Rebel’s Property_A Motorcycle Club Romance_Satan’s Martyrs MC
Page 8
Patrick puffs up his cheeks and then brings his hands to his face and rubs his eyes. “Ah,” he sighs. “Sitting around here . . . you don’t know what it’s like, do you? You’ve never been inside. It’s torture. Sitting there, bored out of your skull, surrounded by idiot criminals. Not outlaws, but just criminals. Morons who robbed drugstores in the middle of the day. And all of them bragging, going on and on and on about all the cool shit they did. Pathetic. I just need one job, something small. Don’t we need to intimidate anybody. I can do that—”
“Not now, not on your own.”
“Before I went to prison, you never would have said no to me about something like this.”
He looks up at me and for a second it’s like I’m ten again and Dad has just died, and he’s looking down at me instead of up, telling me: “I’ll take care of you, little brother. I’ll always take care of you. Nobody will ever hurt you when I’m around. I’d go to prison for you.” And he stuck by his word.
But I can’t let my love for him cloud my judgment. I can’t let it jeopardize the entire club.
I try and think what I would do if Patrick was just any other member and he came to me like this, demanding something from the boss. And then Hope comes into my mind, burning bright like she was in the dream, burning bright like she does every time I think of her. I want to let her know she’s on my mind, and Patrick wants something to do. Yes, that’s how I’d deal with it. Let him know who the hell is in charge.
“Fine,” I say, leaning forward on my elbows and narrowing my eyes at him, “you want something to do? I’ve got a job for you.”
“What is it?” Patrick asks, his voice eager. “What is it, brother?”
I almost feel bad for what I’m about to do. But then I think of Hope’s smiling face, and I don’t feel bad at all.
“Last night, I took a ride with Hope. She works at the Gourmet on Main Street.”
“The one you gave the envelope to. Yeah, I know her.”
“Good.” I nod. “I want you to go to the flower shop in town and get her a huge bunch of flowers. A really big bunch. Something nice. Don’t choose them yourself. Ask the florist what a good bunch is and follow his advice. After that, go and get her a fancy set of carving knives. She wants to be a chef, so make sure they’re expensive.” I open the desk drawer, take out around $1,500, and place it in the center of the desk. “This should be enough. Keep the change as your pay.”
Patrick laughs, a laugh of complete disbelief. “You’re joking,” he says, staring down at the money. “This is a joke, right, Killian? You’re not really going to send me to buy some random girl flowers.”
“I’m not joking. This is an order. Maybe you’ve forgotten how to take orders. Now it’s time to learn.”
“This is crazy,” Patrick mutters, shaking his head. “This is really crazy. I don’t want to be an errand boy. Send one of the new kids. I’m a patched member. I don’t need this shit.”
“You’ll do it,” I say simply.
“This isn’t what I had in mind!” he hisses.
“It doesn’t matter. This is what I am telling you to do.”
Patrick shakes his head. “You in love with this girl or something? Never known you to buy flowers before.”
I clench my teeth. “Asking questions isn’t part of your job, big brother. Buy the flowers, buy the knives, and then take them to the restaurant and give them to her. Simple.”
Patrick scowls across the desk at me. Sometimes when I look at him, I feel like I’m looking into one of those distorting mirrors they had at the amusement park. When I scowl, I don’t look so different to how Patrick does now.
“Flowers and knives.” Patrick continues to stare down at the money. He’s looking at it like it’s a brown paper bag full of dog shit he’s just found on his doorstep. “Haven’t you got something else?”
“This is your job, brother,” I say. “Are you refusing to do it?”
He lets out a long groan and throws his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “Jesus Christ,” he says under his breath. “I had more excitement in the cage.” He lowers his head, gazing at me. “I’m not saying no. You’re the boss, after all.”
He scoops the money off the desk and drops it into his jacket pocket.
“I gave years of my life for you, brother,” Patrick says quietly.
“I know,” I reply, my voice as hushed as Patrick’s. “In a different life, brother, I’d let you do any damn thing you wanted. But this is our life and I have to take care of the club.”
“I understand,” Patrick says. “I’m not happy about it, but I understand. I’ll do your errand.”
“Good.”
I turn back to my paperwork, but Patrick doesn’t move.
“What is it?” I ask.
“There’s something else you need to know about.”
“What?”
“I saw Lindsey at the restaurant last night.”
Before Patrick has even finished the sentence, I’m gripping the edge of the desk so hard my fingers turn blood-red.
“This is a joke,” I say, with more than a little hope in my voice.
“Afraid not,” Patrick says. “It was after you left. I thought you’d be back sooner than you were, but you didn’t come back. I was going to tell you then. Anyway, she came in about ten minutes after you left. She was looking bad, brother, I have to say. When you dated her she was pretty fine, but now she looks . . . She looks like somebody on the brink. That’s probably the best way to put it. She was all messy, all crazy-eyed. She had that look I recognize from prison, right before somebody goes crazy and starts shanking someone for no reason.”
