The rest of my evening is spent on laundry. My is dinner a peanut butter and pickle sandwich and a Diet Coke. In spite of everything, it’s nice to be back in my own house, with no one to bother me and no one to talk to except myself. I find myself feeling almost lulled by the comforting sounds of Aunt Jeanne’s creaky floors and old water pipes. After all these years, they’re as familiar to me as anything is. I realize with a soft laugh that somehow, for better or worse, this place has become my home.
A loud, insistent knock on the door startles me from my thoughts. I know in an instant who it must be. Anger flashes inside me. And dread. I don’t want to see him.
I consider ignoring Dante’s knock at first. But my car’s in my driveway, and my lights are on. It doesn’t take a genius to see I’m home. And that man is stubborn enough that he’ll pound on that damn door all night long if he has a mind to.
I’m angry, nervous, and jittery as I put down the towel I’m folding and suck in a deep breath. Squaring my shoulders, I walk slowly to the front door and pull it open.
Dante is standing there, his large frame filling the doorway. The scruff of his beard is longer than usual. His hair is a tangle. He looks ragged, and tired. And angry too, I think.
Well, screw him. I’m angry, too. And I have more reason to be than he does.
“Dante,” I say, as calmly as I can. My heart starts to skitter in my chest. “I don’t think there’s anything to tal…”
But Dante’s not here to argue, or to seduce, or to cajole. At the look he gives me, my words die in my throat. Somehow, I know immediately that the world is about to tilt on its axis.
“It’s Cyndi,” he says simply. “She’s dead.”
23
Dante
Tori barely reacts at first to the news that Cyndi’s been killed. She stands, paralyzed, on the front porch, arms hanging limply at her sides. It’s almost like the words are too huge, too awful to penetrate. Like they bounced off of her, and are just lying there on the wooden planks between us, waiting.
But as I stand there, not knowing what to say or do, she starts to tremble, and I can tell that what I’ve just told her is starting to sink in.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Dante, it can’t be true.”
“It is.”
Her eyes lift to my face — searching, imploring me to tell her it’s all a lie, or a sick joke. I wish to hell I could.
“When?” she asks in a strangled voice.
“Saturday night.” I let out a breath. “About an hour before I texted you the first time.”
I’ve been trying to get hold of Tori ever since I found out. I didn’t want her to hear about this from a stranger, or at work. I know Cyndi and Tori weren’t best friends or anything, but that doesn’t make any difference. They knew each other, and Tori liked Cyndi a lot.
“No…” she whispers. “It’s just not possible.” She starts to shake harder. She’s starting to freak out. She might be going into mild shock. “What… what happened?”
I actually tried to rehearse this part. Tried to figure out a way to say it that would minimize the pain. But now that I’m standing in front of Tori, I can’t remember a goddamn thing. The fact is, there’s no way to sugarcoat someone’s death for someone who doesn’t want it to be true.
“She was on the back of Mal’s bike,” I begin, then pause, trying to weigh my words. “The two of them got ambushed by some of our enemies. They shot out Mal’s front tire. He lost control of the bike, and Cyndi…”
I stop, not wanting to go on. Looking at Tori’s horrified, crumpled face, I can’t stand to tell her the details. I can’t tell her how Cyndi wasn’t wearing a helmet. How she smashed into the pavement, her body thrown like a rag doll. How she was probably dead seconds after she hit. I can’t stand to try to put a positive spin on that — how she probably didn’t feel much. How maybe that was a mercy. It sounds fucking ridiculous, even to me.
“Well, Cyndi didn’t make it,” I say finally, lamely. “She didn’t suffer, though, Tori. I promise you that.”
“No,” Tori mutters in a half-possessed voice. She says the word like an incantation. “No, no, no…” Like she could conjure an alternate reality by saying it fervently enough. She starts to shake her head in rhythm with the word, her voice slowly rising. Then all at once, her voice cuts off in a half-wail, and she buries her head in her hands.
“I’m so sorry, babe.”
It’s all I can think of to say. My throat feels like it’s closing up, so I have to force the words out, and they come out sounding harsh and angry. I ache to comfort her, but I know I shouldn’t. I need to stay away from Tori. She could get hurt by being around me. Or killed. Shit, the universe pretty much gave me that goddamn message with Cyndi’s death. And Cyndi wasn’t even an old lady.
But even as I stand here, my hands itching to pull Tori to me and enfold her in my arms, I can’t help but worry about her heart. Hearing that your friend just got killed would put anyone in a bad state, but for Tori, it’s more dangerous. I feel like I should stick around — make sure she’s all right.
But no. That’s a fuckin’ bullshit excuse for the real reason I want to stay.
The real reason is, I miss the hell out of the girl standing in front of me right now. It’s only been three days since our fight — since I last saw her — but it felt like fucking forever. Right now, standing here three feet away from her, I catch a whiff of her shampoo, and the scent makes me half-drunk with memories. The pads of my fingers can practically feel the softness of her skin as I slid her clothes off of her to drink her in. I can almost hear the breathless, needy way she moans when I take one of the soft buds of her nipples in my mouth, I ache to feel her arching against me, begging me wordlessly for more.
