by Anne Malcom
He stayed silent and still for a moment until he stepped back, erected the shield between us once more. “You’re not dirty,” he murmured. “I never have and never will think that.”
I eyed him. “You sure about that?”
He eyed me right back. “Never been more sure about anything in my life.”
I swallowed whatever that sentence did to my emotions. “Apart from your determination to ruin my family, right? You’re pretty sure about that.”
Luke’s face darkened. “Rosie,” he warned. “We can’t get into this. You shouldn’t be here.”
I stepped forward, backing him into his desk. “But I am here,” I said, confidence or stupidity fueling me. “I’m here, and no one else is, and I’m not going anywhere until—”
“Until what, Rosie?” His voice was ice.
I stuttered on his response, on his demand of an explanation, an uttering of what had been, for years, unmentioned.
On my side, at least.
Maybe it was all on my side.
I lost all my bravado, my confidence, sobering in the worst way, shrinking down into a vulnerable girl who didn’t want anything more than him, the guy, to love her.
“You know what,” I whispered, unable to say anything else. Anything else would be too risky, to real to reveal, even without my few inhibitions.
Luke looked at me for a long while, as if reading the unsaid words, like I’d written them in the air. “You want me because I’m the one thing you can’t have, Rosie. It’s not real,” he said, not unkindly.
The tone may not have been unkind, but what did that matter when every word was a blade?
“Real?” I whispered, choking out the word. “I’ve had a brutal and continuous education on real, Luke. I’m not a child. I don’t live in fantasies, don’t entertain myself with them. I’m all about real. So trust me, I didn’t want to feel this for you. I didn’t trick myself that forbidden romance would be exciting or passionate or magnificent. That’s the fantasy. But the real? The real is fucking ugly. Because it’s not what I can’t have. It’s what was never mine in the first place.” The words tumbled out though I had no intention of saying them.
Not even in the most perfect of circumstances would I have done it. And this definitely wasn’t the most perfect of circumstances. But I said them anyway, like a drowning person scrambling for that life raft that they knew had a hole in it but hoped beyond hope might somehow save them anyway.
“Rosie,” he whispered, barely audible. “It’s not. We’re not. I’m not right.” His own words tumbled out, much fewer than mine, trickling almost incoherently, painfully.
I was proud for the way I tilted my chin up and for the fact that my eyes stayed dry.
“No, you mean I’m not right,” I corrected. “I’m not right for your image. For your lifestyle. For the good guy.”
“Fuck, Rosie, no,” he pleaded, stepping forward as if to touch me.
Self-preservation kicked in at this point and I stepped back before his fingers could grasp mine.
“Yes, Luke,” I snapped. “You’re clinging to your mold, and admitting anything about me, acknowledging me, will ruin it all, I’m sure.” My voice turned cold. “It’s what people don’t realize. In life, you don’t actually have to act a certain way, dress a certain way, live a certain way. It’s a big and brilliant fucking con by the Man that has us thinking so. The only reason I see them, the strings that are attached to 99 percent of people on this planet, is because of where I live. Where I grew up. In the 1 percent. And I know what you think of that. Murderers, rapists, criminals. Whatever. Scum of the earth, right?”
I laughed. “Well, that’s okay, because that 99 percent? That’s exactly what they are. They just hide it when they put on their fucking suits every day. Everyone’s pretending, for each other. It’s comical when you think about it. Yeah, there’s laws you don’t break. I kind of get that one. But then there’s the invisible ones about how to dress, where to live, what age to pop out a spawn, what shit to spout at cocktail parties. That’s the shit I don’t get. Most people act like it’s the gallows if they step out of it. This great big lie called life. People live it and don’t even realize they’ve wasted it. Never made it theirs. I’m not going to do that. I’m going to make it mine. And I’ll fuck up. I’m good at that. But I’d rather fuck up a life I’ve designed than perfect something someone else controls.”
I took in a strangled breath after yet another word vomit. I didn’t even know if I could blame alcohol for this. It was years of pent-up emotions, of unsaid words, unshed tears, all packaged into one rambling speech.
He stared at me, at my words, as if they were floating around in the air.
“Different time, different life, we woulda been perfect.” His raspy voice was full. Of regret, of hope, and of resignation.
“We only have now. We only have this life,” I whispered, my heart breaking. “Imperfect is all there is. It’s all I need. I know it’s not the same for you. You need perfect. Not me.”
Luke was just staring at me, still—shocked, maybe.
But he didn’t say anything.
I didn’t wait to see what new and careful way he’d structure his words to break my heart.
“Don’t worry. In regard to you, I think I’ve made enough Fuck-Ups to last us both a lifetime.” I turned on my heel and intended on stomping out, hopefully waiting until I was at home to shed the tears that were prickling the backs of my eyes.
“Rosie.”
One word gave me pause. Hope.
This is it. What happens in the movies. When you thought all was lost, it was really just the climax needed to show you that the guy, the good guy, would never let the girl he really loved walk away.
I turned.
He held his hand out. “I need your keys. I can’t let you drive. I’ll give you a ride.”