“I thought she was still in the mental hospital,” I mutter, more to myself than to Patrick. How is she out?
“Not anymore,” Patrick says. “She didn’t say anything. Just came in, looked around, and then left. She didn’t even say hello. I think she was looking for you.”
“This is the last thing I need.” I let go of the table and try to calm myself. But my heart is like a bike engine in my chest, rumbling, growling. My throat feels tight. My knuckles tingle like they want to hit something. “This is the last goddamn thing I need right now.”
Patrick shrugs. “I know, but it doesn’t change the fact she was there.”
“Who else saw her?”
“You calling me a liar?” Patrick snaps.
“Who else saw her?” I repeat.
Patrick sighs. “Gunny and Craig. Maybe others, but I know they did for sure.”
“Get them.”
“I’m telling the—”
“Get them,” I snap. “Get them and then get on with your job.”
Patrick tilts his head at me like maybe he’s going to argue, but I must have that crazy look about me, because he backs down straightaway. He marches from the office. About a minute later, Gunny shuffles into the room. He has a sheepish look on his face.
“Is it true?” I say, as soon as he’s in the office. “Tell me he’s lying.”
“It’s true, boss,” Gunny says, eyes downcast. “She was there.”
“Goddamn it!” I roar, smashing the desk with my fists.
Gunny flinches and takes a step back.
“You can go,” I say.
He nods and runs from the office, eyes filled with fear of me.
When I’m alone, I close my eyes and slowly count back from ten, trying to make myself calm. Lindsey, a failed girlfriend experiment if ever there was one. Lindsey, who is completely insane.
Lindsey, who I thought was gone from my life forever.
I broke up with Lindsey the morning after she burned down our house. We were sort of living together. I owned the house and she was crashing with me because she had nowhere else to go. The argument was the sort of crap I can’t stand. She was crying at me because I didn’t want to go out to a restaurant. I had just got back from a tough job and I was tired, that bone-tiredness you get after fighting and riding.
I remember laying on my b
ack in bed, watching as she paced up and down at the foot of the bed, her arms waving wildly. “You never take me anywhere!” she was hissing. “You never take me anywhere! What am I to you? Nothing! Nothing! I’m just some whore to you, aren’t I? I’m just something to put your fucking worm in!”
“I don’t want to put my worm in you tonight,” I yawned. “I just want sleep.”
“Sleep! Sleep!” She turned to the door as though a crowd of people sat there, watching her. She addressed this fake crowd with indignation. “He just wants sleep! I’m here on my own all day and he just wants sleep! What a good man! What a good boyfriend!”
I ignored her, tuned out her voice. I need to leave this woman, I thought, just before sleep took me.
When I woke up, I was coughing. Smoke filled the bedroom and sifted down my lungs. My eyes stung and my head was light from it. I rolled out of bed and sprinted at the door, smashed it open, and was met with a wall of flames, flickering red demons which spat at me from the top of the stairs.
Cursing, I ran back into the bedroom, went to the window, and smashed the glass with my fist. Then I threw myself out of it to the garden below. I landed in a roll on the floor and then sprinted away from the house. When I turned back, it was like a monster was eating the building. The flames ate at it from the center, pulling down the supports until it crashed in upon itself.
Then Lindsey sprang up next to me. “Now we have to go out!” she cackled triumphantly.
I broke it off with her.
A week later, I heard that she had tried to kill herself by swallowing a load of pills. She was found in a motel room by the maid and taken to hospital. I sent one of the men down there to scout. The doctors came to the conclusion that she was crazy and sent her to a nuthouse.
I thought she was still there.
But she’s back in the Cove. The crazy bitch is back in the Cove!
I know this can only mean trouble. The only solace I have is that she hasn’t contacted me yet. She knows where the club is. If she really wanted me, she’d come here.
But that doesn’t make the thought of that house-burning, suicidal, nothing-to-lose woman roaming Rocky Cove much easier to bear.
Chapter Nine
Hope
At around two o’clock, Dawn comes into the restaurant. The place is quiet now, and will most likely be quiet until around five o’clock, when the dinner rush starts. Lucca is in the back when Dawn enters, which I’m thankful for. The last thing this day needs is an Dawn-Lucca matchup. She wears a long flowing dress and looks absolutely gorgeous with her cute freckled face and pensive expression.
I meet her near the door and we sit at a window table.
“I brought you your phone,” she says, sliding it across the table. “I needed to get out. Take a walk. So I thought, I’ll take her her phone. You know?”
Her speech is the slow, drawn-out speech of a person recovering from a drug they’ve been dependent on for far too long.
