Knife & Flesh (The Night Horde SoCal Book 4)

by Susan Fanetti

  “Yeah,” her voice cracked, and she coughed her throat clear. “I’m good. You want a drink?”

  “Got whiskey? Or beer?”

  “No, sorry. I’ve got wine, though. A couple bottles of red, and a white in the fridge.”

  “That’s okay,” he chuckled. “I’ll just take water.”

  Embarrassed that she didn’t have a more, she guessed, ‘manly’ drink to offer him, she nodded and got out two glasses, then opened the freezer for ice. “Oh! Vodka! I have vodka!” When she turned to wave the bottle of Absolut at him, he was right behind her, so close that she brushed his chest.

  “Vodka will do.”

  He stepped back to make room for her, and she poured them each a glass of Absolut. She handed him his and watched as he drank the whole glass down at one go. The muscles of his throat flexed as he swallowed, and she reached out a finger and traced a line from his jaw, through his beard to the notch at his collarbones, and then over his shoulder. His body was a wonder: lean and sharply defined, the skin taut over perfect contours of every muscle she could name and several she couldn’t. And covered with art, like a living gallery. “You have so many tattoos. Do they all mean something?”

  He reached past her, leaning close, and set his empty glass on the counter. She hadn’t even had a sip of hers yet. “Yeah, they all mean something.”

  “Like what?” She opened her hand and eased it over his chest, down to his ribs. “What does this one mean?”

  On his left side, taking up most of the real estate there from just below his nipple to his waistband and wrapping around to his back, was a black horse—black because it seemed to be made of iron, with fittings of brass. Like a literal iron horse, caught at full gallop. Its mane was a series of chimneys, each one shooting fire. Its fierce eyes were fire, too, and steam billowed from its nose and mouth. It was darker than most of his others, the colors brilliant and the lines pristine. The detail was minute. All of his tattoos were beautiful in some way, but that piece was legitimately a work of art.

  “That’s a new one. The patch of the Horde is the Flaming Mane. It’s a take on that.”

  Down his ribs on his right side, he had the word HORDE inked in a line, in a font Juliana thought of as ‘tattoo type.’ The horse was much more interesting. “It’s like steampunk.” She looked up and saw a pleased grin grow across his handsome face.

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  Encouraged and interested, she took a sip of her drink and let her free hand roam over his art. On the outside of his left bicep was the first she’d ever taken note of: Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. He had several text tattoos over both arms; this piece was nearly bald in its simplicity. A font like Courier New or something, the words arranged evenly in a square and unadorned. It made her feel wistful and a little sad. “And this?”

  “It’s from a book I like. It’s a reminder.”

  “Slaughterhouse-Five, I know. I read it for a class. What does it remind you of?”

  He gave her that pleased grin again and put his hands on her hips. “To remember the good.”

  “You need a reminder for that?”

  He didn’t answer, but his smile faded away. Understanding that she’d gotten too close to something, she moved her hand again, this time over the arm band directly below it. Another text tattoo, in Greek; she could tell by the letters. “What’s this?”

  “It’s Greek. Archimedes. It reads ‘Give me the place to stand, and I shall move the earth.’”

  “That’s beautiful.” She smoothed her hand over a tattoo of intricate geometric patterns that seemed to be the mate to the one that took up most of his left leg, and then she put her hand over his wrist. He had the same tattoo around each wrist: a solid black band, about two inches wide, showing a join on the top of the wrist. The left, though, continued onto his hand. On the back of his hand was a padlock, hooked through the join but unlocked.

  “These are shackles.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  He picked up her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “Is this what you want to talk about? My ink?”

  She lifted her eyes to his face. “Who are you, Trick? I don’t even know your last name. Or your real name, for that matter.”

  “I don’t know your last name, either. And Trick is my real name. I’m Patrick Stavros.”

  “Juliana Dominguez.” She squeezed her fingers with his. “Nice to meet you.”

  With his free hand, he poured himself another glass of vodka. “So let’s talk.”

  He led her to her living room, and they sat down on the sofa they’d so recently enjoyed.

  Still holding her hand, Trick took a drink of his vodka and set it on her coffee table. When he sat back again, he faced her and asked, “What do you want, Juliana?”

  “I want to know you. I want it—this—not to be a mistake. I want to know what this means. I need to know.”

  “I don’t have those answers. I don’t think those are answers you can have, except in reflection. Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.”

  The sentiment was so deep and true that Juliana felt it, like a throb. “Wow.”

