by Naomi West
He'd heard the same thing from his mother. His father had just been blowing off some steam. Cutter nodded as she spoke and sat there silently watching his hands. His hands that hadn't been able to protect the women in his life.
“First time he did it, he swore it would never happen again,” she said and gave a dry, mirthless chuckle. “The second time, he promised again. The third, he didn't even bother.” She reached down, touched Cutter's hand.
“Years, then,” Cutter said. It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact.
“Yeah,” she said. “Years. Soon, it just felt normal, you know? Well, not normal. But, like, this is my life? This is just how it is.”
He nodded again. Humans were so adaptable, they could get used to anything, like frogs in a pot water you set to boil. But, sometimes, they reached their breaking point, like she had. “You could have called me,” he said after a while.
She smiled, sniffled a little as her eyes began to water. “I didn't know where you were,” she said. “I was in a strange town, in another state, and didn't know anyone. And I didn't think you'd care, especially after the way everything had happened in school.”
He turned his head and looked at her, gazed deep into her beautiful, sad eyes. “I never would have turned you away, Liona. And I won't now.”
She pressed herself into his side. She sniffled. “Well, yeah, I get that now,” she said, smiling through the tears.
He enveloped her with his arm, wrapped it around her and pulled her close against him. “We're going to get this motherfucker,” he said, his voice quiet and devoid of emotion. “We're going to get him, and we're going to make him pay.”
“Really?” she asked, wiping a tear away from her eye with the heel of her hand.
“Yeah,” he said, holding her in his embrace and squeezing her shoulder. “You'll be the last woman he ever hurts. I promise.”
Chapter 11
Liona
Cutter held her like that for a while, and they just talked like the old friends they were. They talked about her friend Carly, about her dad and mom. About her life, her hopes and dreams. She melted into him, into the feel of his strong, warm arms around her. He didn't offer to fix anything, he didn't offer his advice. He was just there, present, a warm, comforting shoulder to cry on. She even forgot that she was dressed only in her towel, and practically naked as she sat next to him. After a while, though, their stomachs began to grumble. He glanced up and checked the time on his alarm clock.
“Hungry?” he asked.
She nodded. “I can eat.”
“You should probably put some clothes on, then,” he replied with a deep laugh. “Unless you wanna give the guys a show.”
She looked down at her nearly nude body, covered only in her towel wrapping, and her laughter joined his. “Yeah, I guess so.”
He got up from the bed. “I'll give you some privacy,” he said. “If you follow the hall back down, you'll see the rec room, and the kitchen beyond that.”
She nodded as she got up. “Got it.” She waited for him to leave before she headed to the bathroom. Along the way, she gathered up her trail of clothes. She hung up her towel, a thousand thoughts filling her mind.
She still couldn't believe she'd let Wyland do this to her, make her a victim. Even as she thought about the series of events that had occurred, about the small, incremental changes that had happened in her life, a flush crept into her cheek. As she stared into the mirror, completely naked in Cutter's bathroom, she realized that this was her moment. This was her chance to take control back. Cutter wasn't going to do everything for her. He might try to punish Wyland, hurt him in every way he knew how but it was up to her to provide her own focus and control in her life.
No one was going to do it for her.
“You got this, girl,” she said to her reflection, and nodded. “You got this.”
She looked around for a brush. Of course, he didn't have one. She grabbed one of his combs off the edge of the sink, instead, and ran it through her damp hair. She worked out the tangles, her mind still swirling.
She'd made the wrong decision all those years ago, she realized. She'd been blinded by Wyland's family's wealth, his prospects for the future, the gifts he'd showered on her with his ample allowance. She hadn't looked at Wyland's mother, or his father, to see what kind of man he might become.
Back then, she should have been looking at Cutter. Now, she could see him for the good, honest man that he was. Sure, he was rough around the edges. But he'd never hurt her. She was more than just some kind of trophy for him, a bit of arm candy to show around at parties and functions.
She frowned into the mirror as realization set in.
It was probably too late, despite what Cutter said or implied about his feelings for her. He wouldn't have her, now, not after all these years. How could he? She had Wyland's prints all over her, little proofs of his tender “love.” And, then again, she'd chosen Wyland, and not the man Cutter used to be. She hadn't believed in him back then, believed in the kind of man he would become.
Besides, what kind of man would take her now? Especially after she'd become such damaged goods. She was broken, just like Humpty Dumpty. And, just like the big egg from the nursery rhyme, all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Liona back together again. She nearly began crying again, but somehow managed to keep her tears locked up inside her.
