by Anne Malcom
He knew that his deputy was struggling to pay his daughter’s medical bills since she’d been diagnosed with leukemia.
So though he knew that most of the town considered him a hard-assed cop who took the law to the letter, he didn’t mind what they didn’t know.
They also thought they knew that he had such an intense hatred for the Sons of Templar MC that said hatred spread like a rotten root to everyone connected.
Or that maybe it didn’t mean hatred for those like Lucy and Ashley, but it was a warm indifference. With them, and with Rosie. The woman everyone thought he was kind to but didn’t notice as anything more than the kind girl whose brother epitomized everything Luke was trying to eradicate.
What they didn’t know was what Luke really saw when he looked into her hazel eyes.
What they didn’t know was how fucking hard Luke had worked to feign that warm indifference to that beautiful wild girl since the moment he’d seen a little five-year-old in all black and combat boots throw a pretend punch to her father, with crazy curls and a beautiful smile.
They didn’t know how much that day on the wharf had broken his heart, but also somehow made it uncomfortably large in his chest while he witnessed a seven-year-old girl quietly and bravely grieving the loss of the only parent she’d ever known, dry-eyed, watching the waves and clutching his hand so tightly his fingers were bruised for days.
How he’d labored not to yank her into his arms and kiss her, despite her youth, when he’d seen her threaten to blow up bullies, her protection for those weaker than her fiercer than a lion.
How he’d actually been gripping his gun with the intention to use it when he’d seen some gangly asshole with his hands and mouth all over Rosie in the back of a car.
How that night that he had to inform Laurie’s parents that their only child was murdered and brutalized in a way even he’d never known humankind was capable of, how that night he had fire running through his veins. How he’d been close to going to do… something. To exact revenge and not justice.
And then he’d seen Rosie’s car speeding past the compound where he’d nearly killed her brother and he’d followed it. That night, all he’d wanted to do was make sure his arms were her home for the rest of her life. How he’d forsake the shield at his chest to become one for her so he’d never have to see that broken women shattered by the ugliness of the world.
He’d done none of those things that had been more natural than slipping on his uniform each day. And because he didn’t do those things, it became harder and harder to slip on that uniform that had once fit so perfectly.
It became harder to face himself in the mirror as he pursued women who weren’t her, who weren’t for him, who made him ashamed beyond belief.
It became harder to chase the image of her away from the forefront of his mind.
And then, when everything had finally blown up, after all those years, she was gone. And then the image of her in his mind was the only thing he could chase.
Grasp on to memories that had seemed to fill his entire mind before. But with her absent, they scarcely filled a corner of the wasteland that was his mind.
He needed to fill that up.
To chase her.
And he intended to do that.
To the ends of the earth, if need be.
“Should I snap this or post it on Instagram?” The nasally voice punctured through Luke’s thoughts like an air horn after a night out drinking. He’d had a night of drinking. Just not out. He’d sat outside that bar, staring at the shithole that the love of his life was drowning her sorrows inside of, torturing himself with memories, cursing himself for being a coward and not walking in and taking her, claiming her. Imagined how he’d do it, the way she’d taste, her sweet body writhing under his. Fantasized about her in his car like some kind of sicko.
It wasn’t even the sex stuff that got his dick hard. The thought of lying with her, imprinting her scent onto his pillows, onto his body. Seeing her smile, watching her fucking laugh.
That empty look of hers in the hospital haunted him. Taunted him. Showed him what a fucking failure he was. He wasn’t good enough. Didn’t find her in time. Something beat him to it, whatever it was that sucked the life out of those once vibrant eyes.
She was still beautiful—more so, if that was even possible—but it was a cutting, harsh sort of beauty that was difficult to look at. Hurt to look at. Because he knew to get that fucking beautiful, she had to see horrors, real ones. Not these fucking bullshit ones that the airhead he was working for called disasters. Bad photo angles. A snub at some awards show. People talking shit about her online. Ones that idiots like this movie star couldn’t even act out in some stupid film, let alone experience.
