With everything George wanted to give her, with how he wanted her to be, he ended up smothering her instead of “molding” her into becoming the perfect wife.
She was no longer Ellie. She was Mrs. McMaster. George’s wife.
The lady of the fucking house.
What kind of title was that, anyway?
Mother, wife, yes. Lady of the house? No.
She didn’t want to turn into a woman like George’s mother. A socialite who loved to shop in New York City. Who enjoyed spending lots and lots of money. Surrounded herself with snobby friends of the same financial caliber.
While Trace might have joked about it, deep down she believed that was what he wanted: her barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. George? Never. That thought would be appalling to him, even to simply mention it.
But, in truth, that was all she wanted and needed, too.
Love. Family. Happiness.
In the end, the life she hoped to build came tumbling down around her.
Love? Gone.
Family? Non-existent.
Happiness? After being forced to live in a box not of her own making, it was hard to find.
She existed in her marriage.
She existed in her big house.
She did what was required of her to be “George’s wife.”
She simply existed.
Until Ellie Cooke no longer did.
Living like that for so many years, she didn’t even realize it happened until she left.
Then she looked back on her life and saw it clearly.
Ellie Cooke had completely disappeared. Nothing had remained of her for a very long time.
However, she was determined to find herself again and was working on doing so when George was killed, and she was dragged unwillingly back to being Mrs. McMaster.
What scared her the most, when she received the pictures of a dead, tortured George, was that she didn’t even shed one tear. Not one. She felt nothing.
She felt about as dead as George appeared.
She had been married to the man for sixteen years and while she thought what they did to him was horrible, she felt almost detached.
Did those sixteen years make her numb?
Possibly. Because her heart began to beat again when Trace stepped into that room at the warehouse. She began to breathe. The numbness seemed to wash away.
But now as she sat in his house alone, she remembered what he said about her leaving as soon as this was over. Once he and his team “fixed” her problem.
But wouldn’t it be easier for her to just disappear like she planned?
Simple. Neat.
It was why she came to him, because she had no idea how to do it right.
To no longer be Mrs. George McMaster.
To no longer be Ellie Cooke.
To become someone new.
Start fresh.
Start a new life without any threats hanging over her head.
She’d be alone, but she was okay with that. She was used to it. She could survive.
Yes, when she talked to him next, she would convince him to give up what he was trying to do and tell him what she needed to do.
She just needed him to see how it should be.
It was late and Shadow Valley was two hours ahead of him. He sat in a rental in front of an office building on the outskirts of Denver. The building was dark and so was the interior of the car.
Hunter sat next to him in the driver’s seat, itching to get out of the vehicle.
“If you want to get out, get out. I need to make a call first.”
Hunter twisted his head toward Walker, and even in the dark, Walker could see the gleam of his grin. “To home?”
Home.
“Yeah.” When Hunter opened his mouth, Walker raised his palm. “Not one fucking word.”
Hunter chuckled and shoved the driver’s door open, unfolding himself from the seat. He leaned back into the car to say, “Keep it quick. We need to get in there and get out. You could’ve done this back in your room.”
“It’s getting too late.”
“She got somewhere to go in the morning?” Then the door slammed.
He found her in his contacts, pressed Send and closed his eyes, waiting for her voice to fill his ear.
“Trace.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“No.” She paused. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah. We might have a lead. We’re going to follow it tomorrow to see if it pans out.”
He glanced out of the windshield at the dark building. But tonight, they were breaking into McMotherfucker’s offices and were going to spend the night searching through it, trying to uncover anything they could.
“Are you at a motel?”
“Yeah,” he lied. “Are you in my bed?”
Another long hesitation. “Does it matter since you’re not here?”
Fuck yes, it did. “Whatever makes you most comfortable,” he lied again.
More silence.
Then he heard it. A long shaky breath. That didn’t give him the warm fuzzies.
“Trace?”
Ah, fuck. Something was brewing and he wasn’t going to like what it was. It was starting to remind him of another conversation he’d never forget. He closed his eyes and dropped his head. “Yeah, sweetheart?” He did the only thing he could do. He braced.
“I’m sorry for everything. Then. Now.”
She wasn’t the only one.
“I... I... just need to go.”
He let those words slide through him. Finally, he simply repeated, “Go.”
“I think that’s for the best. I don’t want you, your team... I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“No one’s going to get hurt, El.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
“Ellie...”
“I shouldn’t have brought this to you. I never should have called Crissy.”
But she did and now it was too late. “El...”
“Trace, it’s for the best.”
Fuck. He lifted his head, his jaw set. “Why don’t you let me worry about what’s best?”
“I don’t want to give those men what they want.”
“Wasn’t planning on it, Ellie. That’s why we’re here. To find out who the fuck they are and figure another way.”
“But that’s not why I came to you.”
“Are you regretting coming to me? Because, for fuck’s sake, Ellie, both of us have enough motherfucking regrets already.”
Silence answered him.
“If we make you disappear, El, you’ll have no one and nothing.”
