by J. P. Oliver
“It does,” he snapped. “As the oldest—”
“The oldest.” I heard myself laugh, hot and hollow. “You don’t get to count yourself as that, either. Not after everything you’ve pulled. So you can just turn around and get out—leave North Creek while you’re at it, because you lurking around is just a joke. When Dad’s gone, you won’t swoop in and suddenly be head of the family. None of us will accept it. You fucked that chance up years ago.”
The silence that followed was like the aftermath of a bomb going off; where there was anger and turmoil and noise one minute, there was stunned, persistent silence the next. Curtis was frowning, watching Winston carefully. And Winston… he, for the first time in his life, looked at me with genuine surprise, genuine hurt.
Guilt flickered in my chest, but I held my ground.
He wasn’t going to push me around anymore.
The silence broke on a soft huff, his lips curling bitterly. It was a smile, but he was hurt. I knew him well enough to know. He turned his head and waved at me, dismissive and light.
“This isn’t over, Victor,” he said, voice calm but strained.
And then he was gone, a ghost passing on, born on the back of the promise of revenge.
18
Adrian
“You missed the turn.”
My truck bounced on the unevenly paved roads, rolling effortlessly on—passing the road that would take us to my parents’ place. When he didn’t answer, I looked at him, saw his small smile as he turned away from downtown North Creek. The wheels dug in hard against the asphalt, and we pulled up in the tree-peppered hills.
“My folks—”
“I’ve already talked to them,” Victor said.
I raised a brow. “That right?”
“Yeah.” His hand found mine on the console. The slide of his fingers was as confident and sure as it was welcomed; comfortable. I’d spent the past few days in a clinic hospital bed holding that hand. That hand—and the handsome man attached to it—never left my side. “Called them when I found out you were being discharged. They said I was allowed to steal you away as long as I made sure you didn’t try hopping on your bike and riding off with that busted knee of yours.”
“What?” I chuckled, raising my leg just enough to flash the brace. It was bulky and ugly, but necessary with how fucked up it had gotten. “This old thing?”
“Adrian,” he chastised softly.
“I know, I know.” I gave his hand a small squeeze. “No joyriding till the surgery… but after that, you and I are riding back up to the overlook to celebrate.”
I shot him a sly grin, head leaned back against the headrest, and Victor’s smile turned cheeky. A touch of a blush.
“Okay,” he laughed. “Deal.”
My things—what little I had when I came into the hospital and what things Victor brought from home for me while I stayed—rattled around in the cramped backseat of my truck as we climbed higher towards his house.
Towards the place that would be my house for… however long recovering would take. I was grateful to him, for a lot of things: for taking me in, for looking out for me, and for showing up that night. After being jumped, I hadn’t even had the energy to call him, but he was still there, like a godsend in tight jeans and with a perfect ass.
The ride back was a nice one. We didn’t talk about what had happened, only relished in the fact that I seemed okay again. He didn’t mention the mostly scrubbed spots of blood on the upholstery, and I didn’t ask.
He helped me out of the truck and up the porch like a true gentleman. Carried my bag and everything. As he pushed the door back for me, I limped in, the brace and crutches clunky and making walking difficult.
Home, I thought, looking at the familiar wallpaper, the long staircase, the wide windows. Home for now.
“So, what’s this gonna be like?” I asked, smile turning mischievous as we made our way up the stairs. “I’ve always had a fantasy like this.”
Hand at my back, Victor laughed, the sound filling the staircase. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Something about a thick candy stripper coming in to take care of me.” I wagged my brows. “You know. Tend to my wounds and make me feel better by any means necessary.”
Laughing some more, he told me, “I think they’re called candy stripers.”
“Mm. Tomato, tomahto.”
Victor helped me to a room on the second floor—one of the guest rooms, with long arched windows, a spring-like wallpaper, and a four-poster bed that could easily fit three of me—and while it was clearly the nicest of the bunch, I tried to swallow my disappointment.
There was a part that, admittedly, thought we might stay in the same bed.
“Thanks,” I said, settling on the edge of the bed, untying my shoe.
Victor set the duffel in an armchair and smiled. “No problem. Seriously. It’s been a long time since anyone’s actually used any of these rooms.”
I hummed, feeling… something in the air between us. Not discomfort, but something like it. My fingers spread over the quilt, wondering if it would hurt my bruised lips to have him kiss me again.
“I’m working from home, too,” Victor said. “Most days, anyway.”
I frowned up at him, confused. “Here?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
He shrugged; the answer was obvious.
“No, that’s… you don’t have to do that,” I said, shaking my head slightly. “I appreciate it, seriously, but—”
“I don’t mind,” Victor interjected. “Doing remote work is easy, and if I really need to go in, it’s just a car ride down the hill. Plus… it’s kind of nice to have an excuse to stay in, anyway.”
Victor wrinkled his nose when he said it, like it was some inside joke or secret, conspiratorial, so I kept my mouth shut. I appreciated this—all of this, really—but I’d lived alone for a long time now, since I was eighteen and fresh from high school. I’d been in worse fights and knew how to take care of myself. If it wasn’t for the fact that my knee had gotten majorly fucked up and needed literal surgery, I’d be on my feet by now; back to work and riding my baby Harley around like there was never a problem to begin with.
