by Bella Jewel
With that, she’s gone.
I look to Koda. He looks to me.
“That girl is fuckin’ dangerous, and yet I can’t figure out how,” Koda mutters. “Never seen a woman who doesn’t flinch bein’ in a room with two bikers.”
“You’re right about that,” I say, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Charlie has some demons, except hers are dangerous. Just haven’t figured out if she’s dangerous.”
“What she is is fuckin’ determined. Guess we’ll see.”
Indeed, we will.
~*~*~*~
NOW – AMALIE
“Everyone here loves you,” I tell Scarlett later that night as we sit around the fire that Maverick and Boston lit.
“They love you more. I think we’re kind of like guests of honor.”
I laugh softly. “Yeah. It isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Everyone is really nice.”
Scarlett nods. “I think people put the bad image on clubs, and club life, but I think behind it all, they’re just a family. Like anyone else.”
I nod. “Did you see Boston and Maverick?” I lean in a little closer just in case anyone hears.
Scarlett nods, leaning in, too. “They really hate each other. I’ve tried to get Maverick to mend the bridges between them, but he refuses. I know what Boston did, but I don’t know why Maverick won’t hear him out. He looks ...broken.”
I glance over at Boston, and he’s sitting a little away from the group of now rowdy bikers, laughing and smoking. He’s holding onto his drink, staring at nothing. He’s carrying the weight of whatever happened between Maverick and himself on his shoulders, and little by little, it’s weighing him down. He looks haunted. Empty. Broken.
“Imagine what it would be like,” Scarlett says, when I look back at her. “Living with the knowledge that because you made one little mistake, someone lost their life. It would be awful.”
I stare at Boston again. What I feel every day, he must feel a thousand times harder. My heart goes out to him, because I can’t imagine what it would be like to live with that kind of monster. I barely make it with my head above water, let alone what he’s experiencing.
Poor guy.
I look back at Scarlett. “Who was the redhead Malakai and Koda took into his office earlier?” I ask.
Scarlett shrugs. “I’m not really sure, but she was gorgeous, don’t you think?”
My heart twists a little, and I realize after a few seconds it’s jealousy. Something I haven’t felt since I was in my teens. A green-eyed monster that’s coiling around my heart and squeezing. Why would I be jealous that Malakai took a woman to his office? He’s not mine. Hell, we’re barely even friends. So, why would it bother me what he does?
But it does.
And I can’t shake the feeling, no matter how hard I try.
“Maybe she’s Koda’s girl?” Scarlett suggests, brown eyes searching my face.
I know what she’s doing. She’s not stupid. She can probably see the jealousy written all over my face, and she’s trying to make me feel better. She doesn’t have to, though. I have nothing to be upset over.
“Probably,” I say softly.
“Where did you and Mal go before?”
“He took me to a park, we talked a while. My mom made somewhat of a scene when we left. She wasn’t a big fan of me leaving with a biker.”
Scarlett frowns. “Oh, no. Are you and your mom close?”
I shake my head quickly—probably too quickly. “Not at all. Not even a little. She’s nothing like me. Sometimes, I think she only stays in my life because she thinks it’s something she has to do because she gave birth to me. Like a job.”
Scarlett smiles warmly. Sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Amalie. That sucks. What about your dad?”
I smile. “I’m very close to him.”
“I’m glad. So, your mom wasn’t happy about you leaving? I’m sure Mal would have ate that up.”
I laugh. “Yeah, he did, but he also shot her down. He stood up for me. Which was ... so nice.”
“Aw.” Scarlett wiggles her brows. “He likes you.”
“We’re not in high school, Scar.” I giggle.
“Okay, he wants to” —she makes a thrusting motion— “get jiggy with you.”
I burst out laughing, so loudly the entire group stops talking and they all look at me. I rarely laugh like that, mostly because I don’t know how it sounds, so I taught myself not to do it. My cheeks burn when I see everyone’s eyes on me, and I wonder if that laugh was awful and they’re all staring at me out of horror.
