by Paula Cox
Enrique considers this, and then shrugs. “Let her go,” he says, gesturing with his machete. These are tough men, holding me, killers, but the second Enrique gives the command, they let me go. I spring across the parking lot, ignoring the stones which cut into the soles of my feet, and make to throw myself into Kade’s arms.
“No.” He pushes me gently but firmly toward the clubhouse. “Go. Be safe.” He glares at me, stretching his neck from side to side. “I said go.”
I cannot ignore the desperation in his eyes: desperation for me and the baby to be safe. And I cannot ignore, either, my own obligation to keep the child safe. Reluctantly, I run to the clubhouse. The second I’m through the doors, however, I scream: “The Italians are outside. Kade needs your help!” My numb face aches as cuts scratch and open and close, bruised skin tugging at me. I run through the clubhouse, rousing the men. By the time I return to the front door, around thirty Tidal Knights are charging after me, all of them holding guns, all of them with murder in their eyes.
I go to the bar, to one of the windows which looks out onto the parking lot, and crouch low. I want to be out there with Kade, but I have to protect the child. The urge to be with my man is strong; the urge to make sure our child is safe is stronger.
When the men get into the parking lot, Kade turns to them and says, “Nobody get involved.”
Enrique nods, and says to his men, “The same to you or I will feed you to the dogs, okay?”
Everybody nods, the Tidal Knights looking confused but unwilling to disobey Kade.
Earl gathers everybody behind him. A sort of circle forms, the corpses of the dead Tidal Knights off to one side, Kade and Enrique in the middle, and the Italians and the Tidal Knights standing around the edges.
Kade lifts up his hands. “Alright, then,” he says.
Their voices are low from where I sit, but the windows are open and they are just audible.
Then the fight begins and all I hear is the terrified beating of my heart.
Enrique, the small man who would look unassuming if it were not for his weapons and his reputation and his bloodshed, charges at Kade like a man possessed, bringing the machete down in an downward-arcing swing meant to cut his head in two. Kade, with no weapons but his fists, watches the swing, judges it, and then steps aside just enough so that it misses him by a hair’s breadth. I hear my breath catch.
A hush falls over the Italians and the bikers.
Enrique keeps on at Kade, swiping up, down, left, right, and each time Kade ducks out of the way, somehow always ending up in the space just beside Enrique swings. The Italian comes at him with the knuckle-duster, too, but Kade just blocks that with his forearm. The crack of metal on bone doesn’t seem to bother Kade. His blue eyes are impassive, focused. His blue eyes are steel.
They dance across the parking lot, and then back the other way, before Kade makes his move. I see what Kade is doing, and I see that is has worked. He is trying to make Enrique angry and careless. After about two minutes—which feels like hours when it’s the father of your child out there—Kade ducks one of Enrique’s swings and punches him so hard in the belly the Italian lets out a catlike yelp. Kade goes to work, then, punching again and again. Enrique lashes out wildly. Kade catches the machete-holding hand at the wrist, squeezes. Enrique yelps again and drops his weapon. Kade leans back, aims his head, and head-butts the man in the nose. Blood showers over Kade’s face. He head-butts him again. Enrique slides to the concrete. Kade falls upon him.
“Touch my fuckin’ woman!” he roars, and head-butts the man again, again, again, until Kade’s head is blood-red without an inch of flesh visible, and Enrique is nothing but a mass of blood and bone.
But still twitching, I notice, still alive.
Kade climbs to his feet, walks over to Earl, and snatches his gun. Before anybody can do anything, Kade paces back to Enrique’s twitching body and places the barrel of the gun against his head and pulls the trigger.
The shot rings out, and the Italian stops twitching.
I expect the Italians to start shooting now, but they look at Kade, at the Tidal Knights gathered and ready, and think better of it. First, a couple slink away, and then a couple more, until in a matter of seconds all of them are pacing down the road toward their cars, leaving their leader bloody and dead in the parking lot.
I run to the entrance just in time for Kade to push open the door.
I jump toward him.
“The blood . . .” His voice is almost a snarl.
“I don’t care about the blood. I care about you.”
I throw my arms around him and bury my face in his neck.
When the weeping hits me, it hits me hard.
“It’s over,” Kade whispers in my ear. “We’re safe. I’ll always keep you safe.”
We all turn at the sound of the door. Terry stands in the doorway to the dormitory, rubbing her eyes. When she sees all of us gathered—Tidal Knights packed into the hallway like sardines—she takes out her earplugs and says, “Did I miss something?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lana
A year after that morning in the parking lot, and it still returns to me. Even now, at work—wearing a pants and a smart-looking shirt—it returns to me. Even as I fold napkins, make coffee (real coffee), and serve customers who never make lewd comments, it returns to me. Even as I think of Duster at Terry’s apartment, being watched by my best friend, it returns to me. It was the start of everything, and the end of everything: the start of the uncomplicated love Kade and I now share; and the end of the tempestuous, uncertain love we struggled to admit to each other before.
