by A. C. Bextor
Hearing my point, he turns my head to his, looks down and quietly claims, “I never thought in a million fuckin’ years this would happen.”
“You’ve broken my heart.”
“Fuck,” he clips, lifting his head. Talking to the wall, he admits, “I couldn’t help either of them, Mia. They’re dead. Gone. And I did nothing to stop it.”
Hearing his guilt voiced as punishment, the air in the room evaporates. Taking its place, a dark and empty sense of nothing.
“Elevent, I can’t breathe.”
Hearing my plea, he moves. The loss of his body inside mine is immediate. Elevent rolls to the side, leaving no contact between us at all. My body aches, cold and alone.
I scramble out from the blankets, going in search for my clothes. I do this all hoping there’s a way out of this place now. Tonight. I can’t stay after this.
Once I’m dressed, I make my way to the door. I wait, listening for something he’ll have to say. Some order he’ll give. Some reprimand to whatever it is I’ve done.
But nothing comes except my tears and the vicious sound of my heart breaking in my chest.
I’m going home because here I never was.
You filled my head with thoughts of you.
“Fuck,” I hiss, the room already dark but starting to fade to black. “Fuck!”
You gave me the promise of you, and I believed in it.
Mia left my room, went straight to Vante and asked him to take her home. Ten days of nothing has passed since she left me in that bed alone. Not a visit, call, or text. I hadn’t figured she’d try, but with each day that’s passed, I’ve waited. I’ve fought the urge to go to her. And so far I’ve won.
I hate you.
“Fuck!”
Gypsy’s standing in the doorframe, not having said a word since he threw it open in search for me. He also hasn’t made a move to step inside. He’s thinking about it, I know. He’s contemplating giving me have what I know I have coming. Maybe the sight of Ziah sleeping on what was briefly Angel’s bed, tucked soundly in her sheets, surrounded by every gift Pyke ever gave him, stopped him.
Or maybe like me, he’s too fucking tired to care.
Either way, ever since he’s been staring in my direction, his arms crossed over his chest.
Waiting.
When Ziah followed me in here hours ago, he fell to the floor at my feet. The kid is exhausted. Yet he doesn’t sleep. He’s welding himself to me, as if he’s terrified of losing me too. He’s gone as far as to be waiting outside my bathroom door.
I get it; he’s afraid and alone. We’re alike here, but I’ve never been good at either.
My life’s loss has never included someone I dearly loved. Pyke was my first. Lane, though I didn’t love her at all, comes a close second.
Bringing the half-empty glass of whiskey to my lips, I stare through the window into the night and whisper my challenge. “You have somethin’ on your mind, brother, I suggest you get to it before your legs get too tired to stand.”
Gypsy says nothing. But I wait.
He’ll have something to say, some crazy notion that he can sort my shit, making it so my life isn’t the cesspool of darkness it’s become…because I’ve let it.
That’s the brother’s way. There’s a reason the members go to Gypsy for counsel and advice.
The sounds of booted steps come closer. I crane my neck to look up and into his towering frame scolding down.
Grabbing the glass from my hand, he brings it to his lips and finishes what I hadn’t. Then he takes the seat next to mine, clears his throat, and brings his elbows to his knees.
No longer comfortable with the silence, he looks out the same small square window I am and states, “You’re gonna lose this club, El, if you don’t get your shit together.”
“Sage advice,” I taunt.
The last two weeks has left me marked. After losing Pyke, my days have been spent wandering around in daylight, but without the ability to see. The men have kept to themselves and no work to rebuild this club has been done.
“Sunny’s pissed as fuck. She called Pop,” Gypsy tells me. “Now Pop’s pissed as fuck. Says he’s coming back.”
“No reason,” I tell him. “There’s nothing here to come back to.”
Gypsy ignores what’s true and presses, “Mom’s fuckin’ beside herself at what happened here.”
“Good they have a home away from this one then,” I give.
Exhaling a heavily burdened breath, Gypsy sits back in his chair and crosses his ankle to the opposite knee.