But Victor was cute. His doting was cute.
…at least for the first couple days.
Mostly, I slept. The last of the pain meds Curtis had prescribed were a bit heavy and made me drowsy, but once those were gone, lying in bed all day was only so entertaining. There was a television in the guest room, but again, only so interesting. I forgot how boring daytime television could be.
The room itself wasn’t helping the cabin fever, either. It was bare and mostly without personality, unoccupied permanently, only for guests. Everything about it was infuriatingly neutral: pale walls, curtains with a minimalist pattern, no photos to stare at, no real fun knickknacks or paraphernalia to speak of. In any other home, it might have felt like a rehab or medical room. Almost clinical.
Victor kept true to his word and stayed with me each day, giving me some space by working in what he called “his temporary office,” which was just code for the coffee table in his master suite upstairs.
Sound traveled too well in the open staircase. Through the crack in my door, I could hear him typing away and making phone calls, and the creak of the wood as he paced around. Unfortunately, that worked both ways; I could hear him, which meant he could also hear me and every little move I made.
Whether it was to ease my way downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water or to draw the curtains or just use the bathroom, he heard my heavy footsteps thanks to the stupid fucking brace. And that would have been fine, if it wasn’t for the fact that he came to check on me every time I got out of bed.
I never understood why people who found themselves isolated in scary movies went batshit over their cabin fever, but slowly, I was beginning to feel their pain. I was stir crazy by the fourth day. I needed something to do, a distraction.
Lucky for me, I had a stay-at-ho
me boyfriend right upstairs, available at all hours. The brace was a pain, but we could work around it. Lying in bed gave my mind too much time to wander. If I couldn’t do anything else, I wanted Victor, mindlessly—at least for a little while.
I could surprise him. Or try to.
Slowly, quietly, I slid from my bed and made my way to the staircase. This flight would be the hardest part, and, while I was sure I was being noisy as fuck trying to climb them, Victor never showed up, which meant I must have been doing pretty damn good.
Stealth mode fucking activated.
I ninjaed my way to his office door. I had a sly introduction spring-loaded on my tongue, and I tried to look as sexy and alluring as possible with my brace on as I nudged back the door, all suggestive smiles and—
“Oh.”
The office was empty.
I huffed a short laugh, feeling a little stupid as I staggered inside. There were signs that he had been there—working there, sleeping there, practically living out of the master suite—but no one was around now, which, in retrospect, explained why I was able to sneak upstairs undetected.
“So much for stealth mode,” I muttered, glancing down at the mess accumulating on the coffee table: stacks of papers, notepads, an accordion folder full of bills that looked like it was about to vomit all over everything. “And I thought Beth was bad…”
My eyes scanned over everything. I was just looking.
I didn’t think I’d find a newspaper clipping with my name on it.
‘MOTORCYCLIST SLAIN BY RIVAL GANG IN LOCAL BAR.’
I took in every letter carefully, stomach twisting with every small paragraph, every detail. Self-defense, it said, below the byline, right next to my name, my friends’ names. Self-defense, but with a pinch of salt.
‘Sanders purportedly attacked first after an altercation in the Music Row dive bar, and police say members of the Falcon Grim motorcycle club responded. Member Adrian Cole, 30, assaulted Sanders, but claims it was an act of self-defense. The fight resulted in Sanders’ death and the following investigation resulted in Cole’s acquittal. A memorial is planned for Troy Sanders, who is survived by his mother and father, on October 30th.’
It was vague. It made us sound like a bunch of thugs.
After Troy’s death, I avoided all possible avenues of seeing it on the news: no TV, no radio, no newspapers or local sites—and this was exactly why. The article detailed a clash between rivals, mounting tensions between two gangs where a death like this was inevitable, but that was all wrong. The Raptors were rough and all, but the Falcon Grims weren’t, plain and simple. We were all just a bunch of tatted-up guys who looked a little different, lived a little different, and that meant, to the community at large, we were monsters on motorcycles, tearing up the streets and the fine, family fabric of Nashville.
“Hey? What are you doing out of bed—”
I flinched, looked to the doorway with wide eyes.
Victor’s gaze dropped to the paper in my hand.
Caught.
“I went to check on you,” Victor said slowly, hand on the threshold. “I was surprised. You weren’t there, so I—”
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
Victor said nothing. Just lingered.
“What?” Huffing, I held it up so he couldn’t ignore it, couldn't deny its presence here in his office. “Are you checking up on me or something?”
“No,” he said, quick and earnest. He took his first step into the suite, bare feet creaking on the hardwood. “Winston brought it to me the other night. I just had it.”
My lips pursed together. I was good at telling when people were lying; I’d had enough lying boyfriends to know what dishonesty sounded like, what it looked like. With Victor… he was either telling the truth or was as secretly manipulative as his brother.
Knowing him, I bet on the former.
“Why’d you keep it?” I snapped.