I was impressed that I stayed upright.
“They’re in the ignition,” I shot back, voice ice. “Do what you like with the car. And no way on this earth would I accept a ride from a cop. I’ll call one of the boys. You know, the big bad outlaws whose lives you’re making it your mission to ruin?” I paused. “Yeah, my family has my back. And you ruin their lives, mine goes with them. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Then I left.
And it hurt.
A fucking lot.
But I walked, head held high, face dry, heart broken.
Not enough women got medals for doing that. And I knew they did it. Every day, women did it.
And they all deserved fucking medals.
Because no way a man would be strong enough to make that walk—and in heels, no less.
Luke
Age Twenty-Eight
He stood there for a long time after she left. A long fucking time.
He wasn’t sure if it was by choice or not.
But he did. Like a fucking coward. Didn’t do anything. Didn’t say anything. Just fucking stood there. Going over every single thing she’d said. Every single thing he should’ve said.
Fuck, her face when she turned and he asked for her keys. That would be something he’d have to answer for when he met his maker. Turning that beautiful hope into beautiful heartbreak. The most painful kind of beauty. The kind you appreciated, marveled at, but would kill the fucker who made such a creature have to deal with that pain.
It was him.
He was the fucker.
He wasn’t going to say shit about the keys. He’d intended on telling her that they weren’t a fantasy, that he was hers, that somehow, in this fucked-up world, she’d managed to make everything else less important.
But he didn’t.
Because he was a coward.
Not just because he was a cop.
And not for the reasons she believed. No, it had nothing to do with him and his opinion of where she came from. Where she came from made her who she was. He didn’t want to respect the club for turning her into that, but fuck if he did.
No, he’d closed his mouth for her. Because he knew that if he gave her what she wanted in that moment, he’d take away everything she’d need in the rest of them.
Her family.
The ones who would do anything for her.
Except accept him into that family.
That would be the price. The choice for her. He’d never put her in that position. Never hurt her like that.
His aim was to prevent hurt.
But he’d created it.
And he’d have to live with that.
Somehow.
Rosie
Present Day
Luckily, I always carried my passport—one of them, at least—on me at all times in case of emergency or boredom. That meant I could hop in my battered and almost falling apart Jeep and speed straight through the chaotic streets of Caracas, toward the airport.
Road rules were nonexistent here, apart from the singular one of don’t die. I didn’t have to worry about something as asinine as getting pulled over while I dialed my phone and put it to my ear.
I’d already tried Lucy.
Four times.
It barely rang before an immediately familiar fury greeted me. “Rosie, where the fuck—”
I swerved around a stationary taxi, the driver shouting at someone across the road, then shouting at me as I took out a side mirror. A honk from the car I was about to plow into on the other side had me swerving back into my lane.
“Save your swearing, shouting or synchronous series of caveman grunts for another time, bro,” I shouted above the traffic noise. “I need to know about Lucy. Tell me she’s okay.” It was more of a plead than anything else.
There was a pause. One that told me everything I needed to know and made sure I left my heart on the bottom of the road as I sped away toward the airport. I was so focused on making it through the streets that I forgot to guard against the memories, anxious to get their place in the spotlight once I’d opened the floodgates.
So, navigating through wild and dangerous streets, my mind wandered.
Not to my friend who could very well be dead. I couldn’t think of that. Self-preservation.
And there would be nothing of me left to preserve if my girl was dead.
Not that there was much right now.
“We’ve just landed in sunny Los Angeles. If this is your final destination, welcome home.” The pleasant voice on the intercom possessed none of the irritation it had when she’d been telling me that she would no longer serve me alcohol.
“I think you’ve had enough, ma’am.”
I scowled at her and her superior glance to my disheveled hair and dusty white tank. “I’m still sober,” I protested, without an inch of a slur. “That means I haven’t had near enough.”
She raised one perfectly manicured brow. “You’ve had twelve tequilas, ma’am. We are lawfully obliged to cut you off.”
I rolled my eyes. “One mustn’t break the twelve-tequila law,” I snapped. “They’ll most likely put you in jail where the only person to do your eyebrows would be a dyke who benched more than The Rock.”
Suffice to say I did not get my thirteenth tequila.
Because of the law.
The law. The big fat barrier, reinforced with steel, electrified and topped with barbed wire. The thing that sat between everything I wanted.
Well, the two things I wanted.
Luke and tequila number thirteen.
Right now, though, I wanted more than anything for my best friend to be okay.
The two flights had been the longest ten hours of my life. I wanted to scream for how helpless I was, thousands of feet in the air, unable to do anything.
And that was on me.
“Excuse me, coming through,” I shouted, almost bowling over an elderly lady with a hatbox. I didn’t have the time to feel bad. “Sir, if you’d kindly get the fuck out of my way,” I requested pleasantly to the man who’d decided to turn getting his bag from the overhead locker into a process as complicated as splitting the atom.
Both he and my friend the flight attendant scowled at me. Most of the passengers smiled at me. I was just saying what everyone else stuck behind this idiot was thinking.
