Cyrus (The Henchmen MC Book 9)

by Jessica Gadziala

  Plus, he didn't sign it.

  Not even with an initial.

  He was anonymous?

  Why?

  Because, maybe, he felt crummy, but wasn't man enough to show up and say sorry for being a butthead?

  I didn't have the answers to any of those questions, but that didn't stop me from rolling them around my head in a never-ending loop for the rest of my workday, making me a bit more absent-minded and jumpy than usual. I actually got shushed by a group of elderly ladies when I had been re-shelving books, and one of the volunteers came up behind me, tapping me on the shoulder, and making me let out an actual, real-life, screech.

  It was humiliating.

  By the time the end of day rolled around, I was more than sick of my own head, more than frustrated by the endless complaining about how the money would have been better spent elsewhere, and all-together just ready to soak in a bath with about five different bombs, and fall into a good book.

  Maybe something suspenseful, something that would keep me engaged, keep me flipping pages until my eyes were too tired to stay open.

  Maybe sleep could claim me and put an end to all the winding circles.

  "I'm just saying," Barb said as she followed me out into the parking lot. Because heaven forbid I get some peace. "Try to get to the bottom of who sent the money, and get them to change their minds about where it is going."

  "I will..."

  "Do no such fucking thing," a voice filled in for me, making me stop dead in the middle of the lot, my head shooting in the direction it came from. Which happened to be the side of my car.

  Where he was leaning.

  Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

  Like he hadn't disappeared for over a month.

  Like we were still the best of friends.

  God, he looked good too.

  I mean, he always looked good. It was impossible for him to have a bad day, an off day. Never once had I seen him and thought 'oh, buddy, you need more beauty sleep.'

  But maybe, as the saying went, he was a sight for sore eyes. He was the beauty of rain to a farmer in a drought. He was like the swelling sensation you got inside when you put a smile on the face of the person you lov... liked. Platonically. As a friend.

  His look was usually the same - dark jeans, white tee, leather cut, boots, full, but neat beard, longish hair, amazing bone structure, a smile to kill for...

  Good lord.

  I needed to get a grip.

  "Excuse me?" Barb asked, clearly put off.

  "She will not be going to the person who donated the money - that person is incidentally me," he announced. "She will also not be convincing me of shit. That money is to be used for the teen center that Reese has been wanting since she started here. You don't like that, duchess," he went on, and I would swear, you could see the woman bristle at the word, "then tough shit. I will happily go over your head about it if I need to."

  "I don't know who you..."

  "I mean, we got a concerned community here in Navesink Bank," he added with a smirk as he pushed off of my car, and started walking to the side. "Lots of concerned parents trying to keep their kids out of the street gangs, the mob, and, well, the one-percent bikers," he concluded, smile wicked, as he moved over to put a palm on the handlebars of his bike that was parked two spots over from mine.

  It sounded like a threat.

  It was even meant as one.

  But I knew, because I knew him, that it wasn't actually one. He was just trying to get his way without having to go over her head, without having to involve town committees and local politicians. Because, well, he and I both knew that the eighty-grand sure as heck didn't come from the tips he made at She's Bean Around on Saturday nights.

  That was arms-dealing money.

  And he would have a hard time explaining its origins if people started asking.

  Barb, unable, she knew, to snap at an outlaw biker, jerked her head to me, chin raising, nose - as it often did - going up in the air. "Interesting company you keep, Miss Washington," she clucked, then turned on her barely-there heel, and stormed away to the other side of the lot where her own car was parked.

  "She been giving you shit all day?" Cyrus asked, drawing my attention away from Barb's disappearing headlights - taking with her the only distraction I had from the upcoming confrontation with Cyrus.

  And it had to be a confrontation.

  There was no way around that, right?

  You couldn't just run off, be a jerk for a month, then make a big gesture, and have everything go on like the former things never happened.