I look to Scarlett. “Was that awful?”
She is smiling at me, big and beautiful. “That was the most incredible sound I’ve ever heard. You should laugh more, Amalie. It knocks the breath out of people. Oh, and don’t look now, but Mal is coming over.”
My cheeks burn hotter and I hesitantly turn to see Mal striding over, looking at me like he wants to scoop me up and carry me away. My tummy flips at the thought, and heat pools between my legs, making me squirm. God. This is embarrassing. I’m lusting over him. Like a young, immature girl. I swallow the thick lump in my throat and tip my head back to look up at him when he reaches me.
He squats down, handing me a drink.
He leans in close, and god, his breath smells like beer, and him, and I want to kiss him. The urge is so strong. The desire too much. I wonder, for a brief second, what his mouth would taste like. Would his lips be soft? Would he kiss roughly? Or gently?
I feel like everyone’s eyes are on us. Mal is so intense. He has no shame. He goes for what he wants, and he makes no apology for it. He doesn’t care if there are a hundred people around or none. He knows who he is. He knows what he wants. And that’s all that matters to him. I know this, because what he does next knocks the air clean out of my lungs.
And I’m certain, dead certain, I’ll never fully get it back again.
His hand curls around to the back of my neck, tangling into my hair and bringing me closer. I can still see his lips, but for a moment, I just look into his eyes and forget how to breathe. I should pull back, but I can’t. I know everyone is watching, and yet I don’t care. I wait for him to say something to me, but that isn’t what he’s going to do.
God.
No.
He does better.
He brings my face up to his, and he captures my mouth. The kiss isn’t deep, or long, or intense. But it speaks more words and expresses more feeling than anything else ever could. His lips are soft, just like I thought, and he tastes incredible. He holds them against mine, our mouths locked together, for just a few moments and then he pulls back.
“Tell me what I gotta do to make you mine, Amalie. Because hear me now, I will fuckin’ make you mine. Just so I can hear that laugh every single day for the rest of my fuckin’ life. Understand me?”
I stare at him, eyes wide.
“Do you understand me?”
I nod, frantically, even though I know I shouldn’t.
God. What am I doing?
-6-
THEN – AMALIE
He’s awake.
He’s. Awake.
Dazed, I slide out of bed and pull a coat on. I’m not really supposed to be moving around; I recently had surgery on my ears and my head is all wrapped up. I’m tired and slow, even though my surgery was yesterday. I’m supposed to be resting. But he’s awake. He’s awake. I repeat the words over and over in my head, thanking anyone who is listening for letting him make it through.
I walk out of the room and straight down the halls to the elevator, pressing the button and stepping in. I’m mostly free to move throughout the ward, but I’m fairly certain I’m not supposed to be going up to a different area. All the same, I need to see him. His mother told my mother that he was awake and responding well and that he was allowed visitors.
Nobody said anything about me.
So, I’m taking myself up there.
When I reach his floor, I step out and walk down the h
alls. The nurses up here are used to seeing me now, I visit him every day, but he’s been out for over a week. They said sometimes with injuries like that, it’s the body’s way of healing itself, protecting itself.
I make it to his room and take a deep, shaky breath, then I step inside. His mother is standing by his bed, and the moment I walk in, she turns and looks at me. The scorn on her face makes me want to shrink into myself, but he deserves me to be here and nothing she can say or do will change that. I avoid her gaze and look to him.
And my breath catches.
He hasn’t got the bandages on his face or neck, and for the first time, I see the extent of his damage. His skin is red and welting, peeling off in places, parts of his hair have been burned off. He’s almost unrecognizable. His features are unscathed, but is skin is badly damaged. I can’t make myself look away, and I’m sure he can see the horror in my face.
But it isn’t because of how he looks.
It’s because of what I’ve done.