That’s what made Rosie that much more beautiful. That pain. Because you knew she was strong enough, deep enough to withstand it. Something powerful and ugly enough to change the very foundations of her, yet she still lit up a room like no superstar ever could.
He’d seen that and he’d been so angry. More than he already had been since that day. He’d been carrying his anger around like a dead weight, his cross to bear for the mistakes, the sins of his past. It was unfamiliar and ugly. Ugly because wearing that anger was becoming too comfortable. He was growing used to it.
He was pissed at her for running. Disappearing. Leaving him with the fucking skeletons she’d let out of both of their closets, to bury them alone and then to function without her. Furious.
He was most angry at himself, for spending his life absorbed in so much hate that he couldn’t see a fucking scrap of truth.
So he’d stewed in that anger in his car, outside that shitty bar, until he couldn’t breathe around it. Until he scared even himself with the magnitude of it. Then he’d driven both him and his anger home and drowned it in Jack.
Hence the headache. And the hangover.
The headache being the movie star.
“I think I’ll just do SnapChat. Makes me more accessible—hey! What are you doing? I told you, no one is allowed to drink Pepsi in this house. I have a phobia.”
Yes, the bitch had a fucking Pepsi phobia. Among other things. Like no one was allowed to wear white. It was her color. Everyone who entered her house had to wear stupid little booties on top of their shoes so they didn’t track dirt into her house.
Never mind the fucking carpet-pissing dogs that ran around shitting everywhere. Not that she noticed. There was a designated person for picking up the shit. Yes, this person literally picked up shit for a living.
And he took it from this vile creature. But not the booties. He’d been firm on that.
“My job is to protect you. I’m not gonna be able to do that when I’m wearin’ fuckin’ booties,” he’d spat out. This earned him a sharp glance from the manager who hired him.
The starlet blinked at him, obviously unused to having someone not obey her every whim. Her botoxed forehead had twitched and he thought she might yell. Fire him. He’d hoped for it. This assignment was bullshit, despite the fact that it paid three times more than his salary as a sheriff. He would rather shovel shit for money, as long as it wasn’t for this bitch. But he wouldn’t quit. He wouldn’t. He’d done that enough.
But she didn’t fire him, merely nodded and instructed him to keep his boots clean. “I do admire a man who takes protecting me so seriously,” she’d purred, her vulture eyes inspecting him.
He’d restrained a glare. “It’s my job, ma’am,” he said flatly, hoping to communicate his immense disgust in the proposition she was making with her eyes.
She hadn’t seen it, or had ignored it. Because after that, she’d relentlessly and horrifically come onto him at any moment she could.
Even if she wasn’t a raging bitch, Luke never would’ve gone there. In fact, if it was just that, he probably would have. Women who stood for everything she didn’t were the only kind he took to bed. Some kind of warped respect for the woman he couldn’t have. The woman he loved. So he only let himself take
the most horrible women to bed. As his punishment. Reminding him that he had a good, wonderful woman within reach and he’d fucked it up. Majorly.
But it wasn’t just the fact that she was horrible. She was like a Monet. Maybe pretty from a distance, airbrushed and covered in makeup, but up close she was a mess. Her skin was sallow and almost yellowing, the effects of all the cocaine she did on a daily basis, Luke guessed. Every bone in her body stretched over her skin, protruding like a starving child. She would never eat. She couldn’t. She’d order all sorts of shit at some restaurant and just push the food around, then have it taken away. Her fridge was stocked with everything imaginable, most of it untouched and thrown away after a week. It was disgusting, her waste. Luke knew of the people struggling to put one meal on the table and here she was throwing two weeks’ worth in the trash, too dense to even donate it.
Everything about her was hollow. And ugly.
She tapped away on her phone, the fake claws on her fingers clicking on the screen.