  If there was one thing my mother had always drilled into me when I was younger - perhaps worried that my shyness, my timidity, my tendency to keep to myself, and allow those around me to do their own thing, would make me susceptible to being walked all over - it was that you teach people how to treat you. If you let something that upset you go without comment, you were inviting the behavior again. And again. And again. And you had no one to blame but yourself.

  So if I wanted Cyrus to know that just disappearing without a word was not only hurtful, but unacceptable, I was going to have to do the unthinkable.

  I was going to have to say something about it.

  That was, well, as you can guess, not my strong suit.

  Confrontation was simply not my thing.

  Confrontation was Kenzi's thing.

  In fact, when the DNA gods were handing out the confrontation genes, I was pretty sure they got jostled, and the whole can of it fell into Kenzi's pool, leaving none leftover for me.

  Sure, once in a blue moon, when she was being especially difficult at the preparation of Sunday dinners, I maybe got in her face a little. But she was my sister. We had a lifetime of putting up with each other.

  It was completely different.

  And maybe you're wondering how I got to the ripe old age I was without having confrontations with a guy.

  Well, my brothers treated me like spun gold. We never argued.

  And with the boyfriends I had had, few and far between as they were, it had never seemed to get passionate enough, invested enough for either of us to start needing to fight over anything. Things just fizzled out, and eventually I kind of just said something about how they didn't seem happy, which was a roundabout way of saying I wasn't either, and it always led to an amicable end to the relationship.

  But it would have likely been easier with my brothers or boyfriends than it was going to be with Cy.

  Cy who was not my brother.

  Cy who was not my boyfriend, but for whom I had decidedly boyfriend-like feelings for, who I didn't necessarily want to know I had such feelings for, but whom I wanted to know that doing the fair-weather friend thing to me wasn't going to fly, no matter what capacity he was in my life.

  In or out.

  No in between.

  That was only fair, right?

  "I know I'm a sexy motherfucker, Ree," his voice said, tone teasing, "but how long are you planning on staring at me?"

  "I wasn't staring at you," I immediately denied. Though I totally had been. "I was thinking."

  "About me?" he asked, head tipping to the side, watching me with eyes that were oddly unreadable for someone who had always been rather open with me.

  Here goes. Ready or not.

  "In a way," I agreed, nodding a bit, moving out of the street, but not exactly toward him either.

  "Okay," he said, moving to lean his butt on the seat of his bike. "In what way?"

  "That wasn't an apology," I blurted, closing my eyes at my words as soon as they were out of my mouth.

  That wasn't the way to go about it, right? When you were having a discussion, it was supposed to be 'I' and 'me' words along with feelings.

  I felt like my heart took a beating when you left my life.

  I wanted that kiss.

  That hurt me.

  "What wasn't an apology?"

  "The money. That money wasn't an apology."

  "I
know," he agreed.

  "You... know?" I sputtered, shaking my head.

  "It wasn't meant as an apology."

  "What was it meant as then?"

  "A... grand gesture," he announced with his trademark boyish smile, all charm, and it was impossible not to be at least a little impacted by it.

  I snorted slightly. "I think eighty-thousand dollars would be considered grand," I agreed.

  He deflated somewhat at that, shoulders going slack, smile falling. "It wasn't about the money. It was about you getting the teen center you wanted. Fuck the money."

  He stood, moving closer to me.

  And I did it.

  It was knee-jerk.

  I didn't even think about it.

  I retreated.

  And not just a foot or two.

  I went back a good ten feet until the side of my car stopped any more retreating. If I hadn't bumped into it, I might have kept going. As pathetic as that was.

  She startles like a mouse. I had overheard Tig say that about me once. It wasn't exactly wrong.

  And Cy, well, he just kept coming.

  He stopped only when his toes were almost touching mine; his body was hardly a hair away from mine. His hand raised slowly, and the flashback to the night in the library was enough to steal my air, to make my belly plummet in a way that was both exciting and terrifying, somehow at the same time.