My traitorous cock hardens in my jeans as I think about how much I want her right now. All the blood in my body starts to surge with desire for this woman. Everything in me is telling me to take her inside. To comfort her the best way I know how.
But I fucking can’t. What she needs from me… I can’t give her. I can’t pull a woman I love into the life I live.
Shit.
The woman I love.
Good God, I’ve fallen in love with Tori.
Hell no. This cannot happen.
Tori is still crying quietly into her hands. I stand there, feet planted, fists in pockets. Refusing to take a single step closer. Finally, she sucks in a shuddering breath and looks up at me.
I will myself to be strong.
“Dante,” she chokes. “I… I don’t want to be alone right now. I know… I mean…”
Tori reddens. It’s clear she doesn’t want to ask me what she’s about to ask.
“Could you come in?” she whispers. “Just for a little while?”
Every cell in my body screams at me to follow her inside.
“I…” My voice breaks. I cough once, clearing my throat. “Sorry, no can do,” I continue. “I’ve got some club business to deal with. I gotta get going.”
Tori blinks, looking shocked. She stares into my eyes, helpless, incredulous, a riot of emotions playing out on her face. Finally, she lets out an amazed, heartbroken laugh.
“You’re really something, you know that?” she accuses, shaking her head. She sounds broken.
I did that. I did that to her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply, indifferent.
“I know we had a fight, Dante.” Tori’s voice is an open wound. It breaks me to hear her like this. “I guess you think I should have told you about my heart earlier. But I thought you were angry because you actually cared about hurting me.” She shakes her head again. “I thought — God, what an idiot I was — I though you actually cared a little bit about me. But that’s not what it was, was it?”
Tori waits a second, like she’s expecting me to respond. But I can’t say anything. I don’t trust myself. When she realizes I’m not going to answer her, she lets out a harsh laugh. I hear a new emotion in her voice.
Anger, mixed in with the heartbreak. Good.
“Shit,” she spits at me, disgusted, hateful. “The only thing you cared about was yourself, wasn’t it? You just didn’t want to be held responsible if the poor pathetic sick girl had a heart attack or something.” She takes a step closer, closing the distance between us. Her voice rises. “That’s right, isn’t it? That’s all you fucking cared about!”
A piston of anger surges through me, but I work like hell to push it down. How the fuck can she think that’s the reason? How can she not know it scared the shit out of me to watch her struggle to breathe and fight to stay calm, while we both waited for her heart to stop racing? How can she not know the helplessness I felt? Wanting to help her, having to just sit there and wait — and hope — was a million times worse than anything that could ever happen to me.
But if she thinks I’m a selfish prick, says a voice in my head, she’ll be able to walk away more easily. She’s safer and better off hating you. Let her.
The thought stops me in my tracks.
Because I know it’s the truth.
So, instead of arguing with her — instead of telling her she’s fucking crazy if she thinks I’m not nuts about her — I just decide to let her think what she’s already decided.
“Sure,” I shrug.
Tori gapes at me in amazement. Clearly, she expected me to fight her more.
“I don’t believe it,” she breathes, broken. “You are such an asshole.”
“Not the first time I’ve been called that,” I agree, noting how robotic I sound. But lucky for me, Tori’s not looking for an Academy Award-winning performance.
“Jesus.” Tears fill Tori’s eyes. “Get out of my house.”
I’m actually on her front porch, but I don’t correct her. My stomach drops as I steel myself and look at her crushed, tear-streaked face one final time. She’s fighting not to start crying again. It damn near breaks my heart.
But this time, I’m the cause of her tears. I’m the one who hurt her.
I have to remind myself that’s a good thing. Because right now, it sure as shit doesn’t feel like it.
“See you around,” I mutter around the lump in my throat. I turn and trudge down the three steps to her front sidewalk. At the last minute, I swivel back to look at her one final time.
She’s beautiful. Devastatingly, heartbreakingly beautiful.
“Take your time payin’ the bill,” I toss back at her.
The blood roars in my ears as I start my bike and pull away from the curb.
24
Tori
Weeks later, I still burst into tears every time I have to drive by Curl Up and Dye.
Cyndi and I weren’t all that close. But she was just one of those people who brightened up the room, you know? She was the perfect person to be a hair stylist. A great listener. Funny, sweet, and kind. I always felt better after an appointment with her, no matter what my mood was when I went in.
The funeral was an incredibly rough day. The biker Cyndi was seeing — Mal — was there, as were a bunch of the other Lords of Carnage. Mal looked really bruised and beat up. His arm was in a sling, but otherwise he seemed physically more or less okay. He didn’t say a word throughout the entire service or afterwards. He just sat in stony silence, and then left.
Dante was there, too. He only looked at me once. From the vacant expression in his eyes, you would never have guessed he even knew me.
I’ve spent the last few weeks trying like hell to forget that anything ever happened between us. I paid his damn bill with a silent Fuck you, and did my best to ignore the tears streaming down my cheeks as I dropped it into the mail slot at the post office.