Duster is the best little boy I could ever ask for, with his father’s sky-blue eyes. When I look down at him, I see Kade, cannot help but see Kade—
When the man walks into the café, I can hardly believe my eyes. He is still leering. I don’t think the man knows how to make any other expression. And his vest is stained, as usual.
When he sees me, he swaggers over like he owns me, like he’s going to put his hands on me as he did at the Twin Peaks.
Chester says: “Hello, whore.” He grins. He reeks of whisky and beer.
“Go away, Chester,” I say.
“Why do you say that, whore?”
One of my male co-workers makes to intervene. I lift a hand, halting him.
“You are a small man,” I say, taking a step toward him. We are near the counter, but there are no customers except him just this minute, and the other customers sit around the tables at the other side of the café. I glare into his face, showing no fear. Because, I realize with a shock, I am not afraid. Too much has happened since we last met for me to be afraid. I am a mother, I am the president of the Tidal Knights’s fiancé. I have outgrown him. “You are a small, petty man, and you do not frighten me. If you ever put your hands on me again, I will take those goddamn hands.”
I growl the last words. Chester takes a step back, shocked.
“Now get the hell out of here,” I say. “Let me get on with my work.”
He waddles now, instead of swaggers, out of the café.
A few minutes later, Kade walks in.
“I’m taking you for a ride after work,” he says. “Don’t worry. I’ve already cleared it with Terry.”
He smirks at me. I kiss him on the cheek, and then say, “You’re planning something.”
“Maybe I am.” He kisses me on the forehead. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Epilogue
Kade
I take Lana to the plot of land I’ve been saving for this past year. It’s green, and fresh, and new-looking, acres of land set within what looks like some fantasy landscape. In the middle of it sits a trailer I had Earl tow down here earlier today.
Leading Lana by the hand, I take her to the trailer. Then I let go of her hand and stand off to one side. This past year, damn . . . I’m closer to Lana now than I’ve ever been to anybody, even Duster. And my son . . . Well, he’s Duster, too. My son
has changed everything. My son has changed the way I see the small things and the big things. I’m still the president, I still have Tidal Knights in my veins, but I’ve got a real family now.
A fiancé, a son, a life.
“What’s this?” Lana asks after a moment.
“It’s a trailer.” I grin at her.
She rolls her eyes. “I can see that. But why are we looking at it?”
I wave a hand at the green field, the outcrop of trees off to one side. “I own this plot of land,” I say, “and I’m going to build us a house. Just there, next to the trailer.” I indicate the spot. “The trailer’s for the meantime. For me, you, and Duster. For our family. I think it’s about time we had a proper home. Both of us started in a trailer park. Maybe it’s only right we return to one, if only for a little while.”
Lana dances across the grass and jumps at me, wrapping her legs around me and kissing me passionately.
“Did I tell you?” she says, as I hold her up, as lust surges between us.
“Tell me what?”
“I finished my book. But you’ve ruined that.”
“How’s that?”
She wriggles out of my grip, drops to the floor, and takes my hand.
“Because now I have to change the ending, silly.”
She giggles, and I laugh, and she leads me by the hand toward the door of the trailer.
THE END
Read on for your FREE bonus book – STOLEN BRIDE
STOLEN BRIDE: A Dark Hitman Romance
By Paula Cox
I STOLE HER FROM HER WEDDING AND MADE HER MINE.
She wanted a way out.
So I put her on the back of my bike and took her away.
But I’m not her knight in shining armor…
And when she finds out what I want, she’ll be begging to go back.
I don’t say please.
I don’t say thank you.
When I see what I want, I take it.
And I’d never wanted anything more than that pretty little thing in her wedding dress.
She had tears beneath her veil.
I don’t blame her – the groom was a creep and a monster.
But when she made the choice to run away with me, she didn’t know that I was much worse.
I’m no fairy tale prince.
I’m a cold hearted S.O.B. with ice in my veins and fire behind my zipper.
I won’t be content to rock her to sleep and wipe the tears away.
Not even a little bit.
I’ve got something else in mind.
I’m gonna throw her in my bed and show her that she belongs to me now.
Chapter 1
There are about two hundred people milling around where we’re standing - guys in long coats, families with kids, squads of teenage couples, and dozens of girls who look exactly like Maya. Their hair is the color of a Hawaiian beach and they’re wearing enough expensive jewelry to buy a private island in the South Pacific. Most of the girls are slightly taller than Maya, but that’s not saying much. You could fit Maya inside a straw or purse, and she’s light enough that you’d think the first strong breeze would send her flying. Hummingbird-light. Fragile as a China doll. Those were her old man’s words. Not exactly a comforting thought when this whole city’s just bursting with guys with big guns who’d do anything to get their hands on her.
I’ve got my eye trained on her alright. She’s the one chatting up the shop assistant outside the Yves Sainte-Laurent dressing room, talking so fast that you’d think she was afraid someone would steal her words before she got them out. The guy she’s talking to is telling her he gets his hair cut every three days by a barber named C—honest to God, C—who Maya knows, surprise surprise. She’s the one who set him up with his boyfriend, a designer for Dior. No danger here. She and this shop assistant are as peachy as a brother and sister.
