by Malcom, Anne
I frowned at the accusation in the words. “I wasn’t aware that I had to update you on my whereabouts,” I snapped. “I may still be a prisoner, but it was cleared with the warden.”
He ran his hand over his mouth. “You’re not a prisoner, Peaches.”
I raised my brow.
He sighed and sat down beside me, kissing the baby’s head, then mine. The warmth that erupted in my stomach was painful at the simple, tender gesture.
“It scared me,” he admitted, looking at the muted TV. “Not knowing where you were.”
I bit my lip, stopping myself from saying that I didn’t know where he was for fifteen years.
“I missed you,” he continued.
I swallowed roughly.
I missed him too.
But I couldn’t say that.
So instead, I watched the mute news story. A story I might’ve been covering, had I not been here. I knew the reporter. He was an asshole.
Then, unbidden, an old reel of the same warzone was shown, this time with a different reporter.
I froze.
Jagger’s entire form tightened as he watched me on the screen.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, eyes glued to the television, frozen in horror. I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like the newsreel of me was in a particularly shocking situation. It was in the aftermath of a bombing in a small remote town in the mountains of Iraq. Seemingly random. But nothing was random.
So I’d hitched a ride out into territory my security detail refused to go into.
And I got the story.
“Do what?” I asked, laying my lips on the soft head of the baby, inhaling that perfect smell of baby powder and innocence. The scent of a clean slate.
He turned off the television. Stared at me.
I couldn’t hide behind the baby anymore.
So I stared back.
“Why did you live like that?” he asked. It was more of a plea than a question. A plead for some kind lie. Some kind of digestible truth to explain this. Nothing between us was digestible. It was all poison.
I added more poison to the mix. The arsenic known as truth.
“I was so broken over you,” I said, rubbing the baby’s head. “But life goes on, for broken people too. Broken people most of all. In order to carry on, I had to live harder than anyone else.”
He stared at me, eyes shimmering. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t do anything but hold onto the baby and try not to drown in his gaze.
“Peaches,” he murmured.
“You make me wish I didn’t love you.”
“But you do.” It wasn’t structured as a question, but it was. It was a prayer coming from a man who I knew had forsaken a higher power long ago.
I sighed. “But I do.”
“Wishes don’t come true, Peaches. There’s a lot of maybes in this life, but that’s one thing I know for certain. Wish you don’t love me all you like, the fact that you do means everything to me.”
I looked down at the baby then back up at Liam. “It means everything to me too.”
And it was truth. It was both arsenic and sugar.
Chapter Twenty-One
I wouldn’t say we entered into a routine.
Because things were happening at the club that were decidedly not routine.
There was the fact that a DEA agent was being paid to investigate them, and they still needed to run their guns, and then there was the fact that they couldn’t run their guns because they’d killed five of their suppliers.
I wondered if this was the plan after all, to make the Sons of Templar feel cornered, strike out like any other cornered animal might, with only instinct and no brain.
There was no routine with Liam and me really. He watched as I did my stretches in the morning. Sometimes I almost got all the way through them before he snatched me by the waist and took me back to bed. Or before he slipped off my panties while I was in downward dog and, well, slipped right in.
That was a way to make sure I never thought of yoga the same again.
But I’d never think of anything the same again.
Not having coffee. Because every time I drank the bitter and sweet I’d taste Liam’s kiss. I’d smell the lemon disinfectant that was always present and needed in the club kitchen. I’d remember Claw coming in and snatching my bagel before I got a chance to bite it. I’d remember Liam punching Claw for stealing my bagel.
I’d remember Macy coming in and demanding I go shopping for new baby clothes with her and then torturing whatever prospect was assigned to us with hours of baby shopping and girl talk.
I sipped my coffee thinking all that, leaning against the kitchen counter. On cue, Liam looked up from his phone—he was always on it as things got more tense—and took my chin in his hands, kissing me.
The feeling was immediate, intense, and not at all pleasant. My vision blurred, images played in the forefront of my mind, images that overlaid this scene almost perfectly. As if from a memory.
But you couldn’t remember something that hadn’t even happened yet.
But I remembered it.
This had happened.
Somewhere.
Not in my dreams. Because my dreams didn’t conjure up such cruelty.
“What?” Liam demanded, hands steadying me.
I hadn’t even realized I’d swayed slightly until Liam’s grip yanked me from whatever past or future I was lost in.
I blinked at the concern in his eyes. “Déjà vu,” I whispered.
His eyes cleared of concern. Something else lay there.
A memory.
“I have a theory,” I said, drawing lines on Liam’s chest. It was a good chest. Muscular. Tanned. Not too much chest hair.
My fingers trailed through droplets of water, evidence of the fact we’d come straight from our swim to lay on the hot stones of the shore, not bothering to towel off. The sun was hot enough to dissipate most of the moisture in no time.
His eyes glowed as his hands tightened on my bare hips.
Okay, so the sun wasn’t gonna take away all the moisture.