“He knew his time was up,” he tells me in regards to Pyke.
“And you’re the expert in all things Pyke, now that he’s dead?” I counter with disdain. “That how it is?”
“No,” he replies quietly. “I’m an expert because other than his doctors at the hospital, I was the only one alive who knew he was dyin’.”
I carry on with a slow blink, my teeth grinding to the point of pain. I grasp the neck of the whiskey bottle as I turn my glare to Gypsy. He doesn’t pay any attention—not caring the first fuck for my reaction.
What he does do is keep talking. “He was sick, Elevent. Four months is what the docs told him. At best. By the time Pyke confided in me, he had only a couple left. Pancreatic cancer. Not a lot anyone can do about that.”
Pyke had cancer. Pyke was dying and he never said a fucking word. He hid his sickness, knowing by giving anyone the news they’d mourn his passing before it happened.
Only a brave man has big enough balls to do that.
“He knew by not tellin’ you, or anyone else, he was gonna catch hell, but he figured he’d be dead by then. Didn’t care. He wanted to be left alone to live the rest of his life how he always did. With Ziah and his brothers.”
A tear I hadn’t felt coming slides down my cheek as I run my hand over my head. I’m listening to the last wishes of one of the greatest, most caring men I’ve ever known.
I feel sick.
“He didn’t wanna be a burden and he told me ‘cause he knew I’d get that. I dosed his meds, took care of him as best I could,” Gypsy tells me, his voice nearly breaking. “He couldn’t stand to look weak in front of Ziah, and fuck, El, watchin’ him do all he fucking did nearly killed me.”
“You should’ve fuckin’ told me,” I whisper. “Fuck, you should’ve told someone.”
Gypsy, finally giving me his gaze, states, “No one could’ve helped him. He knew it. I knew it. And last thing Pyke wanted was to die with others watchin’.”
Fuck, this hurts. More than I thought the way he died did.
“He loved Mia,” Gypsy leads. “Loved her for you, for Saint’s. He made me promise to help take care of her. And Ziah, too. He loved them…And fuck knows he loved you.”
Another tear for Pyke slides, this time I use my free hand to clear it from my cheek. Pyke did love Mia and not only for me. For the women here, the morale, the guys. She’s come to be the heart, the glue that kept the rest of the club together when the men were gone.
“He was sick and when he saw what Tyrant was about to do…” Gypsy stops to swallow hard. “He had a chance to make sure you kept somethin’ in this life he never had.”
“Shut up,” I order.
“He did what he did for you,” he goes on anyway.
“You’re done.”
As ever, not listening, Gypsy offers, “So now that you know why he acted out as he did, what will you do?”
Shaking my head, I look into the night. “Nothing.”
“Christ, brother,” he snaps. “The love of a good woman doesn’t make you weak.”
“And you’d fuckin’ know anything about that?” I query back. “Cricket has loved you since the day she saw you. She was a kid and had enough sense to see what she wanted,” I hiss. “And you’ve fucked that off long enough she’s in another man’s bed, taking his cock, and acceptin’ he’s not who she wants.” Gypsy keeps quiet, boldly retreating as he should. So, I push, “With that, I’
m thinkin’ you should shut the fuck up.”
Standing, angrier than I’ve ever seen him, he tosses the empty glass to the floor. I watch it roll until it stops next to the bed.
“You wanna run the club to the ground, fine. Do it. You wanna let Mia go, congrats brother, you’re on track…” Leaning down, resting his hands on the chair’s edges at my sides, he gets in my face. There, he points to Ziah behind him. “But you’re all the kid has. He lost a good man, a great person, who loved him like no one else ever has. Don’t teach him how to tuck and run when shit gets real.”
“Get out,” I voice low.
“Pyke would be ashamed of you,” he tells me. “And if you don’t get your head together, all of this will fall. Because you and I both know, you are this club.”
“Get out,” I tell him again.
