea, give you rain and you’ll see a rainbow.”

  Apollo was a bit taken back by how she viewed his work. She saw some
thing deeper in it, things that others tended to miss. “And you got all of that just from seeing a few pictures?”

  He watched her cheeks blossom into the cutest shade of red that he had ever seen. Espina Lopez was actually blushing. She hid her eyes and face from view by dropping her head and allowing her hair to fall just right over the scar.

  Apollo reached out to push her hair away from her face with delicate ease, tucking it behind her ear. “Are you actually blushing?”

  Thorne swatted his hand away from her, the blush deepening. “Fuck you.”

  Laughter echoed in his voice as Apollo raised a single brow. “No, I fucked you. Remember?”

  Apollo wanted to laugh out loud and gloat at the same time when she buried her face in her hands with what he discerned as an “ohmuhgawd” through her fingers. He knew if he did, it would ruin the light-hearted moment he was finally able to share with her.

  Watching her try to regain her composure was just as interesting. Apollo could tell she was fighting the instinct to turn her face away from him, the rose-colored cheeks beginning to mellow as Thorne coughed, then cleared her throat. It was as if he could see the wheels turning in her brain as she met his gaze.

  “So what were you really doing at Pirates Cove?”

  Why the hell was it that no one believed him?

  Apollo dropped his shoulders and hung his head slightly, his hand lifted up to scrub across the blond disarray he called hair. “I was shooting the ocean wildlife. SeaWorld contracted me to take some photos for their annual kid’s magazine. There was a seagull and otter that were fighting over a damn clam.”

  “Uhuh.” Thorne had that sure tone in her voice, her head lowered with a slight nod. “And you decided Pirates Cove, of all places, was the best area to get shots of an otter? Are you sure you weren’t trying to get shots of the local beaver?”

  It took a moment for what Thorne was implicating to register, but when it hit him, he busted out laughing, wagging his finger at her. “Oh, she’s got jokes now.”