He wasn’t supposed to be in there, watching her tragic life play out. He sure as fuck didn’t want to be in there. He was supposed to be stationed outside, on the perimeter. Despite the fact that in the two months he’d had this gig, he had never even sniffed a threat, she’d apparently contacted Greenstone because of her serious concerns for her safety.
Luke was beginning to think that she thrived off the attention, and also that she’d heard the stories of the men who worked for Greenstone. They were quickly becoming one of the most sought after agencies in the city, with Keltan having to employ more men. Which was how Luke tumbled into the gig. He’d first come to LA after handing in his badge to employ Keltan to help him find Rosie. He’d tried himself, with the resources at his disposal. That was why he delayed handing in his gun and badge, not because of reluctance to leave the only job he’d ever known, the only job he thought he’d ever have. No, he’d stayed so he could misuse his power to find her.
Something his self-righteous past self would’ve rebelled against. But he had already crossed that line he’d set in the sand the day he put on his uniform.
Once he’d crossed it, there was no going back.
He didn’t want to go back.
Which was why he’d left. Searching for her. He hadn’t planned on staying; his plan was just to get a lead, chase her. He’d stayed because he realized that she wasn’t like any other women. She wasn’t running because she wanted to be chased. To be rescued.
He just had to wait for her to come back so she could rescue him from the hell he’d been renting in her absence.
“Luke, so sorry to keep you waiting,” the nasally voice interrupted his thoughts.
He would never get lost in them on a job usually. But this wasn’t normal circumstances. And this job was a fucking circus.
“I just had to finish some important tasks,” she finished, setting her phone down.
Luke barely restrained a snort. This woman wouldn’t know important—or hard work, for that matter—if it bit her on her bony ass.
“No problem, ma’am,” he replied, crossing his arms and watching her approach blankly.
She clearly thought she was sashaying, the bottom of her robe trailing behind her, purposefully untied just enough to show her chest. Though there wasn’t much to show but bones rising up from the skin.
“Must you call me ma’am?” she whined. “It makes me feel positively ancient.” She stopped in front of him. Too close. Luke’s jaw hardened as her perfume choked him. “Plus, it’s so formal. I like to be informal with employees. Treat them like friends.” She eyed him with a clear intention in her eyes.
One that made Luke feel vaguely sick. Beyond the fact that what she’d said was a flat lie. She treated her staff like slaves, screaming at them routinely and firing at least one person a week.
“I prefer to keep friends and business separate, ma’am,” Luke said firmly. “Now what is it you called me here to talk about? I need to get back to work.”
She flinched a little at his tone, and he didn’t give a shit. Normally he gave women respect and actively tried not to hurt them. This was an exception.
She straightened her shoulders and tightened her robe sash. Luke’s eyes stayed upward, uninterested.
“I have an event tonight. Black tie,” she said. “I need you to come with me.”
No question. Luke bristled.
“And you only just ask this now?” he gritted out.
She regarded her nails. “I only just decided I wanted to go. And of course, it will be full of overzealous fans. I need you there. It’s your job, after all, no?”
Luke clenched his jaw. “Yes, ma’am.”
“We can’t fire a client, Luke,” Keltan said, the fucker grinning at him from behind the desk. “Especially not one who pays as much as that empty-headed Barbie doll.”
Luke clenched the beer in his hands. “She wants me to go to a gala with her tonight,” he gritted out.
Keltan choked out a chuckle, swallowing it with his own beer when he caught Luke’s glare. “No shit?”
“I look like I’m joking?” Luke didn’t joke these days. Or smile much.
Now that Rosie was back, he had even fewer reasons to smile. Having her in the same city as him with that empty and haunted look behind her eyes was almost worse than not knowing where the fuck she was.
No.
Nothing was worth than that.
Keltan’s smile disappeared, and despite his current predicament, Luke kicked himself for being responsible for that. Keltan hadn’t had many reasons to smile for the last few days.
