Torched: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  “Screw her,” Killian says. “And screw anyone who thinks they can look down on you. Anyway, you’re not just a waitress. You’re my woman. You’re the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs’ woman.”

  He smiles at me, and I can’t help but smile back.

  Put like that, it seems important, massive.

  I’m not just his girlfriend, I’m his woman, which around the Cove is a pretty big deal.

  I bring his hand to my lips and kiss his knuckles.

  “Don’t get soft on me now,” he says, pulling his hand free and tweaking my nose. “I came here for art. Not to get all soppy.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re such a man sometimes, Mr. Biker.”

  “Can’t help that, can I, pretty lady? Can’t help that one damn bit.”

  We grin at each other, the same way people grin when they’re falling, falling, falling . . .

  Just say it. Just think it.

  Love, that’s what you mean.

  Love!

  But I thrust the thought away, unsure.

  I have three paintings in the gallery and they are each of the same thing.

  There are differences in hue and shadow density and lighting position and things like that, but when you get down to it, they’re all the same. They depict Dawn sitting on the edge of a thin-mattress hospital bed, wearing a stripy blue hospital gown, looking at the floor. Her light brown hair falls over her eyes so that you can only see her mouth, which is twisted into an expression of pain.

  They are all priced at $10,500 each. I thought it was a bit much, but I didn’t set the rate, the gallery owner did. He gets thirty percent, but I get the rest. If they ever sell.

  Killian walks up and down in front of them, hands behind his back like an army general inspecting his troops. “Wow,” he says, more to himself, so quiet I can barely hear him. “These are . . . wow. I wish I understood art more, I really do. Maybe I’d be able to see all the little tricks then. But would the little tricks ruin it for me? Man, I don’t know. But all I know is . . . wow. I can’t . . . wow. This is incredible. You’re a genius, Hope. You shouldn’t be a waitress.”

  He suddenly turns to me, his lips twitching as though a smile is trying to break free but he doesn’t want to let it just yet. “Wait here,” he says.

  “What do you mean—”

  “Just promise me you’ll wait here. I need to go to the clubhouse.”

  “Uh, okay?”

  He leaps forward, kisses me on the forehead, and then paces away, swaggering out of the gallery.

  I hear his bike explode into life and growl down the street, in the direction of the Satan’s Martrys’ clubhouse.

  What the hell?

  I mistake the clicking behind me for Killian’s boots, but when I turn I see Kelsey instead, pursing her lips at me.

  “Oh, such potential.” She strokes her chin as if she is really appraising the paintings, but I know she has already appraised them a hundred times before—and found them lacking.

  “I get that you don’t like them,” I say, forcing my voice to be firm. I remember what Killian said: I’m his woman now. Killian O’Connor’s woman doesn’t take this crap. “I get it, I really do,” I go on. “But do you have to be so annoying about it? Do you have to lord it over me just because you don’t like my paintings? Seriously? What happened to you that this brings you so much pleasure?”

  She looks at me flatly, unfazed. “You are not a terribly talented artist,” she says plainly.

  “There have been offers on these paintings,” I growl. I know it’s true because the manager told me himself, but the owner won’t take less than the asking. Somebody even offered $8,000 once.

  “Offers, offers.” She waves her fingers. “They are wind.”

  “Why do you talk like that?” I snap. “You sound ridiculous.”

  “You are not talented,” she smiles. “That is all.”

  “That’s your opinion,” I say.

  “No,” Kelsey shoots back. “It is not my opinion. Look at it. What is it? A woman in a gown? Look how real it is. It’s repulsive.”

  “This is the realist section,” I laugh, calming down a little. Kelsey is, after all, a ridiculous person.

  “Yes, yes, you are right.” Ree-ite! “But why be so dull? My friends in New York would cackle at this!”

  “Whatever, Kelsey,” I exhale. “Just know that Rocky Cove isn’t New York. People don’t take too kindly to being talked down upon.”

  She shrugs. She doesn’t care. I’ve never once seen her care about anything.

  “If you say so!” she squeaks, before swiveling on her heels and clicking away.

  When Killian returns, Kelsey is at his shoulder, and she looks terrified. Kelsey the Critic, Kelsey who was calm in the face of the owner and the manager, looks terrified. Killian has a huge smile on his face. In his hand he holds an envelope.

  “These three, sir?” Kelsey says, voice shaking. With her fear, the airs of her speech disappear. She just sounds like a New Yorker, a scared and embarrassed New Yorker.

  “These three,” he says.

  Then he takes more money than I’ve ever seen out of the envelope and hands it to Kelsey. “But we sort the payment first. I want you to pay Hope.”

  Kelsey bites her lip as she counts the money, counts out my portion, and hands it to me.

  I’m too shocked to take it at first. “What the hell?” I breathe. “What the hell?”

  “I’m buying these paintings and putting them up in the clubhouse,” Killian says. “Go on, pretty lady, take the cash.”

  I snatch the money and stuff it into my pocket, hands shaking.

