Beyond Her Words (Corrupt Chaos MC)

by Bink Cummings

  I dunno what possesses me, but I scoot further up the bed and my hand travels along her thigh. Body stiffenin’ under my palm, she stops breathin’.

  “Breathe,” I mutter, and she does, gulpin’ for air.

  Twistin’ in the bed, I rest my knee on the edge tae face her. Tappin’ my finger under her chin, I try raisin’ it up for her tae look at me. She refuses tae make eye contact, so I gently trap her chin between my fingers and coax her. Meetin’ my eyes, her cheeks blush somethin’ fierce, makin’ my balls draw up─achin’ at the sight. Nervously, she nibbles the corner of her lip, and I spring tae rock-hard, my tip droolin’ with pre-come, rollin’ down my shaft. Briefly closin’ my eyes, I wince at the feelin’ as my stomach turns over in self-disgust. With the sweep of my tongue, I wet my dry lip. Mags watches me with fascination. Bloody hell, what’s she lookin’ at?

  “No woman wants a man that makes that kinda mess. Look what you did to the sheet. You’ll have to wash them.” Meredith’s words ring through, and I shove ‘em away.

  With little effort, I focus solely on Mags. “Tell me what happened.” My words break her outta wherever world she was livin’ in, and she shakes her head. My fingers drop from her chin and adjust my cock. She doesn’t notice.

  Reachin’ between her thighs, she crushes back into the mattress as I lift her phone off the sheet, handin’ it tae her. She accepts it with fumblin’ fingers.

  I nod tae the phone. “Tell me, please.”

  Mags starts to tap on her phone, and my inner pocket vibrates. I retract my cell.

  I don’t want to tell you.

  Leavin’ one hand on her thigh, I respond with my free hand. I’d rather cut my arm off then remove it from her. I can feel her pulse thumpin’ erratically under my palm. Her skin is hot tae the touch, which means she’s alive and breathin’; and that’s all that fuckin’ matters.

  Why? I ask.

  It’s not good.

  Please.

  She sighs before another texts comes through. A text that breaks my heart, and sends a bolt of rage through my system.

  It was Meredith.

  All the air is sucked out of the room, and my world detonates as Lachlan explodes off the bed with a roar that forces me to cover my ears. Striding two giant steps, his fist meets the bathroom door. A crack echoes and he unleashes again. Chaos erupts as he loses control, rage fueling every blow. If the door were a person, they’d be dead by now. Blood sprouts to his knuckles, running down the wood. My heart leaps into my throat and my body aches to reach him, to make him stop.

  “That bloody fuckin’ bitch!” His back arches, and both of his arms fly wide, curve, and then arc as they both ram against the door simultaneously.

  Tears silently tumble down my cheeks. See, I told you I shouldn’t have told him. It’s all my fault! Curling my arms around my middle, I dip my head and cry. Cry for hurting him. Cry for allowing her to do this to me. Cry, because everything’s my fault. Gram’s died, because I never made her go to the doctor. Brian died, because I didn’t check on him. My mother stole everything, because I didn’t help Grams create a will. My body’s broken, because I couldn’t accept Johnathan for who he was and marry him. My car’s ruined, because I stopped to get gas when I should have driven through. I’m sitting here now, because I took advantage of a man and his daughter who have the two biggest hearts on the planet. See? It’s all my fault.

  A nurse creeps in; fear flashing in her eyes. I wave her out, and she retracts slowly, looking between Lachlan and me. I shoo her again. She needs to leave him be. He’s having a damn moment; nobody else needs to see him lose control. Finally, she backs out and shuts the door quietly.

  Taking a shaky breath, I calm myself enough to pick up my phone and text him.

  Lachlan, please stop.

  It does no good. He doesn’t check it. His fists turn raw, pummeling the door. His breathing becomes labored, and his muscles that ripple with each strike, slow. Resting both fists on the door, he leans forward, relaxing his forehead against the wood. A maddened cry tears from his throat, swirls around the small room, and lunges into my soul, finding a home there. My heart devours the pain, adopting it as its own. I welcome it. I deserve it.