In fact, the last few days had given him reason not to smile for the rest of his life.
Luke shuddered inwardly at the memory of his friend’s face when he’d been at the hospital after watching the love of his life almost bleed out in his arms. Watched the life seep out of him as he entertained the possibility of existing in the world without her.
Existing. Not living.
Luke knew, at least in part, what that was like.
He’d been existing for a year.
Without her.
Fuck, if he wanted to be honest with himself, he’d been existing for thirty-five fucking years.
Without her.
He’d been lying to himself for that long. Then when he was prepared for the truth, no matter how ugly it was—because even ugly would turn beautiful with her where she belonged, with him—when he finally got that, it was just in time to lose her.
Not that he’d ever really had her.
There wasn’t much worse than only half living your life and not realizing what you were missing out on, but barely living at all and realizing why was way fucking worse.
Which was why he’d handed in his badge.
He’d expected a lot from his father. Disappointment. Anger.
What he didn’t expect was pride.
“Well, it’s about time.”
Luke almost choked on the whisky he’d poured himself upon entering his father’s den.
“What?”
“You’ve lived life on the straight and narrow, son. Enforced the law to the letter. By the book. Saw it all in black and white like a good cop does.” He paused, clipping the end of his cigar. It tumbled away onto the carpet, making its escape. His father’s nimble hands snatched at it with a deft speed that betrayed his almost seventy years. As did the sharp look he gave his son. “You tell your mother about this, I’ll take my badge back just to send you to lockup,” he promised.
Luke smiled. He wanted to chuckle, but he didn’t feel like it right at that moment. Hadn’t wanted to in a long time. He wondered if he’d remember how.
His father leaned back in his weathered and peeling La-Z-Boy, sucking at the end of the unlit cigar.
“All those things,” he continued on his tangent, picking up right where he’d left off like nothing had happened. “Yeah, they make the perfect cop. Problem is you can be a perfect cop, but in order to be that, you’ve got to be an impe
rfect man. You can’t be a perfect man. It’s in our nature. We’re all works in progress.” He took the cigar from his mouth, twirling it in his fingers, regarding it. “Heck, maybe one day I’ll learn to stop enjoying the things that may one day kill me.”
He shrugged, reaching for the gold Zippo Luke had gotten him for his sixtieth, lighting the cigar and taking a long inhale.
“Maybe I won’t.” He blew out a plume of smoke that smelled like nostalgia to Luke. “Got to die somehow. I’d much rather it be because of something that gave me small amounts of joy for most of my life.” His eyes went to Luke. “What I’m trying to say, son, is life ain’t meant to be lived on the straight and narrow, by the book. I’m proud as hell of the man I’ve raised. The cop I’ve trained. Thing is the perfect cop isn’t what I want my son to be. ’Cause he ain’t gonna be the man who finds joy where he can, even though he knows exactly where to find it. Exactly where to find her. That man won’t do that because that cop won’t let him. ’Cause that joy is lying in a place that ain’t black or white. Nor is the life that comes with it.”
Instead of feeling better with his father’s sage wisdom and perception floating in his mind, Luke felt like he’d chewed barbed wire.
How fucking stupid had he been?
He didn’t hesitate.
As soon as he’d left his father’s house, he’d left.
Left Amber, and the life that had seemed so fucking important for his entire life. The purpose he’d clung to, ruining the gang that he thought were evil. Maybe he’d been so intent on destroying them not because of their crimes, not even because of their responsibility in Laurie’s death.
But because of Rosie.
Because of that little five-year-old girl with wild hair and combat boots. The one who he believed didn’t have a chance to be innocent when she was surrounded by guilt. That little girl who’d turned into a wonderful woman, the woman he wished had more.
And he’d been so fucking blind because he didn’t see that she had more. She was more. That gang he’d been so intent on villainizing weren’t even the worst.