by Malcom, Anne
Another pause.
“Why?”
“Because I do it every day. Despite whatever situation I’m in. No matter how dire.”
“You would class this situation as dire?”
I still didn’t look up. “I don’t think there is a way to class this situation.”
He didn’t reply.
“Why do you write what you’re grateful for every day?” he asked finally when the scratch of the pen on the paper and our past got too loud.
Another question I wasn’t under obligation to answer, honestly or otherwise.
“Because it’s something my therapist recommended,” I replied. “It’s a common tool used on patients who’ve suffered something traumatic.”
I didn’t mean to add the last part. I really, really didn’t. Admitting I had trauma was begging him to ask the one question I didn’t know if I could physically answer, honestly or otherwise.
Anyone given such a statement would need the answer. As humans, we’re desperate for morbid information.
Liam stayed silent.
It was turning out to be his way, this new person. He asked questions when I didn’t expect him to speak, and he stayed quiet when my heart wouldn’t allow me to utter a word.
It was like he was tapped into some part of me, and I didn’t like that. I didn’t like having a connection with a man that I was supposed to hate. I hated the fact that despite the years, the death, the pain, that connection remained unbroken, unchanged though everything else had changed. I hated that I was faced with Liam embodied in a person he never should’ve been. I hated most of all, that I couldn’t hate him. Not one bit.
I finished writing.
I could try and stare at the paper for longer, I guessed, but it was depressing staring at the emotional straws I’d tried to grasp onto.
I’m inhaling and exhaling.
I have this pen and paper.
I’m not tied in some basement being tortured.
Not being tortured had become something to be grateful for, apparently.
As I lifted my eyes, I knew I needed to cross that last word out. Because this was nothing short of torture.
I wanted to put Liam’s presence on the list to be grateful for. The miracle I’d prayed for every day since this all began. Since it all ended.
But I didn’t know yet whether this man was someone to be grateful for.
I didn’t even know if this man was Liam.
And I didn’t think his presence was a miracle.
It was something much darker than that.
Liam’s eyes focused on my lips. I’d painted them red, and it had relaxed me some. It had given me something familiar, that constant I held onto for years when everything around me was chaos. I knew it had made me distinctive as a reporter, like it was some kind of ‘style.’ It was nothing more than survival.
Which was what it was now.
But it wasn’t that.
Not when Liam’s eyes darkened touching my lips.
“Macy is Hansen’s wife,” he said oddly.
I knew this. I’d heard of her, since Hansen pretty much left as soon as he could after club business had been wrapped up, never stayed to get blotto at the bar and never even fricking looked at any of the scantily clad girls parading around him.
I knew the club doted on Macy and their boys.
I didn’t know why Liam was bringing her up now.
“She watches the news,” he continued.
“Ah,” I said, understanding why he had a change of heart about the lipstick. “Guessing you ran into her.”
He nodded. Clenched his fists.
Silenced stretched thin over the room like not enough butter on a large piece of bread.
I vowed not to break it, despite the feeling of the feather in my hands. Despite everything.
“You came here to get a story, but you’ve found yourself in the middle of a war,” he said finally.
I didn’t waver my gaze, though it was only because of the years an instinctual reaction of fear or intimidation could mean my death. I never thought I’d have to call up a skill I perfected interviewing rebel warlords in front of the boy I used to love.
This wasn’t a boy.
It was a scarred and dangerous man I didn’t recognize.
“I’m used to wars,” I replied, voice cold.
He moved forward, quickly and smoothly so he was inhabiting all the space in front of me, and all the space inside me. “Not this one, Peaches. And not with me. This is a war you won’t be walking away from.”
Chapter Eight
I was locked in that room for another week.
A whole freaking week.
I saw no one but two prospects. One, Elden, was chattier than the other. And by more chatty, I meant when I asked his name, he grunted “Elden.”
He was the older one, with soulful demonic shadows behind his eyes.
The other was John. And I only knew that because Elden told me. ‘Telling me’ consisted of grunting the name and walking out.
John was not chatty.
He was younger.
With some shadows behind his eyes, but not enough to completely ruin him. I guessed he wasn’t talking to me because he was taking his prospecting very seriously, he didn’t want to ruin his chance for a patch by cavorting with a rat.
Like it was catching.
Things came in their three-time daily meal delivery that I knew didn’t come from them.
New sheets.
White. Egyptian Cotton. Bought by a woman.
I wondered if they were from the Macy who watched the news and who I knew I had to thank for my tube of lipstick. I was almost certain of this fact, when the next day, I was given a small bag with breakfast. It had a quote from Lord of The Rings, ‘I survived Helm’s Deep.’ That made me smile.
Macy was a total geek.
And, as it turned out, opening the bag, a total sweetheart.
It contained face wash, face and hair masks, nail polish, magazines, tampons, chocolate, slippers, and a bottle of wine. Even a glass. A proper, large and classy one too. One that I would’ve liked to have sitting in a glass cabinet in a home I might’ve lived in in another life.
Macy obviously knew I was a prisoner and was obviously trying to make captivity more comfortable.