  Rolling his shoulder to the door, he turns and his back sags against the support. He runs his hands through his short hair; his face is red and matted with sweat. His broad chest rises and falls from exertion as a flash of sadness and pain slide across his features, leaving just as quick as they came.

  Expelling a low growl, he shakes his head, pushes off the door, and strides to my bed.

  Possessively cupping my face, he tilts my head back. His glowing teal eyes meet mine, stealing the air from my lungs.

  “I’m sorry.”

  His mouth swoops down and crashes to mine with desperate need, forcing me to freeze. Warm lips slant over mine, and his tongue lashes out seeking entrance. Growling, he demands more, his lips working mine even though I’m not kissing him back. My legs tremble and my nipples spring to sharp points, aching at the delicious sensation. His intoxicating scent drugs me, and I’m lost in his touch. His mouth. His hungry growls. The air that pumps from his lungs and out through his nose, that’s bathing my cheeks. A tooth nips my bottom lip, and I wince, breaking from the trance.

  What the hell is he doing?!

  Placing my hands to his pecs I shove him away. He takes a staggering step back and thoughtfully brushes his lips with his bloodied fingers—dazed. Then he looks at me, and his face falls as all of the color drains from his cheeks. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I couldn’t. I’m. . .” he retreats three more steps. His back smashes to the bathroom door, and he slides down it until his butt rests on the floor. Trembling, he rakes his hands through his hair and down his cheeks to his goatee. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I shouldn’t. . .” his knees come up and he pushes his kilt between his thighs. I catch a glimpse of hidden flesh but not enough.

  Why is he. . .oh. . . my. . . did. . . he just tried to kiss me! What is wrong with him?! Why would he do that?

  Tumbling my fingers in my lap, I mull over my thoughts and lancing guilt. I haven’t kissed anyone else but Brian. Does this constitute as that? Did I betray him? Oh my god. Did I?

  “Mags, look at me.” He’s practically begging in that rough Scottish accent.

  I don’t look up. How can I? How can I face him? I touched lips with another man. A man I wanted to kiss back. My stomach dips. A man who’s married. It revolts. Whose wife put me in the hospital. It aches. What was I thinking? What’s wrong with me?

  The phone in my lap vibrates.

  I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you. It was wrong

  If it was so wrong, then why did I like it so much? My tongue sweeps my bottom lip. I can still taste him. My thighs tremble. God, I’m the worst kind of home wrecker. I’m going to hell.

  Turning my head away, I throw my phone to the side ignoring the message that just came in. Pushing the button on my bed, it lowers, and I close my eyes. Lachlan tries to speak to me. I think he says something about being sorry again and something about it never happening again. And, maybe even something more heart-wrenching like him wishing he would have never done it in the first place. I wish he wouldn’t have too, and that he would just go away. I wish that his scent wouldn’t steal my breath, that his hands wouldn’t make me tremble or that his deep, gravelly voice didn’t make me feel funny. I wish he wasn’t so kind and caring. I wish I couldn’t see the depths of his soul in his eyes. A soul that has lived many lives, seen tragedy, and holds back from life.

  What I wish for even more is the ability to ignore the ache I feel when he finally stands, fleetingly touches my leg, and leaves me alone. Alone, as I should be, because that’s what I deserve.

  Two weeks─ only two more weeks and I can run far, far away from the man with the beautiful eyes, who has a daughter with the brightest smile. Can’t I just sleep the time away? Can’t the pain just recede a little? Can’t lov. . .

  “Pirate, do you. . .t
hink I’ll be. . .okay?” I whisper hoarsely to my best mate, who as of right now, is lying on the pillow next to me in bed.

  Nudging his wet nose to my cheek is his reply. I pat his head in thanks and run my fingers down to his tail before I scratch my way back up. He crawls closer, closing his eyes.

  “That’s a...good...bo-y,” I croak, disjointedly.

  A tiny knock raps at my bedroom door. Flopping my head to the side, Pirate, the attention hog, crawls partway onto my chest. I shake my head at him with a smile, and rub his ears as Bridget enters, wearing shorts and a hot pink, smiley faced shirt that matches her cheery disposition.

  “Are you ready?” She claps, bouncing on her heals, a smile lighting her face. I nod my reply. “Okay!” She claps again. “I’ll wait for you in the living room.” Bridget excitedly thumb points in that direction, but doesn’t wait for my response when she exits, leaving the door open.