Ironwood has never seemed smaller than it does right now. Everything reminds me of Dante. From the rib joint he took me to, to the damn parking lot where I park my car every day. Every motorcycle I hear makes throat close up. Every tall, dark man I see out of the corner of my eye makes my stomach do flips, before I realize it isn’t him.
I can’t go on like this. It has to get easier eventually.
It has to.
I plod through my days, which fall into a monotonous ritual of work, home, sleep, then work again. Savannah notices my gloomy mood, and I end up telling her everything. She starts staying over at my house more often, even though I tell her she doesn’t have to.
I’m grateful as hell for the company, though.
I tell myself this is all my fault. I never should have let myself get involved with Dante. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that he’s not the staying kind. He’s not the type of man who would ever let himself get in an actual relationship. Hell, he even told me as much, right at the beginning. I can’t blame him for lying, anyway. And I thought I was listening. But I guess my heart wasn’t.
Stupid heart. Now it’s broken in more ways than one.
“Jeremy’s real estate office just hired a new guy,” Savannah casually says to me one night. We’re on the couch watching back to back action movies just to get my mind off of things for a while.
“Mmmhmm…” I reply, distracted by the credits of The Edge of Tomorrow because I notice one of the writers is named Dante.
“Jeremy really gets along great with this guy. He was wondering if you’d want to come out with us some night? Grab some drinks, maybe dinner?”
I glance over at her. “Huh?”
Savanna lifts a shoulder, and then grabs a handful of popcorn, her eyes not meeting mine. “You know, just for fun. I mean, it’s not like it’d be a date or anything.”
“Uh-huh.” I purse my lips at her. “Not like a date.”
“What?”
“Savannah. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, she does. Her guilty expression tells me everything I need to know.
“Vannah, I am not going on a double date with you.”
“It’s not —”
“Yes, it is. I know what you’re trying to do.” I pause. “And thank you. Really. But I’m not in a frame of mind to pretend to be interested in some guy for an evening. I just need some time, okay?”
Savannah lets out a soft sigh. “He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”
Vannah is such a great friend. She avoids saying Dante’s name at all costs, because she knows it hurts me to hear it.
“Yes,” I admit, looking down at my hands in my lap. “But honestly, I brought it on myself. I know I should never have let myself believe there was anything between us. I still don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”
“If it’s any consolation,” she murmurs, “the few times I saw the two of you together, I really thought he was into you.”
“I’m not sure it’s any consolation at all.” I force myself to smile. “But at least I wasn’t the only one taken in.”
Days later, I’m on my way out to cover a story that for once is at least mildly interesting. It’s a group of twenty-somethings (Frank made sure to stress to me that I need to really hammer the “millennial” angle) who have started a vodka distillery in the area. They make their vodka out of local potatoes. Their eventual goal is to raise all their potatoes themselves on some farmland they just bought together, and have their whole business model be entirely self-sufficient.
I’m on my way out to the warehouse that houses their distillery — wondering if the tour they give me will include a vodka tasting — when I figure out that I’m lost. The warehouse is in an industrial part of town I don’t know very well, and apparently the map app on my phone doesn’t either. When I get to what is supposed to be the address, there’s nothing but a large, overgrown parking lot. Frowning, I pull over to the side of the road and type the address into the app again, but it just gives me the same location.
“Dammit,” I grumble. I don’t have a phone number for my contact person, just an email exchange, and there’s no guarantee they’d see an email if I sent one now. Thankfully, I’m about ten minutes early for the appointment. Hopefully I can figure this out and still arrive on time.
I�
��m on the right street, anyway. I can’t be too far from the place. Maybe if I just drive around a little, I’ll run into it.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and pull back onto the street. I start to drive, peering at every building I pass. None of them looks right. Before I know it, I’m nearing the end of the road — a dead end with a chain link fence around a vacant lot to one side, and a short gravel road leading to a rusted-out, abandoned-looking building on the other.
I pull off onto the gravel road, searching for a space wide enough for me to turn around without stopping. As I get closer, I notice there are vehicles parked on the far side of the building. Two of the cars are late-model, expensive-looking sedans. One is black, one a strange metallic hue that seems to change colors depending on how the light hit is. The third is a small light-colored panel truck that looks familiar, but I don’t immediately realize why.
A group of men stands next to the cars. One of the men in the group catches my eye as he raises both hands, almost in a “surrender” gesture. Frowning, I slow down to watch from a relative distance, but as I do I feel a jolt of recognition.
The man with his hands up is Dante’s brother Dominic.
I slow to a stop, my tires crunching on the gravel. A couple of the men turn to look, alerted by the noise. Their eyes narrow, their bodies tensing. Dominic turns his head as well, but then one of the other men barks something at him and he turns away quickly.
What is going on here?
I’m caught between the urge to peel out of here and the compulsion to stay. At least long enough to find out if Dominic is okay.
Then, before I can make a move one way or another, two of the men start toward my car.
Iron Heart (Lords of Carnage Ironwood MC) Page 16