He says something, his face scrunching in an expression I’ve never seen from him and never thought I would. Hatred. Pure, raw, hatred. He is looking at me like he wants to climb out of the bed and murder me right here in the hospital. His eyes swim with scorn, red-hot scorn, and disappointment. Disgust. Anger.
He despises me.
My bottom lip trembles, and I speak softly. I can’t hear myself, even more so now my bandages are on, but I hope my words are coming out clearly. “I’m so sorry, Caiden. This is all my fault. If there is anything I can do for you.”
“Get out!” I don’t need to hear it, to read it clearly on his lips. He’s yelling it, fists clenched, leaning forward in the bed, looking like it causes him complete and utter agony to say the words.
I know he’s screaming them. I can see that much.
“Get out. Get out. Get out.”
He screams it over and over.
I nod and back up quickly, tears rolling down my cheeks.
I turn and rush out of the room and down the hall, crashing into the nurses’ station by accident when my balance is thrown off from the sudden movement. My ears are ringing, blind, angry ringing and I can’t think. I put my hands over my ears and shake my head back and forth. Make it stop. Oh, God. Make it stop.
A blond nurse helps me.
She approaches, placing her hand on my shoulder and gently shaking me until I look up at her. I’m in a panic. I can’t breathe. I’m going to die. I feel like my whole world is closing in around me. The buzzing in my ears has turned into a high-pitched roar and nausea coils in my stomach. The nurse comes down to my level, looks me in the eyes, and says, “Breathe.”
I can read the word clearly enough.
She says it over, and over, and over.
Until I start breathing.
It takes a while, and each breath feels like fire filling my lungs, but slowly, I start taking deeper breaths, calming my raging heart, stopping the vomit that keeps threatening to spill forth. After I’ve stopped panting, the nurse smiles at me, gently, kindly. She takes my hand and holds it tight as she leans over the counter and picks up a phone.
She’s probably calling a nurse from my ward to come and get me.
I’m glad because I don’t think my legs could move right now, even if I wanted them to.
Caiden hates me.
He hates me.
And his face. I did that. I just effectively ruined his entire life.
How the hell am I ever going to fix this?
~*~*~*~
NOW – AMALIE
My fingers glide over the keys and I smile at Scarlett and Isaac. Scarlett is singing, headphones on, mouth to the microphone, and I’m playing in the background with Isaac. We’re playing around with a song. Today, all the recording staff are here, as well as Susan, who I haven’t seen since we came home from being on tour. The album is in full swing now, songs are being written, recorded and tweaked. Videos are being made. Covers are being created.
This is really it.
This is what it’s all about.
The first song we’re working on is “Whiskey Burning”. Which Scarlett started writing on the road. The song is inspired by Maverick, and even though I can’t really hear her singing it, I can feel the tune through my playing, and I can feel the love by the way she closes her eyes and sways as she sings the lines we both worked so tirelessly to create.
Of course, the recording staff are tweaking things, but we mostly came up with everything before we presented it to them. Scarlet had a certain sound she wanted on the song, and she wasn’t going to let them change it. She said any other song she writes for the album, they can change to their heart’s content, but not this one.
She also requested it become her newest single.
It’s going to be incredible.
Maverick hasn’t heard it yet. She wants it to be a surprise. We have a few live concerts in Denver in the upcoming weeks. Scarlett likes to do a few home concerts when she’s here. We’re also doing one for the annual fair, where hundreds of thousands of people will see us perform live over a course of four days. It’s a great opportunity, and I’m so excited to be part of it.
Scarlett puts a hand up, stopping us from playing, and turns to me. “I don’t love the chorus.” She frowns. “I mean, I love the words, but I just don’t like how it sounds. Any suggestions?”
I purse my lips. “Can we play it one more time? And do you mind if I sing the notes, so I get more of a feel as to how they sound?”
Scarlett nods happily.
I wrote out the music, and she tried and tested it, loving it, but it’s hard for me to fully get an idea of what she’s wanting without hearing it. When I sing it, I can hear it, and I can feel it a whole lot better. That was mostly how I became so familiar with her style, by playing and singing her songs over and over, until I knew them like the back of my hand.
