by Malcom, Anne
But not the most disturbing thing.
It took everything in me not to react when I heard it. I continued putting away glasses and pouring vodka like I wasn’t hearing them discuss the end of The Sons of Templar.
They moved away when they were done to share a beer with the men they planned on having killed.
It was then that I calmly walked to the bathroom in the back, locked the door and vomited.
After emptying my stomach, I rinsed my mouth and regarded myself in the mirror. I was a journalist. It was not my place to take sides. It was the exact defining quality of my profession. Identity. Objectivity.
But I was lying to myself if my objectivity went out the window since I came face to face with Liam.
I had a decision to make. Let this war play itself out, stand on the sidelines and watch it do so. Record the story.
Or insert myself into it. Step onto the battlefield and choose a side.
* * *
Liam didn’t even give me a chance to speak when I got off the bike, the rest of the club had ridden with us, all of them staying till close, which was unusual. Sometimes Claw and Elden stayed with Liam. Blake was usually passed out on the table before he woke up, found a club girl and disappeared. But I guessed the Russians meant business.
No. I knew they did.
Liam took off my helmet, brushing my hair from my face. “We’ve got church, Peaches,” he said softly. “Club business.”
I nodded. I didn’t speak.
I watched them filter into the room and the door close.
I stood in the middle of the common room for twenty seconds. Fighting with what I’d heard, what that meant I should do. It meant I should do nothing, that I should go back into the bedroom and log it into my laptop, let the story unfold without any more of my meddling.
Then I burst into church.
“They’re ripping you off. The Russians.” I blurt it before I realized what I was doing. I’m traveling outside of the role that has assured my survival and journalistic integrity for well over a decade.
Hansen held up his hand to whoever is behind me, likely about to drag me from the sacred room. “How do you know that?
“Because they said it plainly, right in front of you all,” I replied, not sure if I was impressed or disgusted at the fact they were as brash as to talk about the fact that they were fucking the Sons of Templar over while they smiled and slapped their backs, sharing beers with them.
“You speak Russian,” Hansen surmised.
I nodded once, surprised that they didn’t at least speak rudimentary Russian. They’d been working with the Russians for years. But that was men for you. “Not fluent, but close enough to know that those weapons they’re supplying you with are faulty and they’re getting paid a lot more from a man named Miguel to make sure you sell them to city gangs and use them for personal use. I’m guessing selling faulty guns to street gangs won’t make you many friends.”
Curses sounded from around the table.
Liam said nothing, did nothing, just stared at me.
“I thought you were only here to bear witness, not get involved,” Hansen said instead of swearing or promising murder like the rest of his men had,
He was keeping his cool, nothing but a single twitch of his finger betrayed his fury.
“I thought so too,” I replied honestly, unable to give him an answer as to why I hadn’t just scribbled the findings down in a notebook, waited for a story to come from them.
No, I knew why. Because whatever story that came from this knowledge would be likely stained in blood. Most stories were stained these days, blood, oil, dirt. But blood would’ve been certain if the Sons of Templar sold a street gang bad hardware.
Or if they tried to fight the aforementioned street gang with that same hardware.
Smart, exterminating a large chunk of the enemy without lifting a proverbial finger.
Hansen looked to Liam who was still glaring at me. Then his eyes went to Hades. He gave him a single nod.
Then his eyes went to me.
“You’re goin’ with him.”
Liam burst out of his chair. “Like fuck she is,” he yelled at Hansen.
To his credit, the president didn’t have an outward reaction to this outburst. “She is. She needs to see what happens when she decides to stop bearing witness. She needs to be involved in this.”
“This blood is not on her hands,” Liam seethed through gritted teeth.
“It is,” Hansen replied. “Whether or not you like it.”
Hades grabbed my arm and took me out before Liam could do a thing.
Hansen’s words followed me all the way down to the basement where he killed five Russian arms dealers.
* * *
I was sitting on my bed—our bed, Liam’s bed, Jagger’s bed—eating a peanut butter sandwich when he burst through the door.
I’d been expecting this.
My peanut butter sandwich was history when he ripped me up from my cross-legged position.
He didn’t hesitate to manhandle me brutally. And my body did not hesitate to respond carnally, despite the situation. Despite the fact I’d just seen five men die. And they did not die pretty. But then again, death was never pretty.
“Do you have a fucking death wish?” he asked. He accused. It wasn’t the first time he’d asked the question and it wasn’t the first time I’d wondered the same thing.
I didn’t flinch from his glare, though the anger was as foreign as the scarred face it was worn on. I’d seen him angry plenty. But this was something different than that. More than that.
“No,” I replied. “That’s the opposite of what put me here. I wasn’t chasing death. I was chasing life. I was looking for a way to feel alive when I felt like I’d been buried along with that empty coffin of yours.”
He flinched.
I didn’t react.
It was spiteful and we were meant to be past that.
“Maybe that’s why I was chasing all of it, all the danger. I was looking for a way, looking for something to replicate the way my heart beat when I was near you. When I was yours.”
