be busting your asses trying to make up for the years of pain and suffering Emily endured, not the other way around.”
My rant ends when one of Sarge’s hands flies in my direction. Gripping the collar of my Tee in his tattooed fist, he growls,
“Tell me you are fucking joking.”
Shaking him off, I cross my arms over my chest and stare him down. His eyes are wide with equal parts horror and disbelief. His breath is coming in harsh pants.
“Not even a little bit,” I snap back once I’m sure he’s got his shit locked down tight enough to hear me out.
“I take it from your reaction, you didn’t know all that?” I deduce. I don’t need Sarge to confirm that shit for me. One look at his crushed expression tells me I’m right. “Well, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, old man, but it’s true. Every depressing detail.”
“I had no clue. No fucking clue,” he rasps, his throat clogged with unshed tears.
Offering Sarge what I’d set out to give him from the second I took his call, I pull a piece of paper out of my back pocket and hand it to him.
“Twelve miles south of Furnace. Waters’ Edge Motel. Room two-oh-three. Don’t make me regret giving you that.”
Catching my eyes, his flash with gratitude before he stalks off toward his bike without so much as a fucking thank you.
“Good luck,” I mutter under my breath. “You’re going to need it.”
My feet have me at my truck, swinging into the driver’s seat before the dust kicked up by Sarge’s bike can even settle. Turing the engine over, I wait for the Bluetooth to connect and hit one on my speed dial list.
Her phone rings out, going to voicemail, only further pissing me off as I leave my tenth message of the day.
“You better call me as soon as you get this, Tatum, or so help you, God, you won’t sit for a week after I’m done with your perfect ass.”
Hanging up, I release a low groan the memory of my hand on Tatum’s ass has my cock hardening instantly. Shit! Just what I need right now. A raging boner with no relief in sight. Fuck my life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
~ Emily ~
For whom the bell tolls, not just a Metallica song
Peering through the drapes, my heart beats a staccato rhythm in my chest. My palms sweat, and I find myself nervously rubbing them up and down my thighs. Oh, God, he found me. A cold shiver runs down my spine at the altercation I just know is coming. Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since I last saw my husband and he looks livid.
Sitting on his bike in the motel’s parking lot, the muscle in his cheek twitches and his jaw clenches as he stares directly at my room. He is turned away from me, only his profile in view, but it’s plain to see the anger rolling off him in thick, menacing waves. My breathing escalates when he removes the aviator sunglasses from his eyes; eyes I know are capable of such kindness, but now are clouded with irritation.
The sight of Atlas dismounting his bike and making short work of closing the distance separating us is all the motivation I need to snap the drapes closed and run to the door, ensuring the chain is secured.
A heavy fist connects with the flimsy wood seconds later. His voice cuts through the silence like a knife.
“Open the door, Emmy. I know you’re in there.”
I want to tell him to leave – to go home – that I will come back when I’m good and ready. He won’t, though. Atlas is bound and determined to hash whatever is on his mind out. Whether it’s simply that his patience has finally run out, or worse, he’s decided he’s done with me for good, I’m not sure. What I do know, is that when Atlas’s mood has deteriorated to its current state, there is no arguing with him.
Another series of knocks, these louder than the last.
“Emily, open the goddamn door. I won’t ask you again, baby. You won’t like the consequences if you don’t, that I can promise you, sweetheart.”
That’s the problem. I don’t think I’m going to like the consequences if I do, either.
Of its own volition, my hand moves to the chain, sliding it from its track before I unlock the door and pull it open a crack. Atlas advances quickly, sticking his boot between the door and frame.
“Move back, Em. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Wordlessly, I take a step backward and let go of my iron grip on the door handle. Atlas doesn’t hesitate in shouldering himself into the room, kicking the door shut behind him with so much force that the yard sale painting on the opposite wall sways precariously.
Backing me up against the bed in the center of the room, Atlas’s piercing eyes narrow on me as she takes in my appearance. I know; I look like crap. But that’s what happens when you get less than a couple of hours sleep a night, can’t eat, and barely have the energy to shower, let alone anything else. The dark bags under my eyes have long since turned purple, and my hair lays limp down my back. The ratty sweats – a pair of Atlas’s, in fact – even though they’re folded over at the waist, twice, to keep them up hang off my hips. I’ve lost, at least, ten pounds in the last two weeks, not one I had to spare.
Atlas’s hand comes up as if he’s itching to reach out and touch me, but just as soon as it does, he drops it back to his side. His jaw ticks in frustration and the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen as he runs his gaze up and down the length of my body.
“You look like hell, baby,” he mutters insensitively.
“Thanks,” I snap back waspishly.
His pupils dilate dangerously as he commands,
“Sit down, Em. You and I have a lot of shit to talk about, and by the looks of it, you don’t have the energy to stay standing for long.”
He’s not wrong. I am so tired. No, it bypassed tired days ago; I’m exhausted.