  Then I launch myself at Killian and throw my arms around him. I’m gliding. I’m gliding so high I can barely think.

  “Come to the restaurant so I can cook you a thank-you meal!” I blurt. “Please, Killian. Oh. My. God. I can’t—”

  More money than I have any clue what to do with!

  Killian nods, laughing.

  “I’ll come to the restaurant.” Then he turns to Kelsey. “Have these sent to the Satan’s Martrys’ clubhouse, will you? If you don’t know where it is, ask anyone who’s lived here longer than a year.”

  Kelsey’s carefully constructed face crumbles.

  She looks down at the floor, cheeks trembling, defeated.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Killian

  No sooner have we walked through the door of the restaurant than the fat, balding man starts screaming. The restaurant is empty. It’s just before the lunch rush. It’s desolate apart from the fat man, a waitress with a rake-thin body and a makeup-covered face, and me and Hope. At first I assume he’s shouting at the waitress.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he roars. He stands behind the bar, gripping two beer spouts, face shaking with rage. “What the hell time do you call this? What the hell is wrong with you? What do you think I am running here? Do you think this is some kind of charity? Do you think this is some kind of social club and you can roll up any time you feel like it?”

  The makeup-faced waitress looks down, ignoring him. And then Hope walks a few steps forward and my breath catches. “It is my day off, Lucca,” she says. “Surely you know it’s my day off—I . . . I wanted to come here to use the kitchen, to cook my friend a meal.”

  “You. Are. Joking.” He growls the words. “Maybe it is your day off; maybe it’s not. But now you have the—the gall to tell me you want to use the restaurant to cook your friend—whatever that means—a meal? What are you, some kind of slut? I’ve never heard of someone so—”

  I pace up to him. As I pace, he watches me with a dumb, open mouth. I notice that the light from outside shines off his scalp, the worse comb over I’ve ever seen, and that his cheeks are red. But his expression is that of a bemused king’s. That’s it, I realize. He sees himself as the king of this place. He thinks nothing can happen to him here.

  Ha.

  “What are you doing?” the man sighs. He doesn’t sound scared, which is
a damned mistake.

  I leap over the bar and in one movement grip the back of his neck, digging my fingers in just enough to cause pain, but not hard enough to cause any lasting damage. He writhes under my grip, squirms, lets out a long, childish moan of pain. Then he breathes: “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, why?”

  “Why?” I chuckle. “You’re a funny man. Lucca, is it? Yeah, you must be Lucca. Hope’s told me a lot about you.”

  I squeeze his neck harder, causing him to writhe like a worm plucked between forefinger and thumb from the dirt. Hope walks across the restaurant and stands just opposite the bar. She doesn’t yell at me to let him go; she doesn’t plead with me that he’s had enough. No, her eyes are wide and her lips are crooked and she licks her lips, slowly, as she watches. She looks at me with more affection than any woman ever has. What shocks me is that I’m able to identify it. True affection is usually difficult to identify for men like me. But not with Hope.

  “Time to apologize, Lucca,” I say casually.

  “I have nothing to apologize for—” Spit flies from his gritted teeth with each strained word.

  I close my hand tougher around his neck, until he lets out another wail of pain. “I disagree,” I say. “I think you have a lot to apologize for. Now, don’t make me ask again.”

  I release his neck just enough to allow him to talk. “Fine, I’m sorry, Hope. Okay? I’m sorry.”

  “Good boy.” On a chopping board just under the bar lie two carrots: one half-chopped, the other intact. I pick up the intact carrot—a thick baton-like specimen—and smack Lucca across the back of the head with it. The carrot snaps in two. He screams and tumbles forward, bracing himself on the bar, and sobbing softly under his breath.

  I lean into him, my lips close to his ear. “If you ever talk like that to Hope again, you’ll get much, much worse than a carrot. Now, Hope’s going to use your kitchen to cook me a meal, okay? We’re celebrating. Don’t be so damned rude.”

  “Uh, sure, yeah,” Lucca mutters, rubbing the back of his head. “Of course. Whatever you want.”

  I clap my hands together and face Hope. “Let’s do it then!” I smile.

  She smiles back, and now it’s not just affection in her eyes. It’s lust. I have no trouble identifying that.

  I stand at the kitchen door and watch as Hope makes my meal. She has a girlish grin on her face, making it look more elfish than ever. She smiles as wide as I did when I got my first motorbike. As she chops the vegetables, her lips are fixed into a rictus grin. As she boils and grills her lips are spread so wide I’m surprised they don’t stretch off the sides of her face.

  “This is amazing,” she says, spinning around to face me.

  Lucca is still at the bar. He can hear every word we’re saying, but that doesn’t matter. Let him listen. What’s he going to do? Try and harass her when I’m here? Try and play the big man? No, he’s stupid, but not that stupid.

  “You’re happy, then?” I ask.

