“Aislinn got accepted to UCLA,” mom whispers. “It won’t be long until she’s finally out of that horrible woman’s home, Dexter. A month, maybe six weeks and then she’ll be gone too. Please, for me, just stay away until then.”
Gritting my teeth, I grumble,
“If I only get to see her for six more weeks, I’m not staying away, Mom.”
“This is so hard, Dexter, and I didn’t want to say anything, but you’re not giving me much choice,” she says, shaking her head dejectedly. Pointing toward Aislinn’s trailer, Mom grimaces. “Something happened to Aislinn about a year ago. I don’t know what and she won’t tell me, even though I’ve asked more times than I can count, but whatever it was, it was bad. Really bad, Dexter. She changed after that, got worse if you can believe it. She stopped smiling altogether, started staying out later and later, and when Aislinn talks to me on the rare occasion she does, her tone is flat as if there’s no life left in her.”
“What the fuck do you mean, something happened to her?” I grind out.
Anger doesn’t begin to cover how I feel at the knowledge Aislinn might have been hurt. Pure, unadulterated rage, however, is.
“I don’t know, Dexter. Honestly, I don’t,” Mom says, pleading me with her eyes to calm down. “One day Aislinn was herself, sad and missing you but herself, and the next she was withdrawn, pale, and looked terrified all the time. I assumed because of how drastic the change in her was that something horrible must have happened. A girl like her doesn’t go from sweet, kind, and talking to everyone to the way she is now for no reason.”
I go to ask more questions, but before I can, my dad walks through the door, apparently, having heard our conversation.
“Your mother’s right, son. The night she’s talking about I overheard some yelling and what sounded like glass breaking. Not unusual considering Nancy hasn’t changed over the years, so I didn’t think anything of it until I heard Aislinn shouting too.”
My fists clench at the thought of Aislinn and Nancy getting into it. Nancy wouldn’t rein in her temper just because it was her daughter she was fighting with. If anything, Aislinn standing up to her would have made whatever punishment Nancy handed out worse.
“I went over and checked on, Aislinn like I promised, son,” Dad reassures me. “She didn’t come outside, but I saw her through the door, and she looked okay. Told me she was too. I kept an eye on her for a week when I was here, and I couldn’t see any bruises or marks on her, so I talked to your mother, and we both decided it was best to keep what we knew to ourselves for now.”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I growl,
“That wasn’t your fucking choice to make. You should have told me. Fuck,” I hiss, “you should have called me that night. I would have got on my bike and been here in less than an hour.”
“Exactly,” he states, crossing his arms over his chest. “What would you have done? Gone over there, barged in, grabbed Aislinn and taken her with you?” Dad asks, arching an eyebrow at me. “She was behaving differently afterward, sure, but she wasn’t hurt, son. You going over there would have defeated the purpose of you leaving in the first place. Forget the fact that you’re hooked up with that biker club, what would you have done with a seventeen-year-old girl who's still in school, a shitty job, and an even shittier apartment?”
“I would have figured something out,” I mutter angrily. And I would have. If it meant getting Aislinn out of her mother’s house, I would have done anything I had to.
Dad moves closer to me, clapping a large hand on my shoulder, saying,
“You would have tried, son, but you would have failed. You’re young, that club you’re in takes a lot of your time, and your job pays jack shit, that’s no way for a kid like Aislinn to live. If I believed for one second she was hurt, I would have told you,” he repeats. “But seeing as Aislinn told me herself she was fine, I left well enough alone, and that’s what you need to do now. Let her ride out these last few weeks and move away to college. Hopefully, after some time and distance from her mother, that’ll help Aislinn go back to her old self.”
Closing my eyes tightly, I consider everything he’s said. It will kill me to stay away from her, maybe even literally, but if me being around is hurting her I don’t really have a choice.
“Yeah, okay,” I finally agree, but not before adding, “But if you see, hear, or even think she’s being harmed in any way, you call me immediately.”
“Of course we will,” my mom says while my dad merely nods his head.
That’s how I ended up losing all contact with my world. Everything I did and everything that happened to me after that was all because I felt as if I had nothing left to live for.
It’s a strange feeling to be able to walk around still breathing, eating, drinking, and fucking but not feel like you’re living. I turned my emotions off the day I walked away from Aislinn, and it wouldn’t be until five years later that I’d feel anything other than emptiness.
CHAPTER FOUR
~ Aislinn ~
“My man says I treat him like a child, so I gave him a pat on the head and a gold star for sticking up for himself.”
– Aislinn to Meg
Five years later…
“Oh my God, no, Linny. No, no, no, what have you done?” My best friend Meg chants.
Her reaction doesn’t come as a surprise, I knew Meg was going to react like this to what I had to tell her, and I don’t blame her.
Meg has been my best friend – my only friend really – since I started my freshman year at UCLA. We both arrived early, neither of us wanting to spend the summer at home with our families and found out when we went to get our dorm assignments that we had been paired together as roommates.