But this guy wasn’t the one I was worried about. It’s this army of shop assistants she’s got working like camels that are making me nervous. It would be so easy to stash an Item beneath those designer pants or coats or whatever else she’s got the minions bringing her.
One crack of a weapon and the head don of the Mob Family would be minus a daughter, which means Quinn Tolliver would be minus a job, and in a few days, out feeding fish beneath the waters at Kingston Pier.
I set my copy of People magazine down on the chair next to me, and took out my carton, popping three Tic Tacs before crunching them with my teeth. This is right about the time I’d have a cigarette if I hadn’t given them up when I was seventeen. Worst decision of my life, and that’s coming from a guy who’s done a lot of dumb things. Things like agreeing to look after Maya Butler.
It’s only my second day on the job, but I’m wondering how in the hell I’m ever going to last if I’m sweating bullets just sitting in a department store. You’d think I’m crazy if I said I’d prefer just throwing punches. Or even taking them. I’ve gotten my face opened so many times it’s like one of those old books that you open and it flips automatically to the page where the binding’s been smashed down. The only difference is that I doubt anyone looks at my face and thinks “library book.”
Whatever Maya was looking for either she’s found it or she ain’t. She gives this guy C a little hug with a pat on the back. He has to bend down for her even though she’s propped up by six inches of heels.
“Having a ball, honey-cake?” she quips, hips swinging like a snake in a basket. I say nothing and take the four bags she’s got draped over her palm. “Such a gentleman.”
She puts so much stress on every word that I can’t ever tell when she’s being sarcastic, which is why my default is just to say nothing. Her daddy’s paying me to be her bodyguard. Not her friend.
Someone ought to tell her that, but I can hardly ever get a word in when she’s yapping on like this. So I shut up instead and do what I’m being paid two-and-a-half grand a day to do.
“Guy in the blue navy coat. Nine o’clock. He’s done nothing but stare at you since you came in.”
“Is the guy in the blue navy coat cute?” She cranes her neck above the shoppers pouring out of Gucci.
“Bald guy. Mid-forties.”
“Bald can be sexy if you wear it well. Ever seen early Phil Collins?” She gives up the search, turns back to the hall, and ignores me.
The bald guy’s got a black beard with little silver hairs in it like Christmas lights and a don’t-fuck-with-me-face. I try but have difficulty putting that face on an eighties Phil Collins. We exchange looks, and he breaks first to take a right into Ted Baker. Bald. Peacoat.
Maya stamps left into Nieman Marcus and takes the place by storm, all glittering smiles and greetings. Shopping malls and designer outlets are the same to this girl as sports bars. Everyone knows her, and she knows everyone, and from the sounds of it, everyone really is everyone. She asks about Darius’s cousin and Anton’s mother’s good friend, who just had a showing in Paris, and Mark’s recent breakup, which she was so sorry to hear about although she’d been wanting to say, ever since they’d all gone out with Lex, that she’d thought he was a total bitch.
She doesn’t say a word to them about me, and they don’t acknowledge me, which is nice. Never cared much for small talk. It doesn’t help that I’ve gotten pretty good at shutting the other person down without saying a whole lot.
The thing is, in my business, if you’re a Stitch or Brother or Ceallaigh—whatever the hell you are—the less you say, the better. Treat words the way you treat an Item. Assume they’re loaded and only fire if you’re sure of hitting the mark.
It’s the same dog and pony show as the last place. Even the haircuts are the same. C must have a thing here. One of these guys directs me to a lounge chair by the dressing room and points to a basket filled with an identical batch of mags as the last store. I grab the same edition of People and flip to page sixty-four, where I left off to finish the article about Justin Bieber’s latest arrest, when something catches the corner o
f my eye. I don’t even need to turn to see who it is. Peacoat guy is keeping his ground outside the store, looking in. Right at Maya. Two thoughts hit me as loud as pennies down a well. One is coincidence. Two is that this guy is insane. Meaning blood. Meaning mob.
There’s a tingle in my hands, and they get stiff. Stiff enough that the thumb and finger holding the corner of Justin Bieber’s bearded face tears it in two. I almost don’t notice. That’s the thing about adrenaline. You sink all your thoughts and energy into just one direction, and suddenly there’s no divided or undivided attention, no distraction and no caution. Just the question yapping through your brain: “If it comes to it, are you going to do what you have to do?”
The guy in the peacoat hesitates before entering the store—I still haven’t seen him full on, but I can make out his reflection in the polished, wooden closets near the front. I grip the magazine firmer to keep my hands steady and try not to smile. That’s just something I do before a fight. I can’t help it either. Even if I try forcing the muscles down with my fingers, they just pop back up again, and my face just stays that way—as wide as Chloe the clown. It’s been doing that since my first real fight when I was twelve. Doesn’t mean a thing about how I’m feeling, though it’s scared the hell out of guys in the past who’d been thinking of starting something.