“I have that now.”
Walker glanced in the side mirror and saw Hunter pacing back and forth behind the car. He needed to get off the phone and get the job they were there for done. He never should have called her. “You have me.”
“You said just until—”
“I know what I fucking said.”
Again a long silence that made him want to scream. Finally, “Has that changed?”
Walker’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath. “I don’t know, El, we don’t know each other anymore. We’ve been apart longer than we were together. We’re different people now. I don’t fucking know what any of this will bring.”
You were with McMaster so much longer than you were with me.
He bit back a growl. “I gotta get back to work.”
“I thought you were in your motel?”
Fuck. He was slipping. “Yeah, meeting Hunter in his room to go over some shit.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow night, El. Keep your phone on. It might be late.”
“Okay.”
Fuck. There she went with those fucking “okay” submissive answers again. He hated every time she agreed with him like that.
Every fucking time.
She lost herself along the way and that just made him want to kill McMaster if the asshole wasn’t already dead.
&n
bsp; “I’ll text tomorrow if I need any info from you.”
He ground his teeth when she answered with another, “Okay.”
He wasn’t going to ask her any more questions or give her any more orders because he didn’t want to hear her say it again. “Night, Ellie.”
“Trace...” filled his ear.
“Yeah?”
“Be safe.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, then hit the End button on his phone.
He stared at it for a few seconds, then went back to scrolling through his contacts. He checked the side mirror again to make sure Hunter was still back there before Walker hit Send once more and put the ear to his phone.
It was late, but the woman he was calling would take his call. And because her man wasn’t in her bed tonight, he had no doubt her phone would still be on.
Of course, he was fucking right.
Chapter Twelve
“Hey!”
“Hi!”
“Hello!”
Ellie blinked at the three women standing on the front stoop of Trace’s house. Three very pretty—no, gorgeous—women who had a lot of curves between them. Way more than Ellie had, or would ever have.
A tall, voluptuous woman with long dark blonde hair, a younger blonde not quite as tall, and then a—what Ellie guessed—Latina by the coloring of her skin, eyes and hair. Darker than the other two and no less stunning.
Ellie’s hand automatically went up to her hair which she had put in a messy knot at the top of her head. She wore no makeup, was barefoot and hadn’t even bothered to don a bra that morning.
But clearly, she didn’t need to ever wear one in comparison to the women before her.
Worse, she was still wearing her old, loose cotton shorts and one of Trace’s extra-large T-shirts she had dug out from his drawer. Which meant she was swimming in it.
She hadn’t been expecting visitors this morning. Or... even today, for that matter. She had planned on spending the rest of the afternoon cooking casseroles and other things she could freeze for Trace, so he’d have some homemade meals once she was gone.
She had spotted a small chest freezer in the corner of his garage. When she opened it, she only saw a couple frozen pre-packaged meals at the bottom, so it was basically empty, wasting electricity.
Not that Trace couldn’t afford his electric bill, with the house and vehicles he had, the man was clearly not hurting for money.
“I’m pretty sure you’ve met our men,” The tallest one with the biggest boobs announced, drawing Ellie’s attention back to the stoop.
She frowned. “Umm. Maybe?” She had no idea who their men were.
“I’m Parris,” the woman continued, holding out her hand, which had a huge rock on her left ring finger. Huge. Like blindingly big. Probably three times as large as the diamond George had bought her.
In fact, if he’d seen something like that on one of his friend’s fiancée’s or wife’s finger, he probably would have traded her engagement ring in for one that was even bigger.
But this woman’s rock wasn’t just a diamond, it was a stunning rectangular-cut blue diamond. Ellie realized the rare stone matched Parris’s eyes.
“Mercy belongs to me,” she said with a smile as Ellie took her hand and shook it.
That was a weird way to put it.
“Ellie Mc—” She swallowed that last name down. “Cooke.”
“McCooke?” the shorter blonde asked with amusement dancing in her blue eyes.
“Just Cooke.”
“Thought so. And just call her Rissa. No one calls her Parris.”
Ellie’s gaze went back to Parris aka Rissa, who shrugged. “I’ve given up trying.”
The younger blonde then gave her a little wave. “I’m Kelsea, by the way. Ryder belongs to me.”
The dark-haired woman also held out her hand, which Ellie accepted and gave a quick, firm shake. “Frankie. Hunter’s mine.”
Ellie’s eyebrows drew together since she never heard women claim their men like that.
Maybe it was a local thing.
“Then, yes, I’ve met your husbands.”
Three loud snorts went up, drawing Ellie’s lips into a deeper frown. “Your men,” she corrected.
“That’s what they said,” Rissa stated, then lifted the wine bottle she was holding in her left hand. “I brought wine.”
Kelsea lifted a pink box that was labeled “Sophie’s Sweet Treats” on the top. “I brought cupcakes.”
Frankie lifted another bottle of wine. “More wine because one bottle is never enough.”
Ellie would have to agree with that statement.
“Not living with our men, it’s not,” Rissa muttered.