  He chuckled softly. “That’s not mine. I’m paraphrasing Kierkegaard. I’m only profound with other people’s thoughts. But I think Kierkegaard is right—we don’t get to know if our choices are the right ones until they’ve already been lived.”

  “And if that’s not good enough?” She wanted it to be good enough. She wanted to shut off the nagging voice in her head that insisted Trick was a danger, despite all of her first-hand evidence to the contrary. She wanted to be able to follow her heart, which seemed to want to charge at him and wrap itself around him. She had never felt this viscerally for a man before. What she felt for Trick was more than want. It was need, and it terrified her. And enlivened her.

  He reached out and cupped her jaw in his hand. His thumb brushed softly over her lips, and she kissed its rough pad. “You’re afraid of me.”

  “No. I’m afraid of what being with you will do to our life. I know you’re not…you’re not a normal guy. I’m afraid of what that means for me and Lucie. You’re not in my plan.”

  His thumb moved up and circled her little mole; he seemed to like that spot. Then he leaned in close and kissed it. His beard brushed over her mouth as he repeated on a breath, “What do you want, Juliana?” The question had become a refrain.

  She tipped her head back and found his eyes. “I want everything to be beautiful and nothing to hurt.”

  He flinched in surprise, his hand tightening quickly around her jaw and his gilded blue eyes going hot and intense. He seemed immobilized, so she leaned in and kissed him, wrapping her hand around the beard at his chin.

  The sound he made as their mouths touched was deep and desperate, like surrender, and Juliana understood that Trick was fighting his own fears and uncertainties as well.

  She was a danger to him in some way. He, too, was taking a risk. She should have known that was true—she wouldn’t have been able to hurt him the way she had if it weren’t true—but until this moment, she hadn’t let the knowledge take root.

  There was strength in the knowledge. There was balance. Knowing he was vulnerable, too, made her feel empowered to choose the things she knew over the things she feared. The Trick she knew was what she wanted. The Trick she knew was in her plan: A strong man. Gentle and loving, to her and her daughter. But fiercely protective, too. Patient. Smart. Steady.

  She choked off the voice in her head that still shrieked CRIMINAL! NIGHT HORDE! BIKER! CRIMINAL! Mark was an upstanding member of the community, and look where that had gotten her. Surrendering to her heart, Juliana wrapped herself around Trick and gave herself over to their kiss.

  ~oOo~

  Later, they lay in a naked tangle on the sofa, Juliana between Trick’s legs, resting on his chest. She played with his nipple ring, absently flipping it up and down. The fingers of one of his hands drew a long, light ova
l over her back.

  Juliana’s thoughts moved in a lazy swirl in her head. She was sated, content, but curious. Her uncertainties, though muted, remained. As much as she felt connected to him, more every moment of their acquaintance, he was inscrutable to her, too—a mystery. But wasn’t everyone a mystery at first? Every new person was a puzzle to solve. Friendship and love happened when the pieces joined.

  “Do you have family?” she asked.

  His voice had the low rumble of near-sleep. “The Horde is my family.”

  Unsatisfied with that answer, she turned and rested her chin on her hand, looking up at him. He opened his eyes and looked down to meet her gaze. “What about your grandfather in Greece? Something like ‘papoose,’ I think you called him?”

  “Pappoús. Yeah. I haven’t seen him for a long time, since I was in high school, but I’d say we’re close even so. We write back and forth. He’s a good old guy. Stubborn as hell.”

  When he didn’t elaborate further, she asked, “What about your parents? Any siblings?”

  He sighed, one corner of his mouth lifting in a resigned kind of smirk, and drew a finger down the length of her nose. “You want my family history.”

  “I want to know you.”

  “My parents are dead. My mom died giving birth to me. I was a surprise, and she was in her forties, and there was some kind of problem. My dad died almost ten years ago. Heart attack. I have a sister who’s fourteen years older than me. The last time we spoke was at our father’s funeral. My grandfather is my only blood family left, and I haven’t seen him in eighteen years. The Horde is my family.”

  He said all that like he was reciting a list of facts from an almanac. But it was insight, crucial insight. And there was a connection between their stories, a connection so strong that Juliana’s throat got tight. She kissed his chest and looked back up at him. They’d both been left alone. “I haven’t seen my parents in fourteen years. Not in person. They’ve never held their granddaughter.”

  Trick lifted his head, a frown creasing his brow, but he didn’t speak, so she went on. “They were undocumented, and ICE deported them back to Nicaragua when I was eighteen. They raided my high school graduation party and took them away in handcuffs. I haven’t been with them since.”

  “Jesus. Jesus, Jules.”