“Thanks, sis,” I say. “How’re you feeling? You look great.”
“Oh, I’m okay,” she mutters. Her eyes study the table, the folded napkins and the glasses like they’re of extreme interest. I’ve seen that expression too many times. I know what it means. She’s thinking about drugs. But at least she’s not on drugs, I think. That’s something, isn’t it?
“I’m going to walk out to Sapphire Lake,” she says.
“That’s a long walk. Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“I just need to walk. I’ll be careful. That’s part of the reason I brought you your cell. So I can call you if I need help.”
“Okay, good. That’s really good of you, Dawn. Really responsible.”
She smiles wanly, nods, and then rises to her feet. “Just need to walk,” she says. “If I walk, I don’t have to think. And then when I get home I’ll be too tired to, you know . . .”
“Exactly,” I say. “Exactly, Dawn. That’s a good attitude to have.”
I can’t hide the pride in my voice. This is as hard as she has ever tried to make a real effort to kick it.
I stand up, walk around the table, and hug her. I’m always shocked by how skinny she feels in my arms.
Then she’s gone, leaving the restaurant and floating down Main Street in her flowing dress.
I check my phone for texts or calls. There’s one text from a number I don’t know know. But I don’t need to know it to know who it is. When I am seeing you again?
I text back: Tomorrow night?
I’m wiping down a table when my cell buzzes. I take it out and read: I’ll pick you up after work.
I go back to rubbing down the table, wide, cheesy grin on my face. My mind fills with memories from last night. His hands, his intensity, his commanding voice, his cock . . . I have to stop. Getting horny in the middle of my shift isn’t exactly a good thing. But I can’t stop smiling.
Dawn on the mend, seeing Killian again.
Life is looking up.
An hour after Dawn visits, a man who I at first mistake for Killian walks in. He wears the same leathers, the same blue jeans, the same type of boots. His hair is the same blonde and he’s muscular. Then I look closer and see that he isn’t as tall. It’s Patrick. I realize that my first assessment of him was unfair. He’s not fat, just big, and he’s not short, just not as tall as his younger brother. His hair has been washed and it’s more like Killian’s. His face has a few more lines. He could be an older version of Killian.
He holds a bouquet of red roses in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. The restaurant is at a lull now. Alex stands behind the bar, twiddling his thumbs, and I’m the only waitress on the floor until Allie gets here later tonight. I watch as Patrick walks across the restaurant. I’m wondering who the flowers are for. Lily, maybe? I should tell him that she’s no longer here.
I hear a door creak open behind me, turn, and see Lucca standing there, glaring at the biker. Here’s your chance, tough guy, I think. A Numb in the flesh. But Lucca just stands in the doorway, shooting a beady-eyed glare at Patrick.
Then Patrick is standing in front of me.
“Hope, right?” he says.
“Yes, and you’re Patrick, right?”
He nods. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too. That’s a big bunch of flowers you’ve got there. You seeing one of the waitresses?”
He laughs. “The way I was last night, don’t think any waitress here would give me the time of day. No, these are for you.” He holds out the bouquet of red roses. “From Killian,” he adds quickly. “He wanted you to have them. He’s busy with club stuff, so he couldn’t come himself.”
I hold the flowers close to my chest, bury my nose in the petals, and breathe the scent of them in. Behind me, Lucca clears his throat. I ignore him. “These are lovely,” I say. He sent me flowers! Killian fox sent me flowers! It seems crazy that a man like Killian would send flowers. I never took him for that sort. “I’m seeing him tomorrow. I’ll thank him then.”
“That’s not all he wanted you to have.”
Patrick walks to the nearest table and sits down. I follow him, sit opposite. Lucca has moved from the doorway to the bar now, one fat hand wrapped around a beer spout, glaring across the restaurant at me and Patrick. But that’s all he does. Glare.
Patrick takes a white cardboard box from the plastic bag and places it on the table.
“He wanted you to have these, too.”
“Okay . . .” I take the box and fiddle with the seams until it comes loose and I can open it.
When I see the bubble wrap, and what’s inside the bubble wrap, my breath catches. I swear, my eyes start to water. I’m not a soft person—I could never afford to be—but this has moved me. Wrapped inside the bubble wrap is a set of knives: pairing and steak and fillet and butcher and round-end slicers and bread and utility; and half a dozen more on top of that.
“This is a complete set,” I say, unable to hide the shock from my voice. “You could start up a proper
kitchen with these!”
“I can tell Killian you like them, then?” Patrick asks, smiling. He has Killian’s wolfish eyes, even if they are surrounded by more age lines than Killian’s.
“Yes, of course. I love them.”
“Good.”
He makes to stand up, and then pauses. “Hope, how old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” I say uncertainly. “Why?”
“Oh, I thought you were younger. You look much younger.”
Is he hitting on me?