  Internally, I grumble at the prospect of getting up. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I need to stop being lazy and embrace that I’m getting out of the house today. It’s only been a few days since Meredith assaulted me. When I was released Monday evening from the hospital, Bridget made sure I arrived back here safely. By then, Lachlan had already changed all the locks, and I had my very own house key hooked on a daisy key ring that he’d laid on my nightstand.

  I know, I know, I’m sure you’re dying to find out what happened since that life altering, one-sided kiss. Life altering for me; not you, of course. Or maybe for you, too. Crap, I dunno. I’m not sure what I can tell you at this point. I haven’t seen Lachlan.

  Have I woken up to the same loud, upbeat rock music? Yes. Every single dang day. But I’ve stayed locked in my room with Pirate. Have I noticed how Lachlan’s scent lingers in the basement everywhere I go? Yes; it’s taunting me with its rich uniqueness that only he can smell like. It’s manly. Though, not in a bad, stinky, gross-man way

  For hours, I’ve tried to ignore his absence, his smell, his everything. It’s hard to do when all I can do is think about it. You know when something happens and you should just forget it ever happened and move on? That’s what the logical part of me is saying. But some other part of me that I didn’t even know existed until recently is eating at my mind, replaying all of those little moments over and over and over, on a tormenting repeat. It sucks, but not as much as the radio silence from his end. His lack of texts, or anything really, doesn’t help A: My mind or B: My nonexistent self-esteem. It amplifies my ‘I’m a loser card’ tenfold.

  Eh. . .I’m done thinking about that for now before I start to dwell again. There’s not much else to do.

  Patting Pirate’s head, I whisper, “Can I tell. . .you a secret?”

  He licks my chin in reply, and I giggle quietly.

  “I’m nervous,” I mutter, and it’s terrifying to admit that. But I’m scared to go to Whisky’s with Bridget.

  Yesterday, after I’d spent the majority of the day in the bedroom, Bridget suggested we take a trip to town today so she can show me around. I know she’s trying to mend whatever’s broken in me, because that’s the kind of person she is. Even though, nothing can fix me. I just don’t have the heart to tell her that; and I definitely don’t possess the willingness to tell her that my voice started coming back the morning before I left the hospital.

  I’d had another Brian dream and threw up again. The crazy thing was: in the midst of heaving, I might have slipped out a few less than stellar vernaculars in the heat of the moment and actually vocalized it. It felt incredible for about half a second until my stomach purged bile and Jell-O into the wastebasket beside the bed. Now, I’ve been cautiously playing with words ever since. They come out choppy sometimes, like a bad case of laryngitis, but I’ll take that over not talking at all.

  With a final pat on Pirate’s head, I roll him off me and sit up using the bar Lachlan installed. Grabbing my wheelchair arm, I hoist myself into my seat and head to the living room.

  Bridget stands from the couch, her denim purse slung over her shoulder. “Now, you ready?” She sounds way too chipper as she gestures to the door with the sweep of her hand, but I nod anyhow and follow her to the door. She slides it open, steps outside, and waits for me to exit before shutting and locking it.

  Together, we head to the SUV, in companionable silence. I get in first, this time in the front, ‘cause I’m daring like that, even with my leg like it is. Bridget takes my chair to store in the back before she slips behind the wheel. My anxiety revs its engine when the Tahoe is put into gear and we start up the incline. Bridget flips on the music as my fingers dig into the door handle and I take a deep breath.

  Fields of green line the road on either side until the Welcome to Carolina Rose sign greets us on the town’s border. My hands have now begun to clam up, and I do believe there is sweat dripping down the sides of my cheeks. I can’t tell for sure, because my skin’s on fire.

  I can’t believe we’re doing this!

  “There’s the post office.” Bridget points to the left at an old brick building that has a giant stamp in the massive front window. Further along the main street, she points to the only bank, then the outdated supermarket that I know has to have some of the best baked goods and homemade goodies. All the small towns do. We also pass a one-stop, florist-monument shop that has gravestones lining the sidewalk leading to the store. Remind me never to buy flowers from there. There’s a deli with a green awning, a Subway franchise shop, and a bunch of cutesy mom and pop stores. All the basics you’ll come across in a small town, including a hardware store, a locally owned shoe store, and a feed store for the farmers. Bridget leaves Thor’s gym out of her town guide, although the bright red letters on the gym’s window that says Thor’s Gym is pretty much a dead giveaway.

