by Evelyn Glass
“It was Mr. Black,” he whispers in my ear. “He was the one who fired the shot. They tried to make me, but . . . I killed him,” he finishes, words blurred by the blood. “I couldn’t let anything happen to you. I love you, Felicity. That’s the truth. I love you more than I’ve loved anything in my entire life.”
“Hush,” I say, stroking the back of his head. I kiss him on the cheek, softly, so I don’t hurt his wounds.
I turn to Dad. “We need to get him cleaned up. He didn’t deserve that.”
“No,” Dad says, looking sternly at Secret Service. “No, he did not. You, go and get a paramedic.”
The crowd begins to disperse and I lead Roma to the stage, sit him down, leaning him against it. He smiles up at me, reaches out his hands for my face. I sit next to him and we hold each other.
“You came back for me,” I say.
“Are you glad I did?” he asks.
I bring his hand to my lips and kiss it softly. “I wished for it,” I say.
Dad leans down beside us. “Where’s your ring?” he says.
I smile at Roma. “He couldn’t afford one. But he did make a special purchase to win me.”
Roma grins.
Dad shakes his head, bemused, and a moment later the paramedic is weaving through the crowd.
Chapter Forty-Five
Roma
“Getting tired, Mrs. Roma?” I laugh, as Felicity pants beside me.
“Mrs. Roma.” Felicity grins, blowing air from red cheeks.
It’s been one month since the shooting, since Mr. Black died, and in that time Felicity and I have barely been apart. We stayed in the States for around a week, in an apartment I rented just for privacy. We did nothing but make love and order in food and watch movies. It was only a week, but it felt like a year compressed down into seven days. We made love five times a day until we were both tired and spent. Felicity tended to my wounds and we fell deeper in love until the bloodshed seemed like a distant memory.
Now, we’re back in France, finishing the backpacking holiday for our honeymoon.
“You need to get a second name,” she says.
“Never had need of one before you,” I reply.
She punches me playfully in the shoulder. “Well, you do now.”
The sun is high in the sky, bathing down upon us, as we walk past the street beside which we first made love. Felicity wanders over to it and touches the dents I made when I punched it. “They’re deep,” she says. “I don’t think many men are so strong to leave deep gashes in trees, Roma.”
I shrug. “I was just angry, is all.”
I join her at the tree, wrap my arms around her waist, press my crotch into her. She turns and kisses me on the lips. Passion explodes between us and we make love, right there, under the sunlight and in view of the village. When we’re done and we’re both smiling like fools, we make out way down the hill and to Bear’s cottage.
Felicity and I gasp in unison when we see Bear, hefting a load of bricks on his shoulder, shirtless with sweat pouring down him. His gaze snaps up when he sees us and he drops the bricks. They thud to the earth and in four large steps he’s on us. He envelops both of us in a wide embrace.
“You stink, man.” I laugh, patting him on the back.
The cottage is a quarter-built, the remains in a large pile beside it.
Felicity rests her head on Bear’s shoulder. My heart warms at that, the warmth of a man seeing his father and wife forming a father-daughter relationship.
“I’m damn glad to see you both,” Bear says, stepping back and grinning. “Damn glad, you have no idea.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Hear you did it for Mr. Black.”
I nod. “That’s behind us now,” I say. I wrap my arm around Felicity’s shoulders and she leans into me. “They beat me bloody, damn near killed me, but Felicity saved me.”
“Is that so?” Bear smiles. “Bet there’s a tale in that.”
He leads us to a pile of bricks, which form a sort of primitive campsite and we all sit down under the sunlight. I take bottles of water and sandwiches from my bag and hand them out. Felicity and I tell Bear what happened after he left. When we’re done, Bear’s grin couldn’t be wider.
“So you saved him by making him your husband? Smart, girl, smart.”
“We didn’t expect to see you here,” Felicity says.
“I heard about Mr. Black, reckoned no bastard’d be coming after me now, so I thought, why not? Aye, oh, by the way, Roma, that man whose pick-up you stole, you’re square. Gave him three-thousand euros and he forgot the whole thing.”
I reach into my pocket and take out the money, make to hand it to Bear. He closes my fingers over it with his giant paw. “I said I sorted it. You’re married. You need to hold onto your money.”
I nod and put the money back into my pocket.
Chapter Forty-Six
Felicity
I hope. That is what I do. I hope and I hope. But this is the first time in my life when I feel like I’ve arrived. I’m not hoping for anything anymore. We’re here; I’m living it.
We sit in the sun, tired and relaxed, and then I turn to Roma. The wounds on his face have healed and he looks stronger and more capable than ever. I think of all the sweet, close moments we’ve shared over this past month, all the times we’ve made love, and tingles move over my skin. If this isn’t love, I think, I don’t know what is.
“So you’re not officially married, eh?” Bear says.
“Not officially, no,” Roma says. “What’s that smile about?”