“What’s that, Peaches?” he asked, voice warmer than the sun itself.
“That we have a path. Destiny,” I said. “Something is laid out for us before we’re even born. Or maybe as soon as we’re born. As soon as we breathe air in this world. And because of a nifty little thing called free will, and because of our ignorance to this plan, we naturally veer on and off course. Life. Mistakes. Accidents. Whatever. But sometimes we line up perfectly with our course. We start walking on the road destiny had paved for us. And because it was already there, it feels familiar, like we’ve walked it before. Déjà vu. So, whenever we get that, it means we’re walking the right line, that we’re exactly where we’re meant to be. Following our destiny. And whenever it involves another person, it naturally means they’re following their path too” My fingers stopped. “And I’ve never felt it more when I’m with you.”
Something moved in his eyes, something that took away the teasing of before. But not the warmth. “Well, of course, Peaches,” he murmured. “You’re my destiny. Makes sense that was decided long ago.”
A grip that wasn’t soft like it had been in the past brought me back to the present with a jolt. Those eyes were no longer warm like the sun. They were scorching like the fires of hell itself. “So you’re living your destiny,” he said, voice less than a whisper. “It’s a cruel world indeed if the universe decides to give someone as beautiful as you a destiny this ugly.”
I flinched. “You actually think that of yourself?” I whispered.
“When I began, I was not a perfect soldier, but I like to think I was a good man. But then...it changed. I changed. I became the perfect soldier. And the better I got at being a soldier, the worse I became at being a man. At being a fucking human being.”
Macy’s words echoed in my brain.
“Human beings are capable of some of the most horrific things. So I think it stands to reason that human be
ings are also capable of forgiving some of the most horrific acts.”
“I forgive you,” I whispered, putting my coffee down.
He froze. “For what?”
“For everything,” I said. “I forgive you. For not coming back. For leaving in the first place. I forgive you for surviving the only way you thought you could.” I touched my lips to his, leaned back and ran my finger down the scar on his face. “I forgive you, Liam.”
His eyes shimmered, his entire face changed, moved back eleven years for a moment. “I love you, Peaches.” But then it changed back, turned feral and the gentle words disappeared because his hand tagged the back of my neck and he kissed me fiercely, brutally.
I kissed him back with the same fierceness.
He lifted me onto the counter. The coffee cup smashed to the ground. Neither of us stopped. Liam was too busy yanking at my leggings, lifting me so he could get them down to my ankles. He didn’t even take off my panties, he just yanked them to the side, pulled down his sweats and entered me.
I bit into his shoulder as he fucked me, in the middle of the kitchen. Where anyone could walk in.
I would never be able to think about the kitchen counter in the same way ever again.
* * *
“You fucking bitch, I have a right mind to take my daily worry for you off my schedule,” Emily greeted the second I’d picked up the phone.
I’d been avoiding her calls. Sending texts to let her know I was alive but otherwise completely ghosting her.
She’d wanted updates on the story. And I couldn’t lie to her, or myself anymore. I wasn’t sure if there even was a story anymore. Well, that was a lie, of course there was a story, there was always a story. And this was exactly the story I came for—a national motorcycle club involved in a war with an international criminal. But it was the story I hadn’t come for, the one I wasn’t going to publish, the one I was living.
“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it. Being around these people, getting closer to Macy, it only proved how important relationships, friendships were. Things I’d been pushing away for years.
“Of course you’re fucking sorry,” she snapped. I heard the click of her heels against the floor. I guessed she was pacing in her office instead of running through New York. “But I don’t care, I’ve not finished with my script.”
“Your script?” I repeated, smiling.
“Yes, I was going to say all sorts of things about you being selfish, a bad friend and things, but I can’t be bothered now.”
I laughed.
There was an audible pause. “You’re laughing,” she commented. “What’s happened? Did the bikers give you a lobotomy? Have you gone native?”
I bit my lip. Had I?
She didn’t give me time to answer. “Whatever, you need to tell me how the story is going, and you need to tell me when you’re going to get out of there and fly up here.”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“You not on a deadline?” she asked. “For the story?”
I was not a planner like Emily. But for my stories, I always had deadlines. Obviously I’d had ones other people decided for me while on contract with news companies, but when I was writing more flexible stories, I always had deadlines. To help my schedule but also to make sure I didn’t get too close, too attached to the story.
“Yeah,” I replied, my voice more a sigh more than anything else. “Every moment here gets me closer to the deadline. Or damnation. I’m not sure which will come first.”
“Oh my god,” Emily breathed, not sounds overtly concerned with my melancholy tone. “That’s it. That’s the perfect title for the book. ‘Deadline to Damnation.’”
Nope. Not concerned.
“Emily, I’m not writing a fucking book, that’s final,” I snapped.
“Sure you’re not,” she replied with faux agreement.
I rolled my eyes. Then something in me moved. Something I didn’t have control over. “I can’t write the book. Because this isn’t just any story. This is my story.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Emily demanded. Are you some secret outlaw biker?”