Doing as he says, I drop my ass to the mattress and let out a heavy sigh.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, not lifting my head from my study of my hands fidgeting restlessly in my lap.
“What do you think I’m doing here, Emmy? You’re my wife.” He states plainly as if that explains anything.
When I don’t respond, instead just continue to wring my hands together and bounce my knee up and down, Atlas drops to a crouch at my feet and tips my chin up with his index finger so that I’m forced to face my fears.
“I’ve got one word for you, Emmy. Time. We’ve lost so much of it. Some of it stolen. Some of it because we were too stubborn to just sit down and fucking talk to each other. I refuse to lose anymore, sweetheart. We’re not getting any younger, so you and I are going to deal with our shit once and for all and move on.”
My mouth drops open in shock, before snapping shut with an audible clack. It’s then that Atlas’s lips tip up at the corners, softening the hard set of his otherwise stoic face. We sit like that for long moments, Atlas’s large palms resting on my knees, my eyes nervously flitting between his ear and shoulder.
“I’m going to try and make this as quick and painless as I can, Emmy. You and I have both had enough of the latter, and don’t have enough of the former to fuck around.” I nod carefully, still not brave enough to look at him.
I can feel his body shift, the deep rise and fall of his chest soothing my rapidly beating heart. My panic grows. My anxiety over what happens next reaches its tipping
point. Tears spill out of my eyes, drip down my cheeks and drop in wet splats on the front of my shirt. That’s when Atlas has had enough. He stands, scooping me into his arms, and settles us on the bed with his back to the headboard, me on his lap.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You know I can handle it when you cry, Em. That shit breaks my goddamn heart.”
Sobbing uncontrollably now, I attempt to tell him I’m okay. That this is just a release of all of the pent up worry and guilt I’ve held onto for almost as long as we’ve known each other. It’s useless, though. My tears are coming hard and fast, my breath hiccupping in my throat with every inward gasp. Years of pain, desperation, loss, and loneliness manifested in grief comes pouring out.
Hands stroke my back and push the hair that’s fallen in my face behind my ears. Atlas’s deep voice washes over me in an attempt to calm me down. Yet nothing works. Nothing can fix what is broken inside me. My faith that I’m undeserving of his love, his compassion, his sympathy is complete. Every memory of us, my son, Gemma, the heartache I felt each and every day I went about my life, knowing I had given up or lost everything I loved hits me with the force of an anvil.
“Emmy,” Atlas shakes me gently. “You’ve got to stop, baby. You’re gonna make yourself sick if you don’t,” he pleads, continuing to run his hands up and down the length of my spine.
Talking over my now quieter whimpers, Atlas tells me,
“Had a conversation with Lucifer today. He shared a lot. A lot I didn’t know. A lot you never told me. Jesus, Emmy, if I’d known what those motherfuckers put you through, what they threatened, how they hurt you, I would have killed them. You wouldn’t have had to worry about anything if you’d only told me.”
Of that I’m certain, but that doesn’t change the fact that if I had, Atlas could have been hurt, or worse.
“I’m not going to bother asking how you managed to keep everything that went down back then from Diesel; it makes no difference now. Also not going to bother telling you how wrong you got the situation between Gwen and me the day you saw us at the clubhouse together. We both made mistakes, not just you, Em. But you’ve got to let them go because they’re eating you alive.”
“I-I don’t know how,” I sniffle into the hard wall of his chest.
At sixty-seven, Atlas has aged, yes, but with the way he looks after himself, he could easily pass for a much younger man. Most people who meet him would guess he is in his early fifties, or late forties if they’re feeling generous. His body is still strong and toned, with little to no body fat anywhere to be seen. The colorful ink decorating his arms covers him shoulder to the first knuckle on both hands. His back is entirely taken up by the large Vengeance back patch a lot of the brothers have there, and the skin on his chest is obscured by swirls and curlicues; tribal designs that creep
over his collarbone and onto his neck.
My ink stands out starkly amongst the thick black lines and intricate patterns. A lone splash of color in an otherwise bleak landscape. A pink and white marigold, the flower for the month of October, about the same size as my hand, covers the left side of Atlas’s chest right above his heart. Emmy is weaved through the petals in delicate script, yet bold enough that there is no mistaking who this beautiful man belongs to.
Atlas had the tattoo done just days before I left Furnace the first time. The ink was still fresh, still healing, my mark branded into his skin for all eternity when I ran from him. It was a brutal reminder for him to carry. Day after day, Atlas had to look in the mirror and see my name, my flower, and the love we had for each other. And day after day, he would have to come to grips with the fact that he may never see me again – something he shared mere days after we got back together.
Atlas presses a soft kiss to my temple, murmuring,
“Then let me help you, baby. Let me help you, help us, move past your pain.”
“What if I can’t? What if this is as good as it gets for me?” I ask, giving voice to my greatest fear.