Gypsy walks away, I don’t turn around to watch. No longer able to see him, I can only hear how his voice shifts to understanding as he gives the final parting shot. “Love you like a brother, Elevent. Not a club brother, but one born from blood. This all falls around us, I’ll still be here. Remember that.”
Pyke had cancer.
He was dying.
He was my brother, sometimes a father.
He gave everything in his life for Saint’s.
Yet, he knowingly died without giving us any of us chance to say goodbye.
“Fuck!”
“I’ll have a word with Mia,” Vlad’s dark voice haunts. “Alone.”
All heads turn toward the entrance to the living room.
Wren gasps. My mouth falls open. Klara, Vlad’s wife, stands at her husband’s side. She’s wearing a short white sundress, held up with ties around her neck. Her long blonde hair is down, hanging around her shoulders in big curls. Her feet are bare. Her hand is held firmly in her husband’s and she’s smiling.
Now that I’m back at the Zalesky mansion, unsure what I’m supposed to do next, I’ve been crying on the shoulders of my friends.
“What’d you do to piss him off?” Wren stage-whispers and my eyes flip to hers.
She’s grinning a devil’s grin, enjoying my nervousness as only Lucifer would. I can’t be angry with her. She’s held my hand for two weeks, listening intently as my broken heart spilled details of my time with Saint’s.
I couldn’t talk to Myra. My sister is jaded, cold when it comes to matters of my heart. When Abram brought me back, she stood at the door, carefully taking in my solemn expression. She swore all I needed was a good night’s sleep. She promised the next day we’d be moving me back in my apartment. She said I’d be feeling my old self in no time.
Inwardly I cringed, wanting no part of who I was once.
Outwardly, I remained stoic, but did as she ordered and went to my room.
I didn’t sleep. Instead, I cried.
“Mia has done nothing, Wren,” Vlad intercedes, his tone brooking no debate. “But if you’d clear the room, I’ll have my word with her now.”
Oh, God.
“Code word is flame,” Wren insists on another stage whisper.
My brows furrow and I swallow hard.
Wren smirks. “I’ll wait outside. If you say the code word, I’ll know he’s got you tied to the ceiling.”
“Wren,” Vlad prompts, his eyes narrowed and his body rigid.
“Not that I could help, being my uncle does whatever he wants,” she continues, ignoring his menacing stare.
Tiring of her antics, Vlad barks, “Wren Dawson, you’ll leave now.”
At his demand, Wren rolls her eyes. For a split-second, I fear for her safety. Though Vlad is her uncle, and it’s been made clear he loves her dearly, I still worry she’s pushing the brood further than she should.
Klara takes a step away from her husband as Wren makes her way to him. She stops at his side, stands to tiptoes where she just barely reaches his shoulders. He bends his neck enough for her to kiss his cheek. His expression holds stern, but there’s a slight hint of his amusement.
“Sit,” Vlad prompts, after the others have filed out.
Casting a glance around the room, I’m left with two options. I can sit on the couch, risking Vlad to sit at my side, or I can take the chair across from him.
Thankfully, he makes the decision first.
Vlad folds his large frame into the black leather chair. He rests his arms on the either side. One hand holds a drink. The other dangles off the edge. A shiny black ring fits on his left finger. He’s wearing a black tee shirt and dark denim jeans. His booted feet cross at their ankles.
Taking him in, I understand the infatuation Klara found with him as she grew. There are many faces to Vlad Zalesky, and over the short time I’ve known him, I’ve learned to become only somewhat fearful of most.
“Wren tells me you’re not wishing to leave,” he starts.
I did tell Wren this, but not in the way he words it.
I have no interest in going back to my apartment. Or my job. Certainly not my ex-boyfriend, who I’ve not heard from since his assault in the dressing room.
“I just meant—”
“She also told me you’ll be looking for work,” he interrupts.
“I don’t think my church will take me back,” I explain. “Not after leaving the way I did.”
Vlad’s expression is passive as he voices, “She also told me you’ve been very unhappy.”
My stomach sinks and I fight not to fidget or cry. Fidgeting in front of Vlad would make him anxious. Crying in front of Vlad would make him angry.
