Chapter 13 #2
I leave the railing and sink into the lounger, pulling up my feet. “She’s just letting you finish your orientation. And you’re a genius; you’ll learn fast. I know you’re putting in insane hours to learn everything about the company and your responsibilities.”
“It’s been six weeks. And I know my sister—” He cuts off abruptly and huffs out a breath. “I don’t want to talk about Ursula’s stick-up-her-arse controlling demeanor. Let’s talk about you.”
I tilt my face up to the sun that’s trying to warm me despite the cold wind. “Let’s not.”
“You need to have a game plan and be prepared for how you’re going to deal with Guerilla. So you don’t run again like when he got close to finding you in New Orleans.”
I ran to New Orleans after leaving San Francisco, hiding and barely surviving, both physically and financially.
I worked in a café in the French Quarter, where Luthor, a kind gentleman who traveled there regularly for business, would come in every month to enjoy the music.
The café was his favorite spot, and he knew all the staff by name.
The manager, Ruth, bless her soul, knew I was leery of bikers, so when she heard rumors of a man from a club not affiliated with any in the city looking for a woman who matched my description, she told me immediately.
It had almost been closing time, and Luthor had been packing up to leave.
He had seen my panic and paralyzing fear—I had still been so fragile physically and mentally after my horrendous loss.
So after I confessed why I was so afraid, Luthor stole me away on his private jet, and I never looked back.
He had asked me to marry him, not out of love but for companionship for him and protection, stability, and security for me.
I never wanted his money, and I was the one who insisted on signing a prenuptial agreement.
I loved him; maybe not a burning, all-consuming love, but one that was filled with respect and tenderness.
My life with the Wentzell family these past years has been the healing balm I needed, but without facing my past and putting those ghosts to rest, a part of me wouldn’t heal; it would continue to fester.
Luthor knew this, hence why he wrapped it up in a deathbed promise, knowing that my love and respect for him would make me honor it, even if it was the last thing on earth I wanted to do.
I didn’t know he had purchased a home here for me until the reading of his will. He had gotten it for me to have a place to comfortably stay while I sought closure with my past, and also in case I wanted to remain in San Francisco.
“I know how triggering this can be for you.” Concern laces Kiefer’s words. “That’s why I wanted to be there for you.”
“I know, and I love you for it.” I rub my temples, feeling a migraine starting to brew. “Remind me why I’m doing this again, though, and how it will give me closure?”
“So you face your betrayers and show them you didn’t break and crumble. So they know you’re strong, and that they need to beg for your forgiveness. But even if they don’t beg for forgiveness, you need to forgive them, Leeva, so you can stop carrying that burden.”
“I’ll never stop carrying the burden of losing my child.” My voice cracks.
“I know.” His voice softens. “But because you ran—and please don’t take that as I’m placing blame on you, because I’m definitely not—you never got a chance to see if Hayes or Guerilla were remorseful.
And that, I think, is what’s bothered you so much all these years, and it’s the root of the pain that continues to fester within you. ”
I blow out a heavy breath. “What if Guerilla does something stupid and won’t let me go?”
“You assured us that the president of their club would never force a woman to stay with any man. But if you doubt that, then you need to get the hell out of there this instant.”
“No, I trust Ash.”
Even though I haven’t seen him for over a decade, I know he wouldn’t force me to be with Guerilla if I didn’t want to. To Ash, morals and things like consent were something he lived and died by, just as his dad, Zeus, had. It was something Zeus instilled in him after losing a sister to trafficking.
Keifer laughs, and it sounds a bit evil.
“Besides, Guerilla has no claim on you any longer. The best cosmetic surgeon in the world removed the tattoo, so there’s no trace of it, not even a scar or discoloration of your skin.
There’s nothing left of his barbaric claim on you; he’s got nothing on you anymore. ”
To a civilian, I can see how things would look, but to someone from this world, it just is what it is.
And if there was a scar or any evidence of the tattoo, Guerilla might still have something to insist I was his old lady.
I do trust Ash, but Guerilla… That man is an entirely different story.
I’m not sure how he’ll take it that his claim over me is gone.
He had nearly found me in New Orleans, refusing to let me go then, and now, even though more than a decade has passed, he could still want me.
I don’t fool myself that it’s because he loves me.
I see now that what he felt for me was more obsessive pride because he took me away from his brother, Hayes, even if Hayes and I had only ever been friends.
A man like Guerilla doesn’t do well with being made a fool of, so as much as I want to flaunt it in his face and tell him to get fucked, I know I’ll have to handle this a bit more diplomatically and with more tact.
With Luthor’s wealth, I had access to the best cosmetic surgeon in the world, just as Keifer had said.
I focus on that to calm my fears about how Guerilla will react to the news that I had bested him and his claim—something that has never been completely accomplished before.
I knew that some old ladies, when they ‘divorced’ their men, had their tattoos removed, but even with the scarring, they were still viewed as ‘married’ in the eyes of the MC.
I didn’t want that. I wanted nothing left because I wanted to pretend that my young, na?ve, and stupid decision had never happened.
I had multiple treatments with laser technology, stem-cell-enhanced micro-needling to aid skin regeneration, skin resurfacing to smooth out textural irregularities, and melanin-balancing treatments to ensure there were no discolored patches of skin.
Along with my seemingly wonderful healing genetics, it was like the tattoo had never existed.
Poof, it and my bad choices were gone.
There was no evidence of it.
“I’m not his old lady,” I say firmly to reaffirm this fact to myself.
“Damn right you aren’t,” Keifer agrees. “Own that power, girl. And while you’re at it, view this as the closure of hand-delivering Guerilla divorce papers.”
“I don’t deserve you.” I swallow against the lump in my throat. “Or Ursula, and I didn’t deserve Luthor.”
“That’s bullshit. We’re family, and we love you. Luthor loved you.”
My head throbs as the pain of my migraine starts to really push in with the pain of our shared loss. “I miss him.”
“Me, too.” Keifer’s voice is thick with emotion, and he clears his throat. “He’d be so proud of you. He hated to see you in pain; hated seeing a part of you slowly fade, Leeva. Go and reclaim that piece of you.”
Shuddering out a breath, I nod. “I will.”
The sunlight is starting to aggravate my head and bring on my migraine, so I rise from the lounger and go back inside, heading for the ensuite where my medication is.
“Call us if you need anything, day or night. Or if you want me to come there.”
“I’ll be fine, Keif. I need to do this on my own.”
“Just know the offer stands.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You could FaceTime us when you tell Guerilla to get fucked so we can—”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Brat. But I love you.”
We say goodbye, and I disconnect the call.
Unzipping my make-up bag, I find my bottle of medication and shake out two. I hate to take it because I tend to get multiple side effects—the worst is that it knocks me out—but with the sudden and intense onset of this migraine, I know I don’t have a choice.
But at least it will stop me from doing something stupid, like going back to Hedon tonight.