  “Happy?” She giggles. She sounds too cute when she giggles. “Of course I’m happy! I’ve got all this . . .” She lowers her voice. “All this money from my art. And now I’m cooking. It’s like all my dreams have come true in the same day.”

  I tip an imaginary hat. “All in a day’s work, ma’am.”

  “Don’t make light of it,” she says. “It’s not something to make light of. This is serious, Killian. Really serious. You’ve changed my life quicker than I thought was even possible.”

  “Don’t get soppy, pretty lady,” I grin. “It’s nothing, really, just a man doing what he ought to do for a woman as pretty as you.”

  She dances right up to me, so that I can smell the meat and vegetables which cling to her apron. Her voice is very low now, low enough so that Lucca can’t hear. “You can act all tough about it if you want,” she says. “You can act like the toughest man who’s ever lived, but we both know there’s something else in there.”

  I reach out, touch her face, stroke her cheek. “Maybe there is,” I say. “But standing here in a stolen kitchen isn’t the place to tear open my heart, is it?”

  She laughs. “I suppose not.” And then dances back to the meal.

  I sit in a booth, cutlery laid out before me, waiting for my meal. After about half an hour, Hope emerges from the kitchen holding two plates. She skips over to the table deftly, the plates not once becoming imbalanced, and then places one plate in front of me, and one plate in her place. I look down at a meal unlike any I’d ever cook for myself, or even order for myself. It’s steak, carrot, potato, and gravy. So simple—and yet Hope presents it as though it is a work of art. Everything is neatly arranged and there is a piece of parsley curling atop the steak, medium-rare, with just a hint of blood.

  “I assumed you liked it bloody,” she says, as she lays down two glasses of coca cola.

  “Then you assumed right,” I reply.

  I pick up my knife and fork and cut into the steak. Blood oozes around it. I cut myself a big chunk and bring it to my mouth. When I begin to chew it, taste explodes between my teeth, on my tongue. It’s steak, but it’s something more, too. I swallow quickly. “Damn, Hope,” I say, quickly cutting myself another chunk. “What the hell did you do to this?”

  “You like it?”

  I reply by stuffing another chunk in my mouth. Hope doesn’t touch her meal, just watches me with a fascinated expression.

  I wolf down the meal. Maybe I should eat it all fancy, because it’s a fancy meal, but I’ve never had much self-restraint. The steak is beautiful and the vegetables are different, too.

  “What’s the secret?” I say.

  Hope taps her nose. “A good magician, Killian . . .”

  I shake my head, and then stop talking so I can finish the rest of the meal. I drain it all with coca cola and then push the plate away, leaning back in the chair.

  “You’re a woman of many talents, Hope.”

  She inclines her head. “And you’re a man of many talents.”

  I look at the clock which hangs above the door. It’s almost four o’clock.

  “We should get back. We need to check on Dawn and Patrick.”

  “Okay,” Hope says, pushing up from the table.

  I stand up and face the bar, where Lucca stands, seething. “Clear the table will you, my good man?” I call.

  Then I hook my arm around Hope and lead her out of the restaurant.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hope

  As we ride back toward Sapphire Lake, I can’t tell if it’s Killian’s hard body against mine, or the rumble of the bike which is making my pussy ache bad: bad like it’s begging to be touched. As we skim over the road I can’t help but think about the way he stood up to Lucca, the way he just swaggered over there and jumped over the bar. No man has ever stood up to him like that. Never. I couldn’t even imagine it. Dawn, sure, and me in my own way. But not like that. Killian properly put him in his place. And what’s more, he did it like it was no big deal.

  I squeeze into him, feeling his muscles, moving my hands over them.

  My pussy roars out for him. My pussy begs for him. My pussy gets so wet that all I want to do is grab his hand and push it down between my legs and feel the strength of him. The same hand he grabbed Lucca with, I think, panting. He’ll use the same hand he grabbed that pervert with. That same strong hand. He’ll make me come with it. He’ll drive me crazy with it. He’ll make me his with it. My tongue is lolling from my mouth, I realize. I force it shut as the bike comes to a stop outside of the lake house.

  I wish for Dawn and Patrick to be asleep so we can just do it. This is the horniest I ever remember being. My whole body stings with lust. It’s like they’re itches all over me that just need to be scratched. But I have to remember Dawn. I have to remember her recovery.

  Killian and I walk up the stairs and go to Dawn’s room. The door is open. Dawn is sitting up in bed, her white pajamas clinging to her body with sweat, her hair stuck to her forehead, the sheets thrown away. She grips he
r knees and rocks back and forth. Patrick sits on a stool beside the bed, a damp towel in his hand. As we enter, he’s reaching across to Dawn with it.

  He starts and turns as we enter. “Damn, brother,” he says. “You scared me.”

  “How’s she doing?” I ask.

  “Better,” Patrick says. “I know she seems worse, but she’s better. The drugs are leaving her system. It’s hard, but she’s a fighter.”

  “After this,” Dawn pants, “I’m never touching drugs again. Let me tell you.”