As I pushed past him, I smiled at Mrs. Perfect Brows. “You have a fulfilling life enforcing the law 30,000 feet up,” I said to her.
I didn’t get her response because I was out of the plane and sprinting to get to whoever was waiting for me on the other side.
In my worry about Lucy, I forgot that I had a wrath-filled brother waiting for me. I was reminded of that once I entered the arrivals section and saw him, standing wide-legged with his arms crossed, two feet of space all the way around him, despite the fact that LAX was packed. His fury, not to mention his leather cut, created a force field that people purposefully avoided.
His furious gaze landed on me and I ignored it, running up to him.
“How is she?” I demanded, expecting him to start walking toward the exit so we could get to Lucy.
Instead, he stayed rooted to the spot, not moving, face a mask of masculine alpha fury. I was used to it. It was almost a default with me.
Something inside me softened at seeing that again. My badass, cranky, and loyal-to-the-bone brother. In the flesh. It was the longest I’d been away from him. From everyone.
“She’s still unconscious but through the worst,” he finally grunted, saying every word through clenched teeth.
My entire body, which had been wound up tighter than Mrs. Eyebrows’ chignon, sagged at the news. “So she’s going to be okay?” It was more a prayer than a question.
He nodded once, curtly and stiffly.
I sagged some more, exhaling the breath I’d been holding for hours. Then I snatched the tree trunk he had for an arm in an attempt to pull him toward the exit. The action was the exact same thing as yanking at a tree trunk. It didn’t move.
“Cade!” I whined. “Forget about being mad at me for like two-point-five seconds and let’s go. You can yell at me in the car.”
He didn’t move. Nor did he speak. He just stared at me in that way that had all his enemies quivering in their boots, before they pissed their pants.
It didn’t work on four people: his wife Gwen, his two infant children, who literally laughed in the face of his wrath, and me.
“Cade, you—”
I was going to protest some more when he moved. He didn’t shout or curse or tell me what an irresponsible idiot I was. Instead he hugged me. Hard. I was pretty sure I heard some bones in my back crack with the force of it.
I relaxed into it, wrapping my arms against his iron body, clutching at the leather that was the backdrop of my childhood. I took a deep inhale, motor oil, smoke and nostalgia creeping into my nostrils.
Home.
It wasn’t a place to me.
It was people. A lot of them. One of my favorites, clutching me to him as if he sensed I needed a vacation from all the horrors chasing me and all those I carried with me. I was safe from all of them for the duration of that hug.
Cade pulled back and looked down at me with a stare that, to the outside observer, would look empty and full of menace. Though the outside observer would take into account all of his tattoos, his sheer height and size, and the rough stubble on his sharp chin, plus his motorcycle cut, and add all that into the equation. But I knew better than all that. I knew that was the mask he wore when he was feeling a little too much and didn’t want to let the world see it.
“I was so fuckin’ worried about you,” he growled, kissing my forehead.
“No need. I’m always okay,” I said with false cheer designed to calm his worries.
He stared at me, the way only someone who shared your blood could. “No, kid, you always make sure you act okay. It’s not the same thing.” His eyes searched me some more. “Fuck,” he whispered under his breath. “You’ve added more.”
“More what?” I whispered back.
“More fuckin’ darkness to eyes I wanted to make sure never had a s
hred of shadow in them,” he replied.
I was surprised, at what he said and the tone of anger in regret in his voice. “I’m not designed to exist without shadows. It’s in my blood,” I said, cupping his cheek.
He furrowed his brow. “Fuckin’ trouble’s in your blood,” he muttered.
I was relieved. I didn’t need heavy when I was already carting the world around on my shoulders.
“Now can we please go see my soul sister?” I whined.
He looked me up and down, face blank once more. “Yeah, once we get you showered.” He paused. “On second thought, maybe if you don’t, she’ll smell you and wake right up,” he said dryly.
I smacked his arm, bruising my knuckles in the process. “Personal grooming wasn’t really on the agenda when I got the call, buttface.”
We started walking toward the entrance, his brow raised at me in warning.
I rolled my eyes. “The super-badass routine doesn’t work on me, remember? I don’t care if your patch says ‘President,’ you’ll always be my buttface brother,” I teased.
He shook his head. “And you’ll always be my Roe,” he replied. “Which means I’ll always be the one to put the bullet in the temple of the people who put the shadows in your eyes. Sooner or later.”
His words weren’t teasing like mine.
They were a promise.
I hoped to God that he didn’t find out it wasn’t rapists or murderers or general scum of the earth who put those shadows there.
It was Luke.
Because if he found that out, he would follow through on the promise.
Law be damned.
Then again, there were a lot of things that Cade would never find out about Luke.
What he’d done for the club.
What I’d done that Luke had turned a blind eye to.
Chapter Six
Rosie
Age Twenty-Five
I learned a lot from the men I grew up around. How to throw a punch. How to hack into a computer. How to pick locks, hotwire a car, load and shoot a gun. The basic bread and butter of outlaw life.