She put Cutter's comb back on the lip of the sink and grabbed her clothes off the floor. As if on cue, her stomach grumbled again. She hadn't eaten anything all day, she realized, except for a light breakfast before leaving for the church that morning. She smiled to herself. She'd started out this day dreading how it would end, how this wedding would have been a change for the worse. By now, she would have been Mrs. Liona West. But, instead of locking her into a fate worse than death, this was a different change. It was one of rebirth. Her whole life stretched out ahead of her, a completely different one than she would have ever imagined a year before. This new life may have been a scary one, with its fair share of trials and tribulations, but at least that big and scary life would be hers and no one else's.
Chapter 12
Cutter
Liona took long enough to get dressed and find him in the kitchen that Cutter almost began to think she'd pulled another vanishing act, this time on him. Honestly, he wouldn't have blamed her for doing it a second time around. He and the rest of the MC weren't exactly the most savory of characters. They may have been knights to her damsel in distress, but they sure as hell weren't wearing shining armor.
He looked up from where he was prepping the cheese for their sandwiches when she walked through the swinging door into their small commercial-grade kitchen. “Took you long enough,” he said, jibing her a little.
She gave him a half-smile as she looked around. “Nice setup,” she replied, ignoring his comment.
“Thanks. When you gotta cook for a dozen or more people on a regular basis, it helps to have a full-scale kitchen. Should've seen this place when we first moved in.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah. Would've been lucky to gets eggs cooked in here. Even then, you would've wanted your shots before you ate 'em.”
She laughed. “Alright, what's for dinner?”
“You still like grilled cheese and tomato soup?”
“Haven't had it in years,” she replied. “But, yes, I still love it.”
He was shocked. “Really?” he asked. “You practically lived on it when we were in school together.”
“Well, Wyland didn't like tomato soup. He'd rant every time he saw it in the pantry, and a grilled cheese just isn't the same without it.”
“Easier to just stop buying it, I guess.”
She nodded, her movements tight.
“Pull up a stool,” he said, gesturing to one of the barstools tucked into the corner.
“What kind of soup are you doing?”
“One I canned last winter. Nice tomato basil bisque, with heirloom
tomatoes from the farmer's market.”
“Oh,” she said, laughing as she pulled one of the barstools over. “I was expecting Campbell's or something.”
He grinned. “If I got caught with Campbell's in my pantry, I'd lose my localvore chef's license.”
“Oh, come on, they don't have that ... do they?”
“No,” he said, smiling as he easily unscrewed the top off his quart jar and popped the sealed inner lid. “But there should be.”
“Lemme get this straight,” she said as hopped up on the seat and situated herself. “You're a big bad biker dude, who shops at the local farmer's market?”
“Bikers are all about freedom,” he said as he pulled a pot down from pot-hanger over the central prep table. He put it down on one of the gas burners, poured in the soup, and turned on the flame and set it to low. “And, personally, I don't trust the government, or any big corporations, to look out for the little guy. So, yeah, I go down and buy my stuff at the local market.”
“Look at you being all libertarian,” she said, laughing.
“Liberty ain't free, lady,” he said, grinning as he began to stir the soup. He went back over to the table and began to work on the grilled cheese sandwiches, explaining the ingredients as went along. “Bread's from a local bakery, butter's from raw milk we bought at a farm, and—”
“Wait,” she interjected. “Did I just hear that right?”
“Hear what right?”
“You make your own butter?” she asked, clearly astonished.
“Well, yeah. It tastes better that way. Besides, churning is a good work out. Can I continue now?”
“Oh, by all means, Cutter,” she said, sarcasm heavy in her words as she emphasized his name for effect.
“Thank you,” he said, infusing his words with just as sarcastic a tone. “The cheeses are from a local importer who gets them from Vermont and Wisconsin, garlic infused cheddar and a Havarti to give it that creamy, melty texture.”
“Wow,” she said, her eyes wide. “Just, wow.”
“Wow's fucking right,” he said, putting the yet to be constructed sandwiches on the plate, and taking them back over to the stove. He set the plate on the counter and pulled down a skillet and slapped a slab of butter in the bottom. He started up the burner, got the flame down to a good low heat, and stirred the soup.
The secret, he thought, to a proper grilled cheese, was to have both sides grilled in butter. That way, you infused the slice with delicious fat and softened the bread in the process. When the butter had started to melt, he sprinkled a dash of salt over it and placed two slices of bread in the sizzling pan.
Liona got up from her barstool and came over to the stone. “Where'd you learn to cook?” she asked from behind him.
“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” he said.
“Try me.”
“I borrowed a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking from the library, first.”
She laughed as she leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Go on.”
“Then, I watched a whole lot of videos on the Internet. Then, I practiced.”
“I bet the guys loved that. All that great food you were making for them.”