Bear is grinning ear to ear. “I’m ordained,” he says. “The village over the hill did it. I’ve already married a few people. I can do you two, if you like, make it official.”
Roma turns to me, a question in his blue eyes. A blue which is now brighter, full of life and love, the blue of a changed man. I don’t answer with words. Instead, I climb to my feet, walk to where he sits, and drop onto his lap, splitting my legs over his waist. I lean down and kiss him passionately on the lips. Bear turns away, shielding his eyes.
“I’m not seeing a thing,” he laughs. “But I’ll take that as a yes.”
“What do you think?” I say, when the kiss is over. Our bodies are alive to each other.
“I think we should stay here and help Bear rebuild, build something up instead of breaking it down. And I think we should get married tomorrow morning, at dawn.”
He brings his hands up my back, gripping me hard, and I’ve never felt more secure.
“That sounds good to me,” I smile.
We kiss again and Roma lifts me to my feet, standing up.
“I love you more than anything, Felicity,” he says.
He kneels down, takes a daisy from the grass, and wraps it into a ring. He does this with tenderness. Then he slips the daisy onto my finger.
“I love you, too.”
Our kiss is long, hot, perfect.
THE END
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Thief: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Steel Saints MC)
By Paula Cox
F**K THE RULES. I TAKE WHAT I WANT. AND I WANT HER.
She didn’t ask for me to come crashing into her life.
But when I needed a place to store some stolen jewels, that’s exactly what I did.
Now, if she wants to stay alive, she’ll have to do as I say.
Today.
Tonight.
Forever.
But once I have her in my grasp, I realize…
I may have bitten off more than I can chew.
Chapter 1
Saying, “Damn, it’s hot” would be an understatement. It’s that kind of sticky, humid heat that feels as if you’re cooking from the inside out. It seeps into the pores of your skin and pulls out all the moisture from your body. Living in a desert like Las Vegas will do that to you, even if heat has been in your blood since you were born.
I wipe the tiny sweat beads from the to
p of my forehead with the back of my hand as I reach across the counter to turn on the tiny little portable fan I’ve hooked up to the shelf above my head. I briefly glance over towards the air conditioning controls. It takes literally everything I have in me not to turn that thing on. But I can’t waste money on running it today. Tomorrow’s supposed to be hotter, believe it or not, and if I’m going to get any business, I’ll have to survive through today -- sweaty hands and all.
“Miss Alana! Miss Alana!” I hear a faint knock on the metal window shade and my heart races. That’s money knocking and calling my name. I lift the latch, and the window comes flying open. Outside is a small boy about four feet tall wearing a red baseball cap, black knit tank, and shorts. Behind him stands a tall man with a completely disinterested look on his face. He’s texting on his phone, not even bothering to look up at me.
“Hey, buddy!” I shout as enthusiastically as I can muster. The heat from the outside is pouring inside as the mini fan struggles to keep going. “What can I get you? A Superman sundae? A bubblegum shake? I really love the pecan fudge sundae!”
“Whatever’s cheapest,” his dad mumbles under his breath, still not even bothering to look at me, or his son, who is practically climbing up the ice cream truck’s side to hand me a little stack of dollar bills. I wonder briefly if it’s his allowance. With a dad like that, I’m guessing this little guy doesn’t really get many treats without working for it. It was only a few bucks, not enough for some of the more popular ice cream treats I serve, but I could ignore that.
“Wow! Look at this. For this much, you can get anything on the menu.” The boy’s eyes light up like Christmas lights and sparkle brightly as he runs his fingers over the pictures of the options. Each one is more colorful and outrageous than the last. I love that handmade sign that my bestie Jana created for a graphic design marketing project. And by the looks of the boy with his mouth hanging open, he appreciates it just as much as me.
The boy’s father, however, is a bit more suspicious. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and grabs the boy’s hand. “She’s obviously joking,” he says, glaring at his son. “It’s just a joke. Get a scoop of chocolate or something. Don’t think you’re wasting my money.”
Something in me sparks up as I watch this father practically manhandle his son. With my own dad in the hospital and my frustrating wearing thin at not having a ton of customers, I was feeling awfully generous to little boys who deserve something more than a pushy, selfish dad. I look back down to the crestfallen kid and say softly, “No. I mean it. He can have whatever he wants. It’s on the house.”
The boy’s father finally looks up at me. And he does this thing -- I don’t know. Guys do it every time they first see me. It’s like a long double take. He scowls a quick reply to whoever he’s talking to and then puts his phone away in his pocket. His dark face and beady eyes somehow soften as he slowly looks back up at me. He moves from my elbows to my chest and then up my neck to my face. I try not to roll my eyes. Even if it’s two bucks, it’s worth not getting out of the truck and decking the dad right in the face.