“No, but Liam is,” I whispered.
All I got was the distant street sounds of New York coming from her office window.
Emily’s version of silence.
And I filled my silence.
With my story.
The fourth time I’d told it.
It didn’t get easier.
“So yeah,” I said when I was done. She hadn’t interrupted once, that’s when I knew she was really listening. “That’s where I’m at.”
More street sounds. I expected Emily to recover quickly, say a lot, even just a string of curse words.
But nothing.
“Emily?”
“I’ve got to go,” she said, voice odd. “I’ve got a meeting.”
I flinched back as if I’d been hit. I’d just told my friend some of the most damaging things that had ever happened and she had a meeting?”
“Um, okay I’ll—” But there was nothing. She’d hung up.
I stared at the phone for a long time after that.
* * *
“Caroline?” Blake said sometime later, jerking me out of my stupor. I was meant to be writing. I had other freelance jobs to keep up my income, mostly opinion pieces, columns, some interviews for online blogs.
I had deadlines.
So I was meant to be working on those.
Meant to be doing anything but focusing on the fact that my best friend had all but abandoned me in my time of need. I’d heard nothing from her. Nothing. And it had been almost twelve hours.
“What?” I asked, hoping he really wasn’t going to ask me to help a woman who’d gotten a kitchen utensil stuck up her...you know. It happened. I recommend he call a nurse. The longer I stayed here, the more the men forgot what I was. Especially after the Russian fiasco. I was no longer a rat. I was the resident woman who apparently men came to to get help with things stuck up their latest fuck’s vagina.
“We’ve got kind of a situation at the gate, we’re gonna need you.”
I got up, desperate for the distraction I didn’t even ask what it was.
But when I got there, it became obvious why Emily had been radio silent for twelve hours.
She had been on her way here.
“There!” She pointed at me through the fence. “That’s my friend. Caroline.” She scowled at me. “Can you please tell Mr. Scottish Steroid here that I am not some spy sent to infiltrate the club.” She grinned. “That’s you.”
Fuck.
I looked to Elden. “She’s okay.” He didn’t move, nor did his expression. I knew that he was figuring out whether he should trust me or not. Because the men might’ve forgotten that I was a rat when they needed help with vagina stuff, or opinions on aftershave—Claw—or invitations to torture drug dealers—Swiss—but when it came to the safety of the club hinging on my word, I was still a rat.
I waited, interested to see just how far I’d moved from my position, unsure of what I hoped for. Did I still want to be seen as an outsider? Because then that would make me still a journalist. Still kind of what I was before. Or did I want to be accepted by the club I’d become too comfortable with? Did I want to be recognized as part of the family?
I didn’t have time to decide because Elden opened the gate and Emily descended on me.
Well, she didn’t actually come and hug me and fuss over me like a regular girlfriend might when she had the knowledge that her friend had recently been held captive by a biker club and had her dead fiancé come back to life and then kill someone in front of her.
No, she handed her suitcase to Blake like he was a hotel porter, looked me up and down, I’m assuming hating my outfit and then making sure I didn’t have any limbs missing. She met my eyes.
“We need to get fucking drunk.”
* * *
“Well,” she said after a tequila shot. Her fifth.
Sh
e’d been in the building for as many minutes.
No lemon, no salt. Because she said only ‘pussies’ did that. She was also allowed to be a feminist and call people pussies because she was claiming the word back from the men that thought they owned it. No way they owned it, they didn’t even know their way around it.
Her words, not mine.
And despite ‘technically’—also her word—being a lesbian, she’d done enough research to be able to have that opinion. Mostly because Emily liked all the information to go to battle on any subject. And because Emily liked sex.
And she exuded it.
She was all curves, all hair, all attitude. And she dressed impeccably, always elegant and tasteful with a dash of slutty and tacky—her words again.
Today, to travel five hours across the country and to a biker compound, she was wearing high waisted white pants, tailored to perfection, a silk white blouse with a plunging neckline that showed her ample bosom, fine gold necklaces going down her chest. Her strawberry blonde hair was curled into loose waves down her back.
And she had on six-inch heels.
In other words, the opposite to me.
It was safe to say she made an impression walking in.
I was pretty sure every single jaw dropped when she sauntered in, ordering everyone around. To my immense surprise, Blake had acted exactly like a hotel porter, dutifully taking her designer luggage into the clubhouse for her.
“You.” She pointed at Claw, who was halfway through undressing her with his eyes. “Stop staring at my tits and get me and Caroline tequila.”
“You.” She pointed at Swiss who was sitting at the bar, drinking and likely thinking about depraved things he could to do his next victim. Or sexual partner. “We need those stools, and no dicks within earshot.”
Again, I held my breath at the reaction these men would have to a woman they didn’t know, wearing six-inch heels and class from head to toe ordering them around like servants and not treating them like sex gods like the club girls did.
But I should’ve known better.
They reacted exactly how she wanted them to.