  Because, quite frankly, I couldn't take a round two.

  I didn't have it in me.

  Maybe that made me sound weak and pathetic, but so be it.

  "This," he started as his other hand raised, and both moved up and out to frame my face, settling with a delicateness that a man his size shouldn't have been capable of, but it seemed to come as naturally as his smile, "is my apology," he went on, head ducking slightly, his seaglass eyes on mine. "I never should have just disappeared like that. It was a shitty move, and I know, whether you'd admit it to me or not, it hurt. And I don't think I've ever been sorrier for anything in my life than I am about that. I'm fucking sorry, angel."

  The lump in my throat actually hurt. My eyes teared, and I had to drop my gaze toward his beard to avoid that being seen.

  "It's okay."

  "No," he objected, voice firm, but somehow soft at the same time as his fingers slipped under my jaw to put pressure, and force my head back up, "it's not," he finished as his gaze found mine. And, despite some frantic blinking, one of the traitorous tears slipped to slide down my cheek. His thumb moved out, stroking the wetness away. "This is all the proof I need to know that it wasn't okay."

  Then, well, darn but... sweet things made me cry, okay?

  It was something I generally managed to keep to myself, except for around family who purposefully bought the sappiest cards they could for me on holidays, just to make fun of the waterworks. And, so what, maybe I totally cried at the happy scenes in books too. But that was in private. No one knew about that.

  I got to keep my sappy side to myself.

  Until right then when the tears just started flowing.

  "Aw, fuck," Cyrus said, voice low as his hands dropped my face, one dropping low, then wrapping tightly around my lower back, the other doing the same thing with my shoulders, pulling me forward, and crushing me into his chest.

  We'd been friendly before, pushing at each other. He bumped my shoulders with his, his hips with mine; he'd dropped an arm down on my shoulders, making my body crunch down a few inches under the weight.

  But that was it.

  For a man so comfortable with physical contact, evidenced by the way he hugged any woman he crossed whom he knew when we had been out together, he'd simply never given me anything even resembling a hug.

  And this, well, it was the mother of all hugs.

  His arms held me tightly enough to make breathing difficult, but that was fine, because I was pretty sure I stopped breathing the second my body hit his. My face was buried in his neck, his beard a soft, yet scratchy thing on the side of my face. His heartbeat was a steady, strong thing against my chest.

  Then, well, it would be impossible not to notice some other things. Some not-so-friendlike things.

  Like how my breasts were crushed to his firm chest. Like how his hips were aligned with mine. Like how the fingers on the arm across my lower back were almost touching my butt.

  Like how if I raised my head, maybe, just maybe, he would drop his slightly. And seal his lips over mine.

  The tears dried as a newer feeling took over the sentimentality. It was the jumping pulse points in my temples, throat, wrists, lower. It was the swelling of my breasts; it was the hardening of my nipples; it was the heavy weight on my lower stomach; it was the way my panties were getting wetter by the second.

  His arm moved from my shoulder to allow his hand to start sliding comfortingly up and down my spine. Well, it was meant to be comfortingly, but for me, it was really just erotically.

  Because I needed more logs on that fire.

  "I know I'm not supposed to ask," he said, voice oddly deeper than it usually was. "But are you gonna forgive me?"

  I felt my lips curl up slightly at that. "I'm thinking about it," I offered with a warm, swelling feeling in my chest.

  "Yeah? Maybe want to think about it some more over a cup of coffee? Or you got a hot date to get to?" he asked, tone teasing, but I oddly felt myself stiffening both inside and out.

  Because, maybe, just maybe, a part of me had still been thinking we'd be picking up where we left off. That maybe we were on the way to being more than friends. That the apology and donation were part of some big, grand, romantic gesture.

  Like in my books.

  But life, I kept finding out over and over and over again, was nothing like my books.

  When was I going to just accept that and move on?