“So...” Kelsea said quickly and raised her brows, looking over Ellie’s shoulder into the house.
So...
Oh.
Shit.
Ellie stepped back and opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”
She hoped Trace wouldn’t mind a gaggle of women being in his house when he wasn’t home.
All three women smiled, walked in and kept going.
Uh...
Ellie closed the door, locked it and quickly followed them into the kitchen.
“I hope we didn’t ruin your plans by just showing up,” Rissa said, not sounding sorry in the least and heading right to the cabinets to dig around until she found four stemless wine glasses.
“I know Walker did not buy those,” Frankie stated, grabbing a couple glasses from Rissa.
“Mmm, no. I gave them to him as a house-warming gift. He’d probably serve wine in a leftover jar,” Kelsea said. “How are you going to get laid serving a woman wine in a glass jar with tomato sauce residue in it?”
All three ladies scrunched up their faces.
“Umm,” Ellie started, not comfortable hearing about Trace getting laid.
All eyes landed on her.
“It’s beautiful out,” Frankie stated, ignoring Ellie’s discomfort, then went to the French doors, opening one side. “Let’s sit outside.”
The three women wandered out the door, leaving Ellie standing in the kitchen, holding the empty wine glass Rissa had handed her. She looked at it, looked at the door, found the bottle opener she had used on the wine Jesse had bought and headed outside.
It didn’t take long for her to figure out how much she liked these women. They were fun, they didn’t hide how much they loved “their” men and the cupcakes were to die for.
It also didn’t take long for her to be buzzing on sugar and wine.
She quickly realized she could get used to other women like them coming over and hanging out. Especially these three since they were sharp-witted and had a great sense of humor.
They sat drinking wine, eating cupcakes and chit-chatting about nothing important. Occasionally they mentioned a “sisterhood,” saying if she remained in town—which wasn’t the plan, but she didn’t correct them on that—she’d be inducted into it. Kelsea said something about this sisterhood being full of old ladies.
The three women who were sitting on Trace’s deck were certainly not old, so when she asked about it, it was explained that she’d misunderstood. The women were “ol’ ladies” and not elderly women.
Then Ellie was schooled on what being an ol’ lady was to a biker and Kelsea spent the next hour going down a rabbit hole about the whole MC life.
She found it fascinating but didn’t think being an ol’ lady was for her, which made them break out in laughter.
Then she was told being with Trace, she’d never be an ol’ lady since, though he worked for MC member Diesel, he wasn’t a part of the MC itself. And while she was relieved she’d never hold the official title of “ol’ lady”—which she disliked as much as “the lady of the house”—she also informed them she wasn’t “with” Trace.
That was greeted with a chorus of soft snorts, “mmm hmms,” “rights” and “sures.” But she wasn’t going to argue with her companions. She liked them too much, the afternoon h
ad been a blast and she didn’t want to ruin it.
Eventually, after her third glass of fermented grapes and her second cupcake sugar-high, she felt relaxed and comfortable enough around them, to blurt out, “Do you know he doesn’t have his leg?” She covered her mouth in horror once she heard the question come out of her mouth.
She needed to leave it to Trace to tell her what happened, not ask some strangers.
Who she, in truth, no longer considered strangers after wiping out two bottles of wine and almost a dozen gourmet cupcakes.
“He doesn’t?” asked Kelsea in surprise. Ellie had curiously noted that she had only sipped at one glass of wine for the past couple hours. Unlike the rest of them.
Frankie’s head shot up and she glanced around the table in shock. “Did he lose it?”
“Could have sworn I saw him running with it the other morning. Did he misplace it?” Rissa asked, a gleam in her eye.
Ellie rolled her eyes and muttered, “Funny.”
Kelsea slapped the table and laughed. “Let me give you a little head’s up about living in this compound.” She lifted her index finger into the air. “One, like we discussed earlier, it’s full of bikers. They don’t wear skimpy, nutastic shorts when they run. Why? Because they don’t run. If they did—and didn’t die instantly doing so—their legs would blind you because they never see the light of day, unless they’re fucking. Their jeans only come off to fuck, shower and sleep. And sometimes to get thrown in the wash. That’s it.” She took a breath and continued by adding a second finger to the one she was still holding up and looked toward the sky. “Two, those shorts our boys wear are God’s gift to women. Especially for us since we put up with them.” She added a third finger. “Three, when one of them goes for a run and he’s spotted? Everyone in this neighborhood who doesn’t have a dick gets a text. Everyone. It’s the law. Because it would be a damn shame if any one of us missed it.”
Frankie leaned forward and half-whispered, “Oooor if you know your man is heading out for a run, you send out a group text immediately. No exceptions.”
Ellie closed her gaping mouth. “Do your men know about this?”
The ladies all shouted, “No!” at the same time around the table, making her jump.
“No, we made a pact with the sisterhood to not get caught gawking or ever tell our men. It’s a secret of the sisterhood,” Kelsea informed her.
Guts & Glory: Walker (In the Shadows Security Book 4) Page 13