Which she did.
Kind of.
Comfort was a dream.
This was a nightmare.
But chocolate, wine, face masks, and trashy magazines helped a little. And a little meant a lot in times like this.
I got other things.
Things I knew were from Liam.
Books. Ones only he could pick. The Valley of the Dolls. The Bronze Horseman. Shantaram. I had immediately shoved that one in the trash. Then retrieved it moments later, unable to commit that sacrilege.
I hid it under the bed instead.
As if that helped.
There was also more paper.
Packets of gummy bears.
“You know those things have horse hooves in them?” he teased, taking the packet from me.
I didn’t look up, I had a test to study for. I was well aware that my grades hinged on this test, and if I wanted to get into a university close enough to the Ivy League that Liam would no doubt be admitted to, I need to focus.
I snatched the bag back.
I also needed sugar.
“I don’t care. They are the only joy in my life right now.”
My chin was grasped in his thumb and forefinger. I met emerald eyes. “The only joy, Peaches? Now you’re just breakin’ my heart.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, you and gummy bears are the only two joys in my life. Without them, I’m destitute, damned.”
He grinned. “Well, I’m gonna make sure, for the rest of your life, you’re well stocked in gummy bears.”
I didn’t eat them.
But I filled up the notepad with not only my three things daily, but with ideas for the story, things I noticed.
T
hough I’m a prisoner here, I’m treated with respect. Well, whatever passes for respect in the underworld, which is not getting beaten, raped or starved.
Everyone carries guns. The prospects assigned to me wear them even when playing waitress to me.
There are floodlights on around the perimeter every night. And there are round the clock guards, prospects and patched members alike.
Are they expecting another attack?
The main room of the clubhouse is somehow soundproofed.
The Sons of Templar do not take kindly to those who try to cross them, but the brutality I expected is absent. Is it because of who I am? Is it because I’m a woman? Or is it still to come?
I wondered whether I would still be alive to write the story.
The answer came to me on the eighth day.
When my door unlocked late afternoon and it wasn’t a prospect, it was Liam.
A week without seeing him hadn’t made me forget he was here. Hadn’t tricked me into thinking I’d somehow hallucinated him in the midst of the trauma at seeing someone murdered in front of me then being held captive.
No, every second I knew he was here, somewhere, beyond a locked door. Wearing a cut. Wearing tattoos. A foreign face. A scar I tortured myself with at the dead of night.
A body I tortured myself with in the dead of night.
His eyes ran over me hungrily. But empty.
I was wearing jeans, loose, and a plaid shirt, nothing sexy by any means. But he made me feel exposed, naked.
Liam had a way of doing that. Stripping me down.
But it was good before. Warm. Nice. Because back then, I wasn’t afraid of what I was beneath the surface.
There was nothing good about this. Because beneath the surface, I was decaying memories, rotten experiences, and ugly truths.
“Come with me,” he ordered.
I wanted to argue, but I was tired. And I was anxious to get my fate in front of me. Instead of my past.
He led me through the common room.
It was empty, apart from a rogue club girl cleaning up some bottles. She glanced up at Liam, giving him a warm smile.
I almost gagged at the familiarity behind it.
Her eyes touched mine, she recognized me. We hadn’t spoken before but exchanged friendly smiles as the club gathered. But as she glanced between Liam and me, there was nothing friendly about her smile.
I wanted to educate her on the truth. That this was not me coming in and laying claim to some man that she obviously wanted. My claim to him had long died.
But Liam had already opened the door to ‘church’ and I was faced with another kind of truth.
I stepped inside.
The room was relatively small, taken up mostly by a long, carved wooden table.
Every seat was filled except two.
Hansen sat at the head of the table.
The mood wasn’t exactly welcoming.
I would go so far as to say the mood was hostile. Openly.
Hansen nodded to the two empty chairs to his left. One, I guessed was for Liam. “Caroline. Thanks for joining us. Please, sit.”
Liam pulled it out for me.
I ignored this and the second he let it go, I moved it as far away from his as I could. The screech of the chair against the hardwood floor echoed through the quiet room. Moving the chair had me almost brushing against Claw’s shoulder, but I didn’t care. I’d take Claw’s murderous glare over...whatever was in Liam’s eyes.
I wanted to tell myself I’d take anything over having to see Liam, but that was a lie. I was desperate to see him, even though the pain that came with his presence was overwhelming. I was addicted to it. Every glimpse was like a blade to my soul, but I continued to self-harm emotionally. I kept cutting.
I glanced around the table. All eyes were focused on me with varying degrees of contempt. I focused on Hansen. “I’m assuming everyone here is educated on who I am.”
He nodded once. “I’m open with my club. We’re a democracy. Not a dictatorship.”
I regarded him. “And has this democracy come to a vote on my fate?”
I already knew it wasn’t death, because if they’d decided to kill me, they wouldn’t have sat me down for this chat.
Something moved in his eyes. “We have.”
He waited. Likely for me to crumble, plead. Ask for mercy.