  Apparently, not tonight.

  And better sense was telling me that I had to get a rein on things - namely, my emotions - before they got out of hand again.

  No more crushes on guys who wanted to be just friends.

  "Can I raincheck on the coffee?" I asked, untangling from him even though every inch of me felt like it was reaching out for him.

  I was proud of how strong my voice sounded.

  It seemed that Cyrus was taken aback at the turn-down, his brows moving together, his shoulders stiffening. "Raincheck? Since when do you ever raincheck coffee? Especially after having to deal with Barb all day?"

  He had come to know me too well. Which wasn't making this whole lying to him thing any easier.

  "It's just that I, ah, I promised my aunt to help her with her resumé."

  There.

  It wasn't even a lie.

  I totally did promise my aunt to help her with her resumé.

  That weekend.

  At Sunday dinner.

  But he didn't need to know that.

  There was no point in him knowing the truth, that I was going home to mentally beat myself up until I was too mentally and emotionally drained to stay awake one more minute.

  "Bad timing, huh?" he asked, tone a bit guarded. "Alright, well, how about ice cream tomorrow afternoon?" he offered, knowing I was working the night shift the next day.

  I knew there was no way to put it off again without him getting suspicious since he knew me well enough to know that I wasn't someone who kept a full social calendar.

  "Yeah, that should work. Three?" I suggested, knowing I had to be at work by four-thirty, so it wouldn't leave time for me to get too wrapped up in Cy, as I was sure was bound to happen again if we spent too much time together.

  Again, his brows lowered, but he nodded. "Alright. That works. I'll see you tomorrow then."

  They were parting words, but he wasn't moving away.

  "Um, are you..."

  "Going to wait to make sure that piece of shit of yours turns over before I leave?" he asked, giving me a smile, but it didn't seem to meet his eyes. "I sure as fuck am."

  "Oh, erm, okay. Yeah, see you later," I told him, offer
ing him a wave. A wave. When he was like three feet in front of me. Would my awkwardness never cease?

  That question was answered with a resounding no a second later when I unlocked my door, slid in, then promptly got my darn hair stuck in the door as I closed it.

  Cheeks heating, I reopened the door slightly, hoping he didn't see what actually happened, that maybe it just didn't close properly the first time.

  I turned over the car which, blissfully, didn't fight me for a change, then buckled up, offered him a small smile, and drove off.

  I made it home on pure autopilot, not seeming to take in any of the sights, the roads, heck, even the traffic lights, until I was pulling into my spot, realizing I had been so lost in my thoughts that I hadn't even remembered to turn on my headlights.

  Good going, Reese, I chided as I grabbed my keys and bag, then climbed out of the car.

  I was slinging my purse over my shoulder when a voice interrupted me.

  "Did I just see you in the library parking lot with a man's arms around you?" Kenzi asked, stepping out of the shadow cast by one of the trees flanking the path toward the front door. "A Henchmen's hands all over you?"

  Oh, boy.

  This was not good.

  Suddenly, I wished I had taken Cyrus up on the offer for coffee. Even if it did mean falling just a little bit more in love with him.

  Because Kenzi was closing in on me, perfectly groomed brow raised, chin set to stubborn.

  She wasn't going to give in until she got all the dirty details.

  I had some serious explaining to do.

  EIGHT

  Cyrus

  I was pretty sure it wasn't just me and my ego.

  That shit was weird.

  I mean, it had only been a month. Reese couldn't have changed that much in that short a timeframe, right?

  But one moment, she had been tearing up, and melting in my arms, the next she was stiff as a board, and coming up with some bullshit excuse?

  I wouldn't go as far as to claim she outright lied to me, but I was pretty sure she wasn't giving me the full truth either.

  Why?

  Yeah, that was the question.

  It would have made sense if she shot me down as a whole, if she took the money, and threw it in my face, if she told me I could take my friendship and shove it up my ass.