“Not quite,” he said as he flipped the bread over in the pan and placed the cheese down on the freshly browned side. He closed up the sandwich to let them continue cooking. “A few of 'em got sick off my first roasted chicken. And my steaks sucked for a while. But, thankfully the vote to make me stop cooking didn't go through. Also, I got better and could make it up to them eventually.”
She gave him a little half-smile that was heavy with ...something else, an emotion lying just below the surface. “It's all about making it up to people, isn't it?”
He knew where she was going with this, he thought. He didn't want her to feel guilty about how things had turned, about something from so many years ago. “Well, sometimes,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “but it's also about second chances too, isn't it?”
She looked away from his face, at the swinging door that led out into the rec room. “Teach them how to cook, too?” she asked. “The other guys, I mean.”
“The ones that wanted to, at least,” he replied with a shrug. “Not everybody wants to cook. So, they wait the tables instead. But, before I did that, and before I opened the restaurant, I went to work as a short order cook.”
Liona laughed, a good genuine laugh. It was music to Cutter's ears, especially after the way she'd looked when she was about to get in the shower. He flipped the sandwich over in the skillet and started to grill the other side.
“Where at?” she asked.
“Waffle House. Where else?”
“Oh, I love their hash browns.”
“You should try the ones we make at Farm to Fable,” he said, smiling. “They're fancy.”
“Probably won't be able to for a little while. Not exactly a great idea for someone in hiding to start appearing in public, is it?”
He frowned. He hadn't thought of that. “Nah, you're probably right. Not for a while, I guess.” He turned and smiled at her. “But, luckily, you're staying with the head chef. So, he can probably whip some up for you for breakfast in the morning.”
She grinned widely, just like Cutter remembered her being able to all those years ago. The light that he'd seen in her the first time, it hadn't gone out. Sure, it had been covered by a bushel, just like in that old church song but it hadn’t been completely smothered by Wyland.
Deep down, Cutter knew there was hope. He smiled back at her as he felt something deep down inside himself begin to stir again. He stepped away from the stove and grabbed down a couple plates and bowls, then carefully removed the finished grilled cheese from the skillet and plated it. He cut the sandwich in half for her with his chef's knife.
“Sit,” he said as he handed the fresh, hot sandwich to her and began to ladle some soup into a bowl, “eat. You need your strength.”
“You know,” Liona said as she took the food from him and went over to sit down in her old spot at the prep table, “in this light, you do almost look like an Italian grandmother.”
“It comes from my mother's side,” he said, grabbing a spoon and placing it into the bowl. He slid the bowl of tomato bisque over to her.
She dipped one of the sandwich halves into her soup and took a bike. Her eyes nearly rolled back in her head. “Oh. My. God,” she said.
He hadn't bothered with the freshly cut basil on top, like he would have at the restaurant. He'd wanted to leave some new mystery for later on. Clearly, though, the lack of green didn't matter to Liona. “Good, I take it?”
“This is like fucking heaven,” she said through a mouthful of grilled cheese, forgetting her manners. “I don't remember a grilled cheese being this good. Ever.”
“Well, you'd never had one of mine, had you?”
She grinned and took another bite as he turned back to the stove and began working on his sandwich. “You made mine first?”
He looked back over his shoulder and smiled at her. “Everyone knows the chef eats last. It's tradition. Besides, I've had my own cooking before.”
She smiled back at him and dipped the corner of her sandwich in her bisque again. She took another bite and groaned, a sound that was borderline erotic. “I think I could marry this sandwich,” she said, dipping it in the soup again. “Seriously. I could have kids with this thing.”
“Little toast grandkids, even?” Cutter asked, laughing.
Yeah, he thought. Things might work out after all. She might be okay.
Chapter 13
Liona
They stayed up for a little while longer after they finished eating, and Cutter introduced her to the rest of the guys who lived at the clubhouse. He'd been right, they were rough around the edges. Coarse was a good word to describe them. But, even if they said some things that were inappropriate in polite company, or spoke in voices that were a little louder in volume than normally acceptable, she felt safe with them.
They were straight forward. Honest.
Around Wyland, and even his friends and family, she'd always felt as if she had to be on guard. Something always lurked behind his eyes, something fundamentally dishonest and mercurial. What she thought was the right thing to do one day, may not be the right thing tomorrow, or the next day. With the Vanguard, she knew there was just one right thing to do: respect them and the club. Seemed simple enough, Liona figured.
A little before midnight, most of the guys that had to work the next morning began to turn in for the evening. They all had to be up early, she realized. Most of the time, she'd just gone to bed when Wyland had. She hadn't wanted to wake him up in the middle of the night, especially not if he had work in the morning.