by Sybil Bartel
Shaila Hawkins wasn’t lucky.
She would’ve been better off never knowing me. At a bare minimum, she wouldn’t have been blackmailed for seven fucking years.
One more stop to make, I fired up the Road King and took off.
The bed dipped, and I jolted awake.
Fear coursed through me for a split second before I smelled him and remembered where I was. “Tarquin?” I whispered.
“Yeah.” His voice strained and tired, he sat on the bed with his back to me and stared at his clasped hands as his elbows rested on his thickly muscled thighs.
His usual scent of heady musk mingled with motor oil and campfire. I pushed up and leaned against the cold, modern headboard, wondering what he’d done. “Where’d you go?”
He looked over his shoulder, and moonlight fell across his sharp features. “Did you mean what you said?” he asked in the deep, quiet voice I remembered from our time in the Glades.
I fought not to reach for him. “I said a lot of things.”
“About trusting me.”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
He nodded once, then focused back on his hands. For a long moment, he sat there. Then he stood, but he didn’t look at me. “Get dressed. Clothes are on the end of the bed.” He walked out of the bedroom.
I glanced at the clock.
Two in the morning.
My gaze cut to the pile of clothes.
I’d said I trusted him, so I got up. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but a brand-new Harley Davidson leather jacket wasn’t it. Neither were the black leggings and super soft, long-sleeved T-shirt. Not sure what to think of Tarquin buying me clothes, I took everything into the bathroom and turned on the light.
As my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I started to lay the clothes out but stopped when I noticed the price tag on the jacket.
Holy fucking shit.
Four hundred and ninety-five dollars.
For one jacket.
And he’d bought it for me.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat as I held the butter-soft leather. It was the nicest article of clothing I’d ever had, and I hadn’t even tried it on yet. Quickly pulling the tags off the leggings and shirt, I put them on. The leggings fit perfectly, and the T-shirt, almost kind of see-through the material was so thin, was the softest shirt I’d ever had. Unzipping the jacket, I slid my arms into the sleeves and looked in the mirror.
Sweet mercy.
Heavy on my shoulders, fitted through the body, smelling like a new car, zippered pockets, sleeves and vents, it was the most perfect thing I’d ever put on.
“It fits.”
Startled, I jumped.
Standing in the doorway, Tarquin met my gaze in the mirror. His blue eyes dark and hooded, his gaze traveled down my body.
Chill bumps raced across my flesh despite the heavy leather covering me. “It’s too much. The price—”
“Do you like it?” he asked quietly.
“Like it?” Was he crazy? “I love it.” The second the word love crossed my lips, I regretted it. Not that I didn’t love the jacket, I did. But it seemed flippant to use that word for some leather with zippers when Tarquin Scott was standing in front of me, larger than life. Before I could retract my careless words, he stepped into the bathroom.
The scent of campfire got stronger. “Then the cost doesn’t matter.” Turning me to face him, he zipped the jacket up, then quickly retreated to the bedroom. “You need your boots.”
“Are we goin’ for a ride?” In the middle of the night?
“Yeah.” Standing by the door to the bedroom, he shoved his hands in his pockets.
I’d never seen Tarquin do that.
Tarquin the digger, the man who’d survived being beaten within an inch of his life, who rode a motorcycle for the first time without hesitation, Tarquin the man who’d become a Ranger—that man did not put his hands in his pockets. Ever.
Wondering if maybe he wasn’t any of those things from his past any more than I was the girl from my past, I laced up my boots and stood. “Ready.”
Without comment, he walked toward the front of the apartment and held the door open for me.
I hesitated by my bag of clothes and cell phone still sitting on the entry table where I’d dumped them.
As if reading my thoughts, he tipped his chin toward them. “Bring your phone. You don’t need anything else.”
I grabbed it and shoved it in the inside zippered compartment of my new jacket.