I close my eyes and start playing, letting the music travel over me. Then I sing to myself, getting a feel for the song, trying to understand exactly what it is she feels it’s missing.
“Burning, oh, like a flame. Burning, oh, untamed. Your heart trapped mine, there before the sunrise, and it took me so long, oh sweetheart, so long, to realize ... that you were my fire, my whiskey, my burning desire.”
I know what it’s missing, the moment I stop singing and my eyes pop open. “It’s the last verse! My fire, my whiskey, my burning desire. It needs to be higher, it needs to drag out a little more. At the moment, it’s too slow.”
I hold Scarlett’s eyes, and she’s just staring at me. Face blank. Oh, God. I’ve offended her. I glance at Isaac, he’s staring at me, too. Great. I’ve put my foot right in it. I never meant to upset her. Did my words come out too harshly? Quickly, I try to correct my mistake. “I’m so sorry, Scarlett. I wasn’t trying to be rude, or offensive. I don’t know anything about music, at all, and—”
“You can sing.”
I read the words on her lips so clearly, but they still confuse me all the same.
“Pardon me?”
“You can sing?”
Her hands raise up, and she claps, over and over, then runs over, pressing her hand to her mouth for a moment, before leaning forward and putting her hands on my shoulders. “Amalie, you can sing! Why didn’t you tell me you had such a breathtaking voice?”
I do?
I’ve never sung before, well, I have to myself but everyone sounds good to themselves. Piano has always been my passion. I’ve never once thought about singing. Maybe she’s just being nice. Scarlett would think anyone sounded good if she loved them enough.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No, I can’t sing.”
“You can sing! That was ... incredible! The way you sung that, the way your voice captured those words. It came out exactly how it sounded in my head and now I know why, because it’s inspired by your music. You wrote that to the version in your head, and I just heard it and I loved it. But what I loved more is that you can sing! And you’re incredible!
”
I shake my head, cheeks rosy. “Honestly ... no ...”
“Isaac,” Scarlett says, and we both look to Isaac.
He nods, eyes still on me, intense. “You can sing, Amalie. Outside of Scarlett, that is the best damn voice I’ve heard in a very long time, and music is my life.”
They’re just being nice. Right?
I can’t sing.
Can I?
The door opens and Susan walks in, followed by another one of the producers for the album, Steve. Susan’s eyes fall on me, and she smiles, which is rare for her. “Well, Amalie, I have to say I’m blown away. You hid that incredible talent very well.”
“You have a beautiful voice,” Steve tells me.
Scarlett rushes over to Susan and starts rambling something to her. I watch them, their conversation quick, flinging back and forth, and then finally Susan nods, pulls out her phone and leaves with Steven in tow. I rush over to Scarlett. “What did you just do?”
She grins, big, strong, proud. “I just asked her if we can record a few songs together, with both of us singing, on the album. It will add a fresh new spark, something incredible. She is going to speak to my label and the producers, and see if they’ll allow one or two songs to incorporate you and your voice, as well.”
I stare at her. “But ... I can’t ... I can’t sing.”
“You can, Amalie.”
“Not professionally. Scarlett, I can’t hear myself as well as a normal person. I wouldn’t know if I was singing right, or wrong, I’ll just make a fool out of myself and ruin your album.”
I’m rambling.
Because I’m nervous.
I play the piano. I don’t sing.
“Amalie, listen to me,” she says, hands on my shoulders, brown eyes locked on mine. “You feel music. You feel it right into your very soul, and that’s why when you closed your eyes and sang then, you didn’t miss a beat. Because you trust yourself. You trust music. And you trust how it feels. You won’t let me down, you could never let me down. If they agree, can you just try one with me, just try it? If we hate it, it doesn’t have to go on the album. You will still be playing for me, but please, will you see if we can do this?”