  We circle around to the second most popular road in town, which is where the firehouse and tiny police station are located. Catching a fleeting glimpse of Lachlan’s Harley as we pass, my eyes become more focused on the open and empty, firehouse bays. They must be out on a call.

  Making another turn back to where we came from, Bridget parks in front of her aunt’s shop. Whisky’s Corrupt Confections is cutely scrolled in the large front window under the pink and white ruffled awnings. It looks like one of those adorable bakeries you dreamed about when you were a kid.

  Turning the Tahoe off, Bridget turns to me. “It’s all right.” She reaches across the console to touch my hand that I didn’t realize was shaking. Glancing down, I watch our hands and force myself to stop overreacting. I’m sure Lachlan’s sister is less scary than him. If I can live through a day with him, I can surely survive a few hours with her.

  I nod to Bridget and give her hand a reassuring squeeze. Lifting my eyes, I flash her a tiny smile, and she beams back. “I’m going to get your chair out of the back. Whisky will be on her best behavior, but I have to warn you: she’s very friendly.” Bridget emphasizes those last words. I’m still reeling about what they mean as she hops out of the SUV, making quick work of delivering my wheelchair to my door.

  Bridget slams my door shut and walks beside me as I roll myself to the front of Whisky’s shop. I stop and cast my eyes inside the glass front door, taking in the black and white tile flooring blend with the wire framed bistro tables with hot pink cushions. From here, the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention, and I swallow hard.

  Bridget secures the door and a bell jingles cheerily when it’s opened wide.

  Here goes nothing.

  Crossing the threshold, a knot forms in my throat as the cold, sugary air blasts me in the face. Proverbially pulling up my big girl panties, I wage on and move deeper into the bakery.

  “I’m—” A short, thick, curvy redhead stops talking when she turns the corner from the back room and makes instant eye contact with me. Struck dumbly, I stop moving and Bridget runs into my chair from behind, expelling a pained Oaf. Whisky, the woman with the same eyes as Lachlan, bursts out laughing while scrubbing her face with her hands and shaking her head.
I’m not sure what to think, so I try not to think at all.

  “I’ll be damned!” she shouts, calming her laughter and smiling so big I can see where Bridget gets it from.

  “Hey, Whisky.” Bridget slips out from behind me and rubs her stomach before looking down at me. “Your chair tried to impale me.”

  I shrug and mouth sorry; then scold myself for not voicing it aloud.

  My eyes move from Bridget back to her aunt, who’s looking at me in a strange way that I can’t put my finger on. She moves around the counter to the front and sits at the nearest table. Not saying a word, she pushes the chair directly across from her out from under the table. Reaching across, she drags it to the side, and pats the top of the table with her hand, her eyes still on me.

  “You’re lucky she’s not ordering you to sit there,” Bridget explains, clearly in awe of this action. I take that as a good sign and wheel myself to the empty spot across from the redhead.

  “Pip, you’re on. Get an apron, then bring us some lemonade and shortbread cookies,” Whisky instructs.

  “No problem, boss.” Bridget heads to complete the task, claiming an apron off a hook on the back wall. It must be a uniform of sorts, because Whisky is also wearing one that’s pink, black, and white with little skulls over it.

  Whisky leans back in her chair, crossing her arms loosely over her ample chest, and smirks at me. “I wondered what you might look like.” Her eyes give me the once over, then a twice over, and by the third time, her lip curls into a big Cheshire grin, her eyes dazzling the same way Lachlan’s do. Just thinking about his eyes makes my stomach go wonky. “But I gotta tell ya, I wouldn’t have believed Pip if I hadn’t seen ya with my own two eyes.”

  I’m not sure what she means, so I lean forward and decide it’s now or never that I speak, because if I don’t, I’ll be typing for the rest of the afternoon. Like my grams always used to say, ‘There’s nothing better than the present’.