Only taking his hand out of his pocket to hit the call button, Tarquin silently waited for the elevator. When the doors slid open, he wordlessly waited for me to step inside first, then he hit the button for the garage level.
Uncomfortable with his silence, I shifted my feet as we descended. “Is everythin’ okay?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re safe?” I purposely said we.
His gaze stayed fixed as he stared straight ahead. “Yeah.”
“You didn’t make eye contact,” I accused.
Turning his head, his strikingly austere blue eyes met mine. “You’re safe.”
“I didn’t ask about me. I asked about us.”
His compound speech came out. “I would not take you out if there was danger.”
Air filled my lungs. Then I exhaled. “Okay.” It wasn’t okay. He was tense and being unlike his usual self, and I couldn’t read any of it.
The elevator doors opened to the garage as a black Escalade pulled in. The front window slid down, and a brown-haired, blue-eyed guy who looked more like a model than a bodyguard shook his head at Tarquin. “Here we are, back at the scene of the crime.”
“Tyler,” Tarquin clipped.
“Ranger,” the man named Tyler countered. “What are you doing here?”
“Leaving. How’s the shoulder?” No intonation in his voice, I couldn’t tell if Tarquin was genuinely asking or being sarcastic.
Tyler smirked. “Sporting an extra bullet hole thanks to you.”
“Your draw was slow, your reflexes slower, and your aim was shit that day.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you suck at apologies?” Tyler laughed without humor and looked at me. “Don’t worry, I promised Luna I wouldn’t shoot him in retribution. Bygones and all that.” He looked back at Tarquin but nodded at me. “Glad it worked out.” Putting his window up, he drove toward the row of parked Escalades.
Without comment, Tarquin straddled his Road King that was parked right in front of the elevators, then waited until I was seated behind him before turning the engine over. The pipes, extra loud in the enclosed underground garage, made my heart jump, and I shifted on the seat.
“You good?” Tarquin asked, pulling out a pair of wind-blocker sunglasses with yellow lenses for nighttime riding from his jacket and putting them on before taking out a second pair and handing them to me.
I took the nighttime sunglasses and shoved them on. “I’m fine.” I wasn’t. An ache I never imagined I would feel again started between my legs the moment I spread them to fit around his hard body, and all of a sudden I was reliving every second of our last encounter in his garage.
Toeing the Hog into gear, Tarquin took my hand from my thigh and placed it around his waist. “Hold on,” he ordered before revving the engine and letting the clutch out.
The Harley didn’t jerk forward like another bike did all those years ago in the orange orchard. Confident, skilled, Tarquin smoothly swung the bike around and drove us out of the garage.
My hair pulled back with a rubber band from a takeout container of food Ronan had brought me earlier, my new jacket keeping all the wind out, the familiar scent of south Florida nighttime air hit my face. Closing my eyes to the cool wind, feeling the bike beneath us, I simply inhaled.
I missed this.
I missed riding. The freedom, the air all around you, the power of a Harley.
Unthinking, I tightened my hold on Tarquin as he took another turn and rested my cheek against his bac
k.
His muscles tensed as he shifted fluidly through the gears.
“Sorry,” I said over the wind.
He turned his head slightly to answer. “For?”
“Nothin’.” I loosened my grip.
He didn’t react, and neither did his tense muscles as he slowed for a red light.
“Where we goin’?”
“Not far,” he evaded.
The light turned green, and I didn’t ask any more questions. I held on to Tarquin and pretended like every single thing about our lives was different. Relishing in the simple freedom of the tires on the pavement, it wasn’t until it was too late to insist he turn around that I understood where we were going.
When he turned down the road the Hangman clubhouse was on, I took my arms away from his waist. “Tarquin Scott, you stop this bike right now.”
“No.”
“How dare you—”
My voice, my thoughts, they died on the wind as Tarquin pulled in front of the burnt-down remains of what used to be the clubhouse.
His boots hit the ground, and he cut the engine.