For four years, Meg and I roomed together on campus, and when it was time to graduate we decided why mess with something that isn’t broken and kept it that way. Eventually, we found a small two-bedroom apartment in West Hollywood that we could barely afford on our meager salaries, and both started searching for full-time employment.
Meg graduated with a degree in Architecture while I completed my Bachelor of Fine Arts in photography. It was hard work, finding enough time to study and making it to my classes on time after working the graveyard shift at a twenty-four-hour boutique coffee house. But I did it with a good deal of help from Meg and sheer determination.
School had never been easy for me. In fact, it was damn near a miracle that I graduated high school at all. After Dex had left, my grades plummeted. It took every hour I spent in the library, study hall and getting extra tutoring from a few of my teachers to reclaim the three point five grade point I had at the start of the year.
No one knows this, not even Dex, but I was diagnosed with dyslexia in the third grade. Until then, reading hadn’t been an issue for me because my mom couldn’t afford to buy books anyway. However, when the material we were given in class started becoming progressively more difficult, the memory tricks I used to get by just weren’t cutting it anymore.
Mrs. Glades, my third-grade teacher asked me to stay back during lunch one day, and I can remember being terrified I had done something wrong because that would mean she would have to call my mom.
“You’re not in trouble, sweetheart. I promise,” Mrs. Glades said sweetly. “I just wanted to talk to you alone for a moment.”
“Um, okay,” I whispered. I mean, what else could I say?
“Let’s take a seat shall we?” She sais guiding me to two desks at the front of the classroom.
Once we were both seated, Mrs. Glades pulled out a stack of papers and placed them in front of her.
“Do you know what these are?” At my nod, she continues, “Your ideas are excellent, Aislinn. There is so much detail in the stories you write, and the pictures you’ve drawn to go with them are magnificent.”
At this point, I was confused as to why she had kept me back. Worried too. Dex would be waiting for me at the cafeteria to have lunch together. If I wasn’t there, he would have lots of
questions for me that I don’t want to answer. Not because Dex will make fun of me, he won’t. I just don’t want him to feel sorry for me.
Startling me, Mrs. Glades asks,
“I’m going to ask you a question now, Aislinn, and I want you to be honest with me. You won’t get in trouble, and your answer doesn’t mean that you’ll be treated any differently, I just need to know so that I can help you if needs be.”
Wringing my hands together, I mumble,
“Yes, Miss.”
“Okay, sweetheart,” she smiles. “Are you having any problems reading the work I gave you last week?” I nod. “Do you sometimes mix up words when you’re reading or writing them?” I nod again. “What about numbers? Is it the same with them?”
Nodding again, I frown when I realize my problem is a little bigger than I thought.
“It’s alright, sweetheart. Now that I know, I can put some things in place to help you. You have what is called dyslexia, Aislinn. Lots of children have dyslexia, sweetheart, so it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she informs me, giving me another kind smile.
“Um, what is it?” I ask timidly.
“It’s just a name for when someone has trouble reading, understanding what those words or number mean, and sometimes mixing them up,” Mrs. Glades explains patiently. “It doesn’t mean you’re not just as intelligent as the other children, Aislinn. Just that you need a little more help in some areas, that’s all.”
From that day on, Mrs. Glades helped me to learn a variety of methods to combat my dyslexia. She offered to continue helping me all throughout elementary school, into middle and high school if I needed, and while at the time I didn’t think I would ever take her up on the offer, I did. Multiple times.
It’s better now, meaning that it doesn’t affect me as often, but I still struggle occasionally. Especially when I’m under extreme pressure or stressed out. I always need to give myself a little extra time to read through contracts, which pisses my agent off to no end, but it is what it is.
Before graduation, Meg and I sent out dozens of job applications, but it wasn’t until eight months ago – four months after I finished college – that I got a single call back for an interview. Meg was far luckier, landing her dream job at Johnson and Mercer Design, three weeks after we moved into our new apartment. I wasn’t jealous, though because I knew I would get something eventually.
Outdoor Adventurer a monthly publication that focused on, you guessed it, outdoor adventure sports with a few wildlife articles thrown in, interviewed me on a Thursday afternoon. By Monday morning at nine, I had officially started as their newest staff photographer. I didn’t love the job, but as far as I was concerned, it was a stepping stone to bigger better things.
In my spare time, I continued to take pictures of what I loved; people. Photographing Dex all those years ago made me realize that my passion didn’t lie in nature, landscapes, or portraits, but in candid images taken when people don’t know someone is watching. Not in a creepy way, though. I’m not a stalker or anything. I promise.
To me, the human face is a study in contradictions. People can say one thing, but their expressions will tell a whole other story. My favorite place to capture the most honest reactions is at the airport.
Whether it’s travelers are returning home or leaving, families reuniting, or lovers meeting for a clandestine weekend one thing always remains the same; their unguarded expressions when they see their loved ones for the first time are so real. Happy, sad, ecstatic, excited, pensive, it doesn’t matter because for that one perfect moment you can see everything they feel written right there on their face.