“You can, and you will,” he says sternly. “Do you love me, Emmy? Do you still want to be married to me?”
A startled gasp leaves my lips at his question.
“Yes. Oh, God, yes,” I rush out. “I’ve always loved
you, Atlas. Even when it was too hard, when I should have stopped because it was killing me, I loved you.”
“Then fight for us, Emmy.” Atlas waits a beat, resting his cheek on the top of my head, before going on to tell me, “Lucifer told me about what happened before and after Gemma was born. He told me you didn’t see her, that whoever was with you stopped you from meeting her. Is that true, baby?”
“Oh,” I exhale, shifting on his lap. “Yes, it’s true. My dad didn’t think it was a good idea for me to see her. He knew that if I held her, I wouldn’t want to let her go. And I wouldn’t have, Atlas. I loved her so much, even though I never met her. She was mine, yours, ours; she was a piece of us. The very best piece. I couldn’t not love her.”
“I get you thought you had to give her up, but you have to know I would have protected you both. I would have given my life to make sure the two of you were safe.”
“That’s exactly why I did it,” I interrupt. “You’re right, I did know, and the last thing I wanted was to lose you. Letting Gemma go, meant that you were safe, that she was safe. If I had kept her, I would have spent the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, worrying about every knock on the door, every time the phone rang and terrified that when you walked out the door in the morning that you wouldn’t come back. It was a double-edged sword, Atlas. Either I took the risk and kept Gemma, knowing that Scott’s parents were out there, that they wanted revenge for his death, or I
gave her up, guaranteeing her safety. Then there was you. They threatened to kill you, to take you from me permanently, and I couldn’t live with that. I couldn’t live in a world you weren’t in any longer. That would have been a fate worse than death.”
“Baby...”
“No, please let me finish. You deserve to know the truth, even if it is too little too late,” I beseech, gripping one of his hands in mine.
I had to make Atlas see everything that happened back then for what it was; pure hell. My decisions were all about choosing the lesser of two evils.
“A friend of my dad’s and his wife let me stay with them from the time I was five and a half months pregnant until I was ready to go home. I was just starting to show when I moved in with them, so for obvious reasons I couldn’t be around Diesel without having him ask questions I couldn’t give him answers to. Catherine, dad’s friend, Grayson’s wife, knew of a couple that had been on adoption agency waiting lists for years. They already had a son, but they desperately wanted another child to complete their family. Catherine assured me they were good people, kind, loving, financially stable. I thought about it, I really did, but I just couldn’t get my head around the fact that I would be giving up part of us. It wasn’t until two days before Jim attacked me that Chase came in…”
“Chase? As in, Lucifer’s partners best friend?” Atlas interjects.
“Yes. Chase is Catherine and Grayson’s son,” I nod. “Anyway, Chase came into my room, dropped a whole bunch of pamphlets on my lap and told me to stop fucking around and make a choice. The fact that he didn’t mollycoddle me, that his eyes weren’t filled with pity like so many others were, helped. After he walked out, I got into the bath and sat in there for hours crying and feeling sorry for myself. I think even before I got in, I knew what I was going to do. Bear in mind, I had been getting threats in the form of letters delivered almost weekly at that point. Jim and June’s promises of retribution were anything but veiled. They were detailed, explicit even.”
“Emmy, sweetheart,” Atlas growl from deep in his chest. “We don’t have to relive that shit. They’re long gone, and I’d like to leave it that way.”
Squeezing his hand in agreement, I go on.
“When I was taken to the hospital after the attack, I was out of it. As in, no recollection of the time between hearing my dad shouting and I woke up after surgery. My baby was gone, they had delivered her by emergency cesarean, and no one would let me see her. I pleaded and fought with dad for hours to just let me see her, but he refused to change his mind. If it weren’t for Chase, who I begged to take a photo of her, I would never have known how much she looked like you. It was a long road to recovery, and I won’t say that I ever came to terms with my decision, but I found a way to cope with it. Diesel helped. So did the seclusion. I lived with dad for a while, worked part-time for one of the MC’s business, and then, when I was ready, dad and the boys built me a little house at the back of dad’s property. I wasn’t
happy, but I was content
. When Diesel left to come back to
Furnace, I missed him fiercely. I lived for the times he would come and visit me, which wasn’t often enough if you ask me,” I say, finally cracking a small, watery smile.
“Nothing shy of that boy moving back in with you would have been enough for you, Emmy. You loved him fiercely, and he loved you back just as hard.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “All I had of Gemma was one photo. A photo Chase gave to me the day I signed the adoption paperwork. I still have it. I’d like to give it to her one day when she’s ready to see how much I love her.”
“Emmy,” he groans with a hint of warning.
“I know, Atlas. I know it won’t be soon. It might not be ever. But I can hope, right?”
“Sure, baby. You can hope.”
Sarge: Book 8 in the Vengeance MC series Page 27