Dead silence fell across the night, and I stared.
Cicadas didn’t chirp, no wind fluttered any tree leaves, and no distant sound of barking dogs disturbed the solemn scene. The scent of campfire drifted around us, mocking the carnage with memories of summer nights that’d never belonged to me.
“You did this.” It wasn’t a question.
He answered anyway. “Yes.”
A long, yellow ribbon of crime scene tape quivered in an errant breeze. “How many of ’em were inside when it happened?”
No intonation, he matter-of-factly gave me the truth. “The rest of them.”
“They’re all dead.”
He looked over his shoulder and met my gaze. “Yes.”
I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and God forgive me, a sense of relief washed over me. “Thank you,” I whispered.
He looked back at the blackened wreckage, but he didn’t respond. For a long moment, he didn’t do anything. Then he started the Road King, kicked it into first and let the clutch out as he revved the engine. Swinging the bike around, he drove us away from the corpse of my past.
Shedding the memories on wind-dried tears, I tightened my hold on my man.
His chest rose with a deep inhale, but then his muscles, they relaxed, and I felt the shift. A biker named Candle became my Tarquin from the Glades.
His rough, calloused hand landed on my thigh, and he squeezed.
Holding her leg against mine, I headed south.
The dark night its own protection against my thoughts, I ignored the shit clouding my head and just drove. The Road King steady, my grip easy, I foolishly wished for another life with the woman on the back of my Hog.
Too fucking soon, I was driving down a road I swore I’d never drive again, but just like in Hialeah, she needed to see.
Her body tense since I pulled off the county road, she was quiet as I navigated the potholed dirt lane.
Taking the last turn, I pulled in front of another burnt-down building and cut the engine but left the headlight on.
Her silence quieter than the dark Glades around us, I second-guessed my intent, but we were already here. Throwing the kickstand down, I leaned the bike.
She silently got off, and I followed.
Grabbing my rucksack out of the saddlebag, I shouldered it and grabbed two flashlights. I could walk the path we were about to take with my eyes closed, but it’d been seven years for her.
I handed her one of the flashlights. “Thirsty?”
Her gaze left the burnt-down house, and she took the flashlight. “I’m good.”
Her voice too damn quiet, I knew she wasn’t okay, but I pushed on. “This way.”
I led us down a path that we hadn’t walked together since her womb had been swollen with my child—a child neither of us would ever hold.
I regretted so damn much, I was choking on it.
But for her, I needed to be strong. She deserved that.
So I walked us through the swamp and deep into the Glades in the middle of the night. My rucksack full of shit I needed, I kept a pace she could handle, and I didn’t talk. There was nothing to say.
If she wondered what I was doing, she didn’t ask. Silently following, trusting me, she kept to my six.
Coming to what used to be our small clearing, I dropped the rucksack from my shoulder and grabbed what I needed. Sparing her a glance, I took in her darkened face as she shone her flashlight over the remains of our cabin.
“Stay back,” I warned as I pulled out the bottle of lighter fluid, my folding shovel and a machete in a sheath.
If she suspected my intent, she didn’t comment.
Setting to work, I hacked off a couple limbs hanging over the caved-in roof and cleared them out before I dug a quick and shallow trench around the small structure. Not stopping to glance at her reaction, I covered the ruins of our life here in lighter fluid, then I grabbed the single candle I’d brought.
Walking back to where she’d perched on a fallen tree trunk, I handed her the lighter and silently held out the candle.
She flicked the lighter, then looked up at me. Her eyes sad, the line of her mouth determined like the female who’d pulled me out of the swamp, she lit the candle.
I held it for her a long moment. Then I turned and dropped the candle onto the remains of the cabin.
The rotting wood that’d once been our home caught fire.
Staring at the flames, heat hitting our faces, I stood next to my woman, but I didn’t tell her she’d always been my fire. I didn’t tell her I needed to do this more than I needed her to see it. I pulled two bottles of water out of my sack and handed her one.