He clutched my face. “Babe. You’ve always been mine.”
I smiled only because it hurt so much to do so. “No, I’m not. Not now. Not ever again.”
I pulled myself from his grip and walked out the door.
Or tried to.
He yanked me back. “No,” he hissed. “We’re not doing that anymore. We’re not slinging as many shots as we can get in and then abandoning each other. We’re talking about what you did tonight. What you fucking saw.” His anger rippled slightly at the end, giving way for sorrow.
I sighed. He was right. It was childish, saying the most hurtful things I could and then running away. Maybe because I wanted him to chase me.
“I’m not some delicate flower, Liam,” I said.
I really wanted to call him Jagger, I wanted to show him that he wasn’t Liam to me anymore. But I couldn’t do that. He would never be anyone but Liam to me, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how hard we both tried. “I’ve seen things, maybe not as much as you’ve seen. I’ve done things too, definitely not as much as you’ve done, but enough to make sure I’m not shocked by violence or death. Or pain. You can’t protect me from that now. Especially since you were the one who exposed me to it first.”
“You’re mine,” he hissed, snatching my neck—not at all gently—and yanking me to him.
“I’m not your fucking property,” I snapped back, trying to struggle out of his grip and ignore the fact my panties dampened at the onset of his violence.
I was not a woman turned on by violence. By ownership. By brutal men with brutal souls.
I wasn’t that woman.
Except I was.
“You are my property,” he said, without letting go, if anything, his grip tightened. “Everyone is someone’s property, Peaches, whether they know it or not.” He yanked my neck, so I was flush with his body. “And you fucking
know it.”
I did know it.
In my bones.
In my ruined soul.
Even in the mind I’d been so intent on convincing it wasn’t so.
“We both might not want it to be this way, but it is this way. I can’t change that. I can’t change you bein’ in the alley that night, or you making the decision to come into the club. And even if I could, I don’t think I would. An honorable man would. But I’m not him. So I wouldn’t change it, if that damns me, so be it. I’ve done a lot of damning things in my life.”
I struggled with elation with his words and utter dread. I wanted to belong to him. I already knew I did, but it was stifling, terrifying, when I knew every day he got on his bike he might not come back. I could watch five Russians die ugly, but I couldn’t keep watching that.
“I need some time off, a vacation,” I whispered.
Liam frowned. “From what?”
“This!” I yelled, gesturing between us before I began pacing.
He stared at me pacing, not moving anything but his eyeballs to follow my jerky movements. “You can’t take some time off from being in love.”
I stopped. Froze. We hadn’t said that’s what we were. Hadn’t admitted it to each other. But it was the truth. And he was bullying me with it. “You did,” I whispered. I wanted the words to come out sharp and barbed, an accusation to cut through his skin. I wanted to wound him. Whether I was physically unable to do so or if I didn’t have the energy, I wasn’t sure. “You took almost fifteen years off, Liam.”
His eyes stopped moving and then his body was across the room and I was in his arms. Harsh. Not comforting. Painful.
That’s what his grip was now.
That’s what he was now.
“No,” he rasped, the single word violent and grating. “I took fourteen years off from everything but that. There wasn’t ten seconds I took off from loving you.”
My heart thundered in my chest. My ribs fractured. My panties were soaked. “Prove it,” I demanded.
And he did.
* * *
I was babysitting.
Macy and Hansen hadn’t had a night to themselves in what I guessed was a long fricking time, in between the whole club being destroyed, then having to rebuild it, then having a brand-new baby, a toddler, then going to war. It didn’t leave much time for date night.
And I found myself wanting the cold, ruthless and fair president to have time with his warm, kind and funny wife. I felt something coming, something bad, though you didn’t exactly need to be clairvoyant to see that something bad was coming. They deserved time together, time to do something borderline normal, like go to a movie, out for dinner or just fuck each other’s brains out on their kitchen table without worrying about a crying baby.
So I was at their house, holding a baby that most definitely wasn’t crying and was the most beautiful little human being I’d ever encountered, second to my nephew. Their toddler was asleep in his little bed, I’d exhausted him by playing cops and robbers all evening, probably not the most appropriate game, but whatever.
I had an escort, of course. I couldn’t figure whether it was because Hansen still expected me to run, to rat, because he didn’t trust me alone with his children, or because he was worried about someone striking while he wasn’t there.
I didn’t think about it. Because I was holding a beautiful baby. I was somewhere that wasn’t a biker clubhouse. In fact, I was in a beautiful home in the middle of the desert. Cluttered with photos, and odd fantasy paraphernalia and decorated in boho chic. Everything about it was the home that I wished I could have. A place that was warm. A place that had roots. That seeped my personality from the walls.
But I didn’t even know what kind of decorating style I had.
I was pretty sure I didn’t have one.
None of my previous apartments had much but the rudimentary household items and furniture, as I was never there long enough to waste money on such things.