“Are you going to answer me or pretend I don’t even exist,” Meg snaps, bringing me back to the present.
Sighing heavily, I look at my best friend and not for the first time take note of how stunning she is.
Meg’s long, straight as a sheet black hair coupled with her almond-shaped brown eyes hint at her Japanese heritage. She is only a quarter Japanese, the rest a mix of Welsh and English on her mother’s side, and American on her father’s.
Only a few inches taller than my five-foot-one, Meg shouldn’t look like she has legs that go on forever but she does. Lucky bitch. Her waist is tiny, as is the rest of her. At a standard size two, Meg is petite everywhere, unlike me, and much to her disgust. Meg is constantly telling me she’d sell her first born child for my curves, to which I inform her that they’re not all they’re cracked up to be.
I hate being the center of attention, and sadly because of my boobs, more often than not, I am. When men see a five-foot-one woman with a small waist, ample chest with enough junk in the trunk to match, they instantly become kings of cliché. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been called someone’s pocket pet, firecracker because of my hair, or worse, a walking incarnation of their latest wet dream.
My first response to most of them is that I’m gay. Hey, don’t judge me. You try convincing a man whose had more to drink than a fish, has arms like an octopus, and a mouth like a grouper you’re not interested, but until then don’t be cynical of my brush off techniques.
Chewing on the corner of my lip, I sink deeper into the couch wishing it would just swallow me up so I can disappear.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Meg.”
“How about you start with what possessed you to do something so ridiculous they haven’t even invented a word for how stupid what you did was yet?” She snaps, propping both of her hands on her hips.
“He asked,” I shrug, knowing that won’t be close to good enough for her.
“He asked,” Meg screeches. “He asked and you said yes. He asked, you said yes, and then you went straight to the courthouse to make it official. Without, mind you, telling your best friend so that she could talk some sense into your dumb ass before you made the biggest mistake of your life.”
Shrugging again, I roll my eyes at her.
“That about sums it up.”
“Oh my fucking God, have you lost your mind? Are you suffering from a temporary medical condition that impairs your common sense?” Meg questions all too seriously.
“No,” I reply shortly. “None of the above, but thank you for asking.”
“But Nick, really? Why him, Linny?” She groans, sliding her hands through her long hair. “You don’t love him, and I don’t think he has the capacity to love anyone but himself, so I know he doesn’t love you, and you know it too.”
Her conclusions are most assuredly correct; I don’t love Nicholas, and he doesn’t love me.
“You know why, and don’t let him catch you calling him Nick or he’ll lose his mind,” I say, crossing my legs underneath me.
“If I didn’t love you so much and know that it would hurt you, I would hunt Dexter Peters down and kick his ass.”
That isn’t the first time she’s said that, and it won’t be the last. Meg has an irrational hatred for a man she’s never met, yet she claims it’s totally justified. According to her, hearing me cry myself to sleep and wake up almost every night from hideous nightmares is reason enough. But if it wasn’t, this sure as hell is.
There is only one person on the face of the planet Meg hates more than Dex, and that’s Nicholas Tremaine.
*****
I met Nicholas seven months ago at a gallery showing of his newest work. For years, I’ve been closely following the illustrious Nicholas Tremaine’s career hoping to be able to see some of his work in person one day, so when I saw the advertisement for his exhibition in the paper, I just knew I had to go.
The gallery was packed, people in designer evening gowns were everywhere, and there I was wearing my nicest pair of skinny jeans, a blouse I hoped I hadn’t spilled my coffee on, and a pair of boots that have seen better days.
Even though I knew the event was going to attract the type of people who have more money than I will ever see in my lifetime, I didn’t have the funds to buy something new. I was barely surviving on what I made off the sales of a few of the fre
elance photos I sold plus the measly wage I earned from Outdoor Adventurer.
Looking at all of his installments twice, I was about to leave when I caught sight of a familiar figure lingering off to the far side of the room. At first, I thought I was seeing things because there was no way was Dex standing in a fancy gallery with a bleach blonde Barbie hanging off his arm. But after a few seconds and rubbing my eyes repeatedly, I looked in that direction again and wouldn’t you know it, there he was.
All six-foot-one, brown hair, dark chocolate eyes, now with a multitude of tattoos, Dexter Grayson Peters standing right freaking there separated from me by just a few feet.
Panicking because that’s the appropriate reaction in the event of seeing the love of your life after years apart with another woman on his arm, I spun around to hide behind a partition, but ended up colliding with a wall instead. A huge wall of muscle wearing an expensive tailored suit with a navy blue silk shirt open at the collar underneath.
Steadying me with both hands on my upper arms, the wall of muscle spoke.
Vengeance MC Box Set - Volume 2: Gage ~ Cash ~ Knight (Vengeance MC series Book 8) Page 4