We drank, and we watched the flames.
When they’d almost died down, I picked up my shovel and threw dirt on the smoldering ashes. Twenty minutes later, the sun was inching toward the horizon and I’d put all my shit back in my pack.
Only one thing left to do, I squatted next to the felled tree she was still sitting on, and I took her hand in the predawn light. Inhaling, I mentally braced. “I buried our past.”
For a long moment, she stared at me. Then ever so slight, she nodded.
I stood and held my hand out to her. “Let’s go home.”
I tried not to cry.
I’d been trying not to cry for hours.
My heart in my throat, I couldn’t speak if I wanted to.
More than the charred remains of our past, more than his grand gestures, more than missing a child I never got to hold in my arms, I was gutted by him. I knew what he was doing. I knew what he was so desperately trying to show me.
This was the man I’d pulled from the swamp trying to apologize.
This was him saying he was sorry.
This was him trying to make everything okay for me. When all he had to do was pull me into his arms and hold me, but he didn’t get that, and he was trying so hard, it was breaking my already broken heart.
But somewhere in the midst of all that heartbreak, I began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I needed him to do this. Maybe it really was me that needed to let go of the past. Maybe I needed to see myself as more than the weak whore who’d done nothing to fight for a better life for seven years. Maybe that was what he was trying to show me. That we deserved to let go of the past and move on. Maybe our violent beginnings needed this cleansing incineration. Maybe it’d set us free. Or maybe it wouldn’t.
I honestly didn’t know.
But as I walked behind him out of the swamp with the sun rising at our backs, I did know one thing for certain.
I’d never loved him more.
Everything he did, everything he was, he did it for me.
If that wasn’t love, then I didn’t know what was.
Coming out of the swamp, seeing his Road King parked in the overgrown lane that used to lead to a house that gave me nightmares, I knew I couldn’t hold my words back
anymore.
Waiting till he stowed his Army backpack, I reached for his hand.
His entire body stilled, and his weary gaze met mine.
I gave him two words that weren’t enough. “Thank you.”
He tipped his chin.
“Everythin’ you did for me…” My voice caught, and I cleared my throat as my hand went to my chest. “Everythin’ you did, it fills the broken parts in here, and I’m so grateful, I don’t have words, but I don’t know how to do that for you in return. Please,” I begged, “tell me how to do that for you.”
His chest rose with a deep inhale. Then his quiet voice carried on the swamp breeze, blending with the Glades. “You just did.”
I threw my arms around him and buried my face against his chest. Man and musk and dirt and fire, he smelled like everything I ever needed, and I knew I was home.
“I love you, Tarquin Scott,” I whispered.
One of his strong arms circled my back, and his deep voice rumbled in his chest. “I want you to change your last name.”
Taken off guard, I leaned back and looked up at him. “Are you proposin’?” Not waiting for one of his clipped answers, I let out a nervous laugh. “Because that’s even worse than your first proposal.”
He didn’t utter a word.
I clamped my mouth shut and stepped out of his grasp.
Not stopping my retreat, he stared down at me.
All the good feelings I’d been holding on to went up in a puff of smoke. “I see.”
“You are mad,” he stated, his compound speak in full bloom.
“I’m not mad. Dogs get mad. People get angry, but I ain’t angry either.” I was hurt. After everything, he still didn’t want to marry me. I was stupid for even allowing that split second of hope, because despite everything, despite all his grand gestures, I was still the whore who cheated on him. I’d always be.
“Shaila—”
“Oh sweet mercy, don’t call me that.” Please don’t fucking call me that. Him calling me by my first name when he was in compound speak was the kiss of death, as sure as if he’d aimed his gun at my heart and pulled the trigger. “I can’t do this right now. Can we just…” I waved my hand toward the bike. “Can we just leave?” I needed out of here, and I needed out of these godforsaken woods.