And then when I moved back home into a condo just outside of town—because I couldn’t stand being within town limits, let alone at my parent’s house—my mother and sister had taken over the decorating and I didn’t have any say in the matter. I didn’t want a say. Because seeing them fighting happily over which cushions would go with my sofa again filled me with warmth. I was making them happy, for once, instead of filling them with worry.
So I let them create my home.
And it was warm. It was tasteful. It was both of their personalities—my mom’s old school Southern Elegance and my sister’s slightly stiff WASP style—meshed together in harmony. There were even photos too, like Macy’s, but with fewer men in leather cuts.
But it didn’t feel like mine.
It didn’t feel like me.
But that made sense, because I didn’t feel like me.
My phone rang and I glanced down, smiling, wondering if my sister’s ears were burning.
“Linny! I’ve been calling you all week. I wanted to see if you can make it back for Archie’s christening.”
“Christening?” I repeated.
Sure, we were raised in a God fearing, church going town, but my parents never really pushed religion on us.
“Why are you saying it like that?” she demanded. “Do you want Archie to be in baby limbo if anything happens to him?”
My stomach lurched at the mere thought. “Don’t say things like that,” I snapped. “Nothing is going to happen to him.”
She tutted. “Of course not. But I’m getting him christened. I’ve already got the gown.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, if you’ve already got the gown, you’re all but trapped.”
The baby made a sound, cried out a little, then settled. But my sister’s ears heard everything, and now she was a new mother, she was likely attuned to such things.
“Is that a baby?” she demanded.
Shit.
“Yeah.” I moved the baby slightly in the crook of my arm. I probably should’ve put him to bed, but I needed the comfort right now. “I’m babysitting.”
“That’s better than stealing a child from the hospital,” she deadpanned.
I muted the TV, rolling my eyes. “Yes, and if the babysitting gig fell through, that’s exactly what I was going to do.”
“Whose baby is it?” she demanded.
I bit my lip. I couldn’t exactly tell her it was the president of the motorcycle club who were—kind of—holding me captive while I wrote my story on them. Oh, and that the president of that motorcycle club was best friends with a man named Jagger, the boy she knew as Liam. “A friend’s,” I said.
“A friend’s?” she repeated. “You have a friend that you know well enough that they trust you with their baby?” There was only a light amount of teasing in her voice and an ample amount of happiness. Hope.
My sister had a lot of friends. She always had. Head cheerleader, prom queen, sorority sister...all that. And now that she was married to a successful banker, she was one of the ladies in the top tier of the social circle. She lunched. Headed charities. She had friends. Some of whom were vapid and superficial, but a lot of whom were kind and genuine. I knew it bothered her that I didn’t have the same thing.
“Or they don’t know me well enough to trust me with their baby,” I joked.
“Seriously, Linny, you have friends there?” she asked, tears leaking into her voice. My sister was also a crier.
I looked around at the photos. Of Macy and Hansen. Of the club, past and present. “Yeah,” I whispered.
I heard delicate sobs over the phone. “Oh, Linny, that makes me so happy.” She paused. “But does that mean you’re settled there? In Arizona? That you’re not coming home?”
My stomach sank at the reality my sister was unknowingly thrusting in my face. Me, who lived in reality, who thrust it in other people’s face, and did it for a living.
Since we’d come back from Castle Springs, since Liam and I had become...whatever, I didn’t think past the next
five minutes. I was living just like an outlaw, not looking too far into the future, not beyond my next orgasm at least, and hoping I’d survive.
But there was an end here.
Though some may stretch on for a long time—wars always ended. For better or for worse. Always for worse.
And this was gearing up for something. I wasn’t stupid enough not to see the change in things, the way the men all seemed tenser every day. Something was coming.
And not only did that fill me with fear knowing that not everyone—including me—would survive it, I was also terrified at what would happen if I did survive it.
After.
Presumably Hansen would let me go.
I’d more than proved my worth.
What happened when I stopped becoming a captive?
The opening of a door interrupted that thought and I tensed automatically, holding the baby tighter to me. Heavy footfalls had me looking toward the gun that Hansen had left me with.
I knew how to use it.
I was from the South.
I was moments away from holding a baby in one hand and a gun in the other when the owner of the footfalls rounded the corner.
Emerald eyes took me in.
“Hello? Linny?” my sister called.
“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I think I need to change a diaper.”
She laughed. “Good luck. Talk soon. Love you.”
I watched Liam approach. “Love you too. Kiss my nephew for me.”
Liam stood in front of me, staring at me with an unreadable look on his face.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
He didn’t answer straight away. And when he did, he didn’t answer at all. “Suits you,” he murmured.
“What? Annoyance?” I snapped.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “No, the baby. You’re a natural.”
I froze. My womb froze too. And unbidden, visions of a different life assaulted me. A life with the baby in my arms being mine.
Liam’s.
I jerked myself out.
No.
That life was gone.
“What are you doing here?” I repeated, unable to even address what he just said.
He folded his arms. “Got back to the clubhouse. You weren’t there. You didn’t tell me where you were at.”