The dad’s voice changes. It’s like he’s a totally new person as he reaches his hand towards mine and gives it for a long, gentle shake. “Well, that’s really sweet of you…” He glances over towards the side of my truck where my name is plastered in bubblegum-pink letters “... Miss Alana.” And then he does the most surprising thing of all -- he reaches towards his son and pulls him in close to him. “Aaron and I were just spending our weekend together when we thought we’d get a treat before his mom picks him up.”
“Is that so…” I say passively, totally uninterested in what was about to come next. It was the same each time. Single dads thinking that their terribly cute kid would actually land them some tail. Working in an ice cream truck in Vegas, I’ve seen pretty much every lame, skeezy attempt at this approach.
Still, my look of total reproach doesn’t appear to phase this genius. He manages to get even closer to me. His head rests on the side of the window as he twiddles his fingers on the rim of the opening. He pulls his designer sunglasses from the top of his head to cover his eyes as he boldly asks quietly, “After I drop him off, maybe I’ll stop by and get myself a treat for myself. Would it still be ‘on the house’?’”
What. The. Hell. It’s taking everything in my power not to laugh at this creep-tastic trainwreck. Instead, I focus down at his son who is looking more impatient than ever to score his free ice cream. This kid is getting extra toppings because he has to put up with a dad like this all weekend long. I ask Aaron, still smiling, “Did you decide yet?”
The boy sounds like a deflated balloon as he points towards the green slime ice cream. It’s an invention I made up myself -- mint ice cream with green chocolate sauce. I usually serve it as is, but I’ve been shelving some hard candy insects in my van for an experimental ice cream lately, so I top off the extra scoop with a few spiders and ladybugs along with some chocolate cookie flakes. As I hand it back to him, I shout in fake surprise, “Oh my gosh! Aaron! I think there are some bugs in this ice cream!” I pick out one from the top and pop it into my mouth, smiling widely, “They’re delicious, though! Taste just like chocolate. You wanna try some still?”
Aaron goes back to looking like a kid at an ice cream truck as he bounces up and down. I reach down and hand him the ice cream and watch him skip away towards the picnic tables I’ve set up. His dad smiles back at me, and I wonder if he thinks my kindness was to attract him. Ugh. My lips twist as I imagine that. I have some pretty horrible taste in men, but I’m not that stupid. I quickly shut the window to the truck to drown out the guy’s voice as he tries to play father-of-the-year for me.
In my nice little ice cream truck cocoon, I take the few dollars the kid handed to me and place it in the safe under the bench. The ice cream would have cost at least six bucks, but it was worth it. Everyone deserved a dad like mine, and it honestly made me heartbroken to see someone who wasn’t as blessed. I just wish mine were here. This truck was his first-born baby. He built it himself, regularly outfitted it with the latest in food truck refrigeration, and drove it all around the country when I was growing up -- just the two of us.
I used to sleep in a cot where the new cooler is. He’d take the helm, sleeping in the front seat. When money was good, we’d get a motel room. When money was tight, I would shower at the YMCA. It wasn’t exactly ideal, but it was all my dad knew to do after my mom died. All he wanted in life was to make sure that I was safe, fed, and dressed, and to turn his ice cream truck into an old, 1900s-era ice cream parlor near the strip. He would call it ‘Miss Alana’s Ice Cream Stop,’ just like what was written on the truck in the bright pink lettering.
But when it was time for me to go to school, he knew he had to quit that dream. He took the money he had saved up, bought us a little condo on the west side of town, and stuck to driving the truck in town so he could always pick me up after school in it.
When I started at Las Vegas University, he still always drove by at least twice a day to check in on me (and make a quick buck from the hungry college kids). The day he didn’t come was the day my heart broke into a million pieces. I knew something was wrong when, by 4 o’clock, he hadn’t once texted or rang his distinct ice cream bell music down the campus main way.
I had frantically called him for at least two hours, but each time, it went to voicemail. Later, the cops would say that when a phone is crushed into a billion pieces, it doesn’t even bother to ring on the other end. It just goes to voicemail. I should have known. But I waited a full twenty-four hours. Jana finally convinced me to go over to our old condo. Nothing was there -- just the ice cream truck in the parking spot. From the condo, we called every single hospital we could find until we got one who recognized the name, “Leo Bloom.”
I’m still not sure how it happened. A semi, a motorcycle, my dad’s beat up sedan he bought from a friend for $500 a few years ago… when I saw the pictures in the paper the next da
y, I couldn’t tell which one was which. It looked like a massive ball of steel that made up some weird art project. The truck driver died. The motorcyclist fled on foot and wasn’t found. And I was left with my dad in an unresponsive, medically induced coma in which no one, not even the best-trained doctor in Vegas, could tell me when he would come out of.
A few days after my dad’s accident, I got the first bill from the ambulance company. It was more than my tuition payment. I tried calling and negotiating… okay, begging, but it did no good. They wanted their money, and they wanted it now. Failure to pay or show insurance meant my dad would be transferred to the county hospital where he’d be doomed to get the worst care possible. I had to do something to stay on top of the bills now piling in like rain in buckets.