  She liked the subtle claiming that had happened when he’d started to call her Jules; it made her feel safe. Her throat turning into a knot, she swallowed hard and tried to smile. Even all these years later, the day her parents were taken was still her most painful day. “I wanted to go with them, but it wasn’t that simple. And they didn’t want me to. I’m a citizen. I could still live the life they’d dreamed of when they’d come to America. I was so scared to be alone, though. God, I was so scared.”

  He smoothed the backs of his knuckles over her cheek. “You know, the way to say ‘I miss you’ in Greek is Mou leípeis. But it doesn’t mean exactly the same thing. It literally means, ‘You are missing from me.’ I’ve always thought that was the better way to say what it feels like.”

  Fighting the tears that filled her tight throat, she could only nod. With a sad smile, he wrapped his hands around her arms. He pulled her up his body and then held her close. She snuggled in and let him comfort her, let herself be comforted.

  On the inside of Trick’s right bicep was a tattoo that seemed surprisingly whimsical: a small boy with a long scarf being carried off by a flock of tethered birds. She brushed a finger over it, and he chuckled, his breath moving her hair.

  “Are you going to start examining my ink again?”

  “Sorry. I’m interested, I can’t help it. There are so many, and they’re all different.” She looked up at him. “You have so much to say.”

  “I don’t know. It’s more like I listen. Most of them are things that speak to me. That one you’re fondling is a picture from a book. The Little Prince. It’s a kids’ book, but I read it in a philosophy class in college.”

  “You went to college?”

  He nodded. “UCLA. BA in Art History.”

  She was envious. Oh, to have finally accomplished that goal. Two more semesters. And then the LSAT and law school and the bar exam. But still, to have reached that first goal toward the career, the life, she wanted.

  An impulse struck her, and she gave him a puckish smirk. “Lot of jobs come with that degree?”

  His face lit up with humor. “I love that look of yours. And no, not really. But I didn’t go to college for a job. I went because I wanted to know things. I tried to major in art, but there were a lot of rules, a lot of people telling me I did what I did wrong. When I realized that the history of art is filled with people who wadded up the rules, I switched majors. I learned a lot, and it does help me with my work.

  “Which is?” Her heartbeat rattled unsteadily. They were nearing dark territory.

  “I design and build bikes. Motorcycles.”

  That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. What had she expected him to say? Oh, you know, the usual crimes. You wouldn’t believe how helpful an understanding of the Baroque period can be when negotiating drug deals. “Oh. You do?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Not surprised, exactly. Impressed.” And relieved, but she left that unsaid. “Did you build yours?”

  “No. Mine’s just a stock Harley with some mods. What I build are more… I don’t know. They’re different.”

  “I’d like to see what you make.”

  There was pride and pleasure in the grin that lifted his cheeks. “Sure. There’s a few in the Virtuoso showroom. And I’ve got photos and some sketches I could show you, too.”

  Feeling quiet and happy, Juliana laid her head on Trick’s chest again. His heart had the slow, steady beat of calm, and she found herself lulled, her bare self surrounded by his. She sighed, and it became a yawn.

  “You tired?” His voice rolled deeply against her ear.

  “Happy. Can you stay the whole weekend?”

  He picked up a lock of her hair and twisted it in his fingers. “Far as I know. I could get called, but for now, yeah. You want that?”

  “I do. I didn’t think I’d be happy tonight, with Lucie at her dad’s. This weekend was going to suck, but now it’s wonderful instead.”

  “She’s okay there? Her dad’s a piece of work.”

  “He’s good to her—he really is. What’s between us is different. But he gives Lucie his goodness. I’m not worried that he’ll hurt her.” She swallowed and gave voice to her true fear. “I’m worried he won’t bring her back.”

  Trick pushed her off his chest. “What?”

  She sat up; the topic was too stressful to be discussed while cuddling. “It’s probably irrational. We’ve been split since she was a baby, and he’s always been reliable about visitation. But a couple of months ago, he broke into my house and beat me up really bad. I pressed charges, but the DA didn’t pursue the case. He’s an investigator, and he’s got a lot of powerful friends—lawyers, cops, judges. I did get a TRO and a temporary injunction suspending his visitation, and we went to back to court. Lucie loves him, and I didn’t want to take her father away from her, but I needed to put some guards between me and him. I tried to get sole custody and restrict his visitation to certain conditions, and I lost. This is the first weekend that he’s got visitation back. He’s really pissed.”

  Trick’s expression was absolutely still. A few tense seconds passed before he asked, in a level, steady voice, “Have you called and checked in with her?”