“I would never check up on you,” he said. “Adrian… I—” and he sighed, frustrated. “Adrian, I’d never go behind your back like that when I could just ask you—”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Because I wanted to show it to you,” he replied, sharp but never quite yelling. “Because I wanted to hear it from you.”
“Why?” I asked again, fingers tightening around the clipping. My voice was quiet; afraid—not of him, but of trusting whatever he said and hearing what he thought. “Why would you even want to if you have this?”
It wasn’t what I knew. It wasn’t what I was used to. The men I used to date were always the type to jump to conclusions, to start fights over the littlest things: what I was wearing, where I’d been, who called, who texted, why was I smiling at my phone, what did that tattoo mean, why wasn’t I paying him enough attention. This—the death of a human being—was printed in black and white, definitive. It made me out to be a killer. It was so much worse than any little thing, and yet Victor was still here, calm.
Because I wanted to hear it from you.
It was confusing. I couldn’t understand how he could even look at me.
With a soft sigh, Victor crossed the room. My muscles tightened, bracing on instinct. Would he hit me? Would it just be a repeat of every other breakup? I felt sick and angry over the idea of being punished for something that wasn’t even true, and—
He touched my hand gently, a suggestion. Bearing back against a flinch, I tipped the paper towards him and watched as he skimmed the column.
“I want to hear your side of the story,” he said again, looking up at me.
I bit the inside of my cheek, feeling shaky all over. “Why?”
“Because I trust you.” He said it so sure, without even thinking about it. “Because—”
“Why aren’t you mad at me?” I murmured. “You should be so, so fucking pissed that I lied to you, that I kept something like this from you, but—”
“I am.” Dirty blond brows knit together. “I’m pissed, but not at you, Adrian. Look at me.”
I did.
His fingertips touched my chin, traced my jaw and he held my cheek, reassuring.
“I’m angry at Winston,” he said. “For assuming I’d just jump to conclusions and end it with you. I don’t want to leave you, and he… he can’t accept that. I don’t know what it is about you.”
I raised a brow, feeling some part of me settle as Victor sighed, looking truly troubled.
“I don’t know why he seems so threatened by you, but I’m sorry.”
“I know why,” I said.
Brown eyes snapped up from my lips, gentle, confused.
I grinned and touched his chest, testing that this was okay; that we were okay.
“It’s because I can take you away from him,” I whispered. “Because whatever’s going on between us is… is real and he can feel that. And because I have the means to take you away.”
Victor smiled, hand falling to my hip to keep me close. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Not to talk big about myself, but I’ve got investments. I don’t know if you remember this or not,” and I shot him a smug grin, “but I passed econ with, like, a 105 or some shit.”
“Wow.” He whistled softly. “Loser.”
“I invested young. Got my business set up young, took that money, and ran with it. Some of it’s tied up in stocks still, but I played a long game. Built my savings. Worked my ass off for it.” I felt a small streak of pride in that—and knowing that my net worth was probably equal or maybe more than Winston’s. “Plus… when my biological father passed, he left me some inheritance.”
“Oh.” Victor’s gaze fluttered. “I’m sorry—I think.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “It was the least he could do, after everything he put me and my mom through.”
Victor hummed, hands moving to the small of my back.
“That’s why Winston hates me,” I said. “I make him… unnecessary. I take up your attention and…”
“And?” He raised a brow, cu
rious.
“I’ve got the money to give you for the expansion.” Weakly, I laughed, remembering that was the whole reason I’d gone up to talk to him in the first place at the Speakeasy that night. What a roundabout way of getting to the point. “You having the capital would mean Winston couldn’t step in and take over. You wouldn’t owe him shit. I just… haven’t offered because I got to know you.”
Victor laughed and detached from me. I watched as he sat on the edge of the small sofa on the other side of the coffee table, elbows resting on his knees.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“I just mean…” I said, setting the article on the messy table. When I stepped between his legs, he welcomed me there, hands on my hips. I ran my fingers delicately through his hair. “You’re too prideful. Too stubborn.”
“That runs in our family.”
“I didn’t offer it because I knew you wouldn’t accept it.”
Victor hummed. “Well, you’re right on that.”
“I’m offering it now, though,” I murmured, and when Victor opened his mouth, I pressed a finger to his lips, adding, “But I don’t want you to answer that now, Savage. Just promise me you’ll think about it.”
The finger slid from his lips as they formed a small smile.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll think about it.”
“You’re not just saying that to get me off your back, right?”
He hummed. “No comment.”
The silence between us was strange. Or maybe I just felt strange. It was fucking weird, anticlimactic in the best way possible. I was geared up for a fight—physical or verbal—but it never came. The fear of whatever would have happened with someone else was fizzling slowly into security. Trust.
I eased myself onto the sofa beside him, feeling so much lighter than I had before. I was happy to have told Victor all of that; to get it off my chest. Confession was apparently as good for the soul as everyone said it was, I guess.
“I want to ask you something,” Victor said, voice soft in this big bedroom of his. His fingers massaged gently into my thigh. “And I don’t want you to think I’m… angry or pissed or accusing you. Because I’m not.”