I knew none of them would help, so I waited too. Silently.
“You can have your story,” Hansen said finally.
My raised eyebrow was my only reply. I was shocked, beyond so. Not only were they not going to kill me, nor were they kicking me to the curb with a warning about coming back to the clubhouse and plenty of death threats. No, they were giving me the story that could’ve got me killed and maybe ruined their club if I’d got the right story. Or the wrong one. And here was the stoic, handsome and deadly president of the Sons of Templar MC giving me my story. But I knew that it wouldn’t be that simple. That there would be a catch.
There always was.
“You can live amongst the Sons of Templar, find what you came here for, with notable exceptions of course,” Hansen continued after a long beat, not taking his eyes from me. “You don’t get to go to church. Ever. Even Old Ladies don’t get that. And we tell you to back off, you back the fuck off. You don’t interfere with club business. Don’t bother our kids. I would say don’t bother our women, but my wife will likely divorce me if she doesn’t get to meet you, so I’ll request you not put anything about her in there if you want to see the outside of this compound.”
I nodded once, still knowing there was more.
“We have to keep in mind that you’ve already seen something that could damage the club,” Hansen said, glancing to Jagger pointedly and then back to me. “Though you’ve given your word that you won’t try to damage the club. Which is a smart choice. Problem is, your word is kind of shot to shit right now, sweetheart. You continue to live at the compound, continue to work at the bar and you will always have a prospect on you, until I’m satisfied that you will stay true to your word. Then you can finish your story wherever you wish.” He paused. “It goes without saying, of course, that anything that’s published that damages the club will be treated as an act of hostility against the club. And in that case, I’ll make sure you know, with us, there’s no such thing as retribution, only decimation.”
I leaned back in my chair, digesting the words, the iron jaws of the men around the table and the threat at the end of his little speech. “Subtle.”
Hansen raised his brow. “We look subtle to you?”
The corner of my mouth twitched as I regarded him and the men in the room. It didn’t waver even though most of them were treating me with murderous glares. I could smile in the face of murderous glares. I was used to them. But that mouth twitch disappeared the second I laid eyes on Liam. He’d been watching me the entire time, and I’d been doing my best to ignore him. That was an impossible feat, even when the president of an outlaw MC just threatened to kill me if I betrayed him.
Hansen’s offer was a generous one, considering what I knew about the club in general and about how they treated rats and traitors. Had this been any other story, I wouldn’t have hesitated, even with the obvious threat to my life, even though half of the men in the room looked like they’d rather resort to more traditional ways of dealing with a rat.
But this wasn’t any other story. The scarred man staring at me was evidence that couldn’t be ignored.
I wasn’t sure if I could survive staying here, living the story and constantly being faced with Liam. Jagger. He was Jagger. Not Liam.
No, I knew I wouldn’t survive it.
But I couldn’t betray this feeling at the table full of men trained to sniff out weakness and then just as promptly snuff it out. And they wanted me to be weak. That’s what this was, bringing a helpless woman to a table full of criminals, murderers, dead men, it was a statement, it was intimidation.
It wasn’t working. Not in the way
they intended, at least.
I swallowed my fear and it scraped against my throat like a half-chewed potato chip.
“What you’re saying, is I can write the story you want me to write while I’m a prisoner,” I said, addressing Hansen. “That’s not writing any kind of story at all. And that’s not the journalist I am.”
His gaze was even. “You can write the story you want to write. No one’s stopping you from doing that. I’m just informing you of all the facts. And you’re not a prisoner, you’re a guest.”
I didn’t lower my eyes. “A guest that doesn’t get a say in when she leaves and is followed by an armed guard is, by definition, a prisoner.”
He shrugged. “You know your options.”
I did know my options. It was this or death. He was offering me as close to a pardon as I could get.
Why wasn’t I happy about that?
My eye’s locked with emerald irises once more.
Oh yeah, that was why.
Hansen stood, put his palms flat on the table. “I’ll leave you to consider, but your next shift at the bar is tomorrow. It’s the play you wanna make, Caroline.”
I nodded once and stood myself. “And where am I supposed to stay?”
“We’ve got an empty room at the end of the hall,” he said, something in his eyes.
I wondered who that empty room belonged to, a ghost who now resided in Hansen’s eyes.
“One that locks from the outside, I presume?” I asked dryly, forcing myself not to feel sympathy for my jailer.
Hansen didn’t acknowledge this. His silence was answer enough. It was clear I didn’t have a say in this. Fighting it would be wasting air. And I needed it, even though the oxygen was jagged, tainted with Liam.
“Fine,” I sighed. “I want my cellphone back. My computer.”
Hansen regarded me.
“I’m not stupid enough to call for a rescue,” I snapped.
“Didn’t think you were,” he replied. “You’ll get your shit.”
It was incredibly arrogant of them to give a prisoner—because that’s exactly what I was—access to communication to the outside world.
But they were smart.
Because there was no chance of rescue. Local cops were likely paid off. I could call in State Police, who couldn’t be as easily bought off, but that would mean forfeiting the story.