Flame.
The code word is flame, I repeat in my head.
“You weren’t expecting you’d start to care about him,” Vlad voices knowingly, accusingly. “Actually, you weren’t expecting you’d start to care about any of them.”
I bite my lip. The goddamn tears I’ve been holding back start to form.
“You can stay here, Mia,” he tells me quietly, reverently. “You’ll always be welcome in my home.”
“Thank you.”
“Or…” He tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes in contemplation. “You could always go home.”
“But my apartment—”
“Not to your apartment,” he clips. “Do you know how it is that Klara came to be my wife?”
Not entirely. I know she was the bane of his life’s existence from the time she was a little girl. I know he ignored her, fought to keep his distance. But Klara keeps her relationship with Vlad close. Whether this is because of the ‘work’ he does or it’s because he himself isn’t exactly an open book. I don’t know because I’ve never asked.
“Persistence,” he tells me.
I hadn’t expected that to be the answer, but under his attentive glare, I suppose I’m about find out.
“Persistence?”
Vlad nods. “For years, I pushed Klara away for her own good. I tried to make her understand there was more to life than being anchored to a man who could never make her happy.”
“She looks happy,” I note.
“She is,” he returns. “Because the day I made the decision to keep her, I haven’t allowed her to be anything else.”
Wow.
His claim is a little scary, and the words are said as an oath. Not to her, but to himself.
“Why are you still here, Mia?” he abruptly questions and I blink.
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve only ever loved one woman,” he tells me. “And not long ago, someone tried to hurt her.”
This I had not heard. Not from Klara, Elevent, or anyone.
“They came to my home. They took her from it, with the promise of killing her.”
I blink slowly, imagining the slow death that likely came to someone so stupid as to try to hurt Vlad’s wife.
“I understand Elevent’s position,” he presses forward. “Like I once did, he’s battling with himself. Weighing risk and reward. This is what men like us do.”
“I don’t understand what this has to do with me,” I return.
“I told Elevent I loved him, and then he….”
Vlad nods, so I stop talking. I’d rather not have a heart-to-heart discussion with a man as menacing as he is.
Casting a knowing smile, Vlad tilts his head to the side. “Persistence, Mia. Prove to Elevent you’re stronger than he thinks you are.”
“Vlad?” a voice calls, and Vlad turns his head. I watch, my stomach twisting with nervousness, as his face grows hard.
Abram walks toward us, wearing a pressed suit and a warm smile.
“You’re not really in here giving Mia bad advice, are you?” Abram questions, talking to Vlad but winking at me. Abram’s eyes shine to an intuitive degree as he says, “Hello Mia.”
“Wren told you,” Vlad utters.
“She came right for me,” Abram gives, happy to share. He slides his hands in his pockets, tips back on his heels, and says, “She told me you were with Mia, alone.”
Thank you, Wren.
“You’ve been summoned, Vlad,” Abram counters. “Emilia has been waiting all morning for you to be done. Now her patience is growing thin.”
Emilia, his young daughter, has no patience. I’ve seen her running through the house, shouting down the walls when she’s not being paid enough attention.
As Vlad starts to turn away, I sit, staring at the chair he’s left and utter, “Thank you.”
Rather than a simple ‘you’re welcome’ I had expected, he invites, “You’re always welcome in my home.”
“I appreciate the offer, but…”
“But I think you’ll find you’ll be happier in his.”
“Persistence,” I whisper.
“You understand,” he yields.
With that he takes his exit, leaving me to contemplate just how persistent I can be.
Which, when it’s someone or something I want, is very.
As I enter the front door, a sense of home rushes over.
I’ve missed this place, its people, and the person I came to be while learning to become part of them.
“Oh, my God!” Sunny cries, dropping the bottle of whiskey she’d been pouring on the bar. A few brothers twist on their stools to catch the commotion. Some are wearing Saint’s cuts. The others Lights of Peril. A few faces I don’t recognize are a mix between them.