11. Judge
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Idig through Myla’s cupboards, desperate to find her coffee. She must have some because there’s a pod-style brewer on her counter. Then I notice a little drawer underneath the machine and sigh in relief. My excitement is short-lived when I pull the drawer open and scan the pods.
Caramel Cream Crunch Medium Roast? Texas Pecan? Chocolate chip?
“What the fuck is this?” I ask no one. The pods all tout a different flavored coffee, each one weirder than the last. “Where the hell is the coffee-flavored coffee?”
“Find the one that says ‘Donut Shop.’”
I look over to find a sleep-rumpled Myla. She’s adorable in her over-sized robe that makes her look like a marshmallow. I shake that thought away. Today, I’ll get answers, and I won’t allow her to distract me.
“I don’t want my coffee to taste like a donut,” I say.
“It’s just the name. It’s a light roast, though, and I know you like your coffee dark and black.”
I scour the pods until I find the one with a pink frosted donut on it. “It’ll do. Thanks.”
After putting it in the machine and mashing the brew button, I turn to face her. She’s sitting down at the small dinette, arms folded on the table and looking surprisingly nervous. Good, she should be.
“Did you sleep okay?” she asks.
“Yeah.” It’s a lie. I slept like shit because my mind was on overdrive all night. I had too many questions, and the only one who could answer them was sleeping soundly in my arms. I found myself frustrated as hell while also grateful as fuck that I somehow ended up in her bed. Half of me wanted to strangle her, while the other half wanted to wake her up and repeat our activities from earlier. “What about you?”
“I don’t remember the last time I slept a solid eight hours.” She finger-combs her hair, as if just realizing it’s probably mussed—which it is, and I find that adorable too.
“That’s good,” I say, wondering if it was because of me or whatever trouble she got herself into that eased her mind enough to rest.
“Your coffee’s done.”
“You want a cup?” I ask, turning around to grab a mug that has “Fill Me Up, Daddy” printed on it.
“Sure, but can I have the pink marshmallow flavor?”
I reach for another mug, this one with the phrase, “Blow Me. I’m Hot” on it. While setting the reservoir under the spout and switching the used pod for a new one, I absentmindedly ask, “What exactly does a pink marshmallow taste like?”
“Um, I guess it tastes like sugary coffee. I don’t really like the stuff, so I have to have flavors in order to choke it down.”
“You could just not drink it,” I suggest.
“Always so pragmatic.” She gets up to grab a carton of flavored creamer from the fridge.
“Is that a bad thing?” I set both our coffees on the table and sit across from her.
“No, but it makes me feel immature or stupid that I’m led by my emotions.”
I frown. “That’s how I come across to you?”
“Sometimes.” She sips her coffee, her face pinching in disgust. “Acquired taste, my ass.”
“I’m sorry I make you feel that way.”
“It’s fine.”
“It takes all kinds of people to make the world a beautiful place, and it would be short-sighted of me not to make you feel appreciated for the person you are.”
“And that.” She points a finger at me. “That’s such a perfect thing to say. I can’t despise you when you say shit like that.”
“Why do you want to despise me?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“Because right now, all I want is to be left alone in my bubble of anger, but you make it so goddamn hard.”
“By saying you want to be angry ‘right now,’ it implies you won’t want to be in the future. Am I understanding you right?”
She releases a guttural growl of frustration, her voice dripping with desperation. “Yes! Of course I want to be happy someday, but those men took a part of my soul I can’t get back. You could never understand what it feels like.” Her hands gesture wildly, and her voice drips with bitterness and anger. “Every thought leads me back to that day. When I get in the shower, I’m reminded of how difficult it was to scrub the dried-on cum off my tits. When I eat, I remember the men chucking the crusts of their sandwiches at me like I was garbage. When I’m in my car, I see the scratch marks on the dash as I fought not to be abducted. So yes, I’m on the brink of insanity, but I think I’ve earned it.” Her eyes flash with intensity as she speaks, her body trembling with unbridled emotion.
Her anger is palpable. I can’t imagine living with that much darkness. It must eat her up. Where are my perfect answers now?
“You do.” I reach across the table and take her hand. She stares at where we’re joined like it’s a shackle and not a comfort, so I pull away. “It doesn’t change the fact that I need to know what happened last night.”
Her jaw clenches and her teeth grind together as her knee bounces uncontrollably. Seeing her wound so tight has me feeling queasy, and I hastily push my coffee away. The gravity of what she’s about to say weighs heavy between us, and I sense a change in the air—one that could jeopardize my loyalty to the club, the only family I’ve ever known. Then there’s Myla, the woman who has become an integral part of my life. She deserves my loyalty just as much as the club, but how will I choose between them?
“I killed someone last night,” she whispers.
I’m not surprised by those words. I assumed as much, so my tone remains even. “Who?”
“Remember that list you found?” she asks, and I nod. I already had that puzzle piece on the board; I just hadn’t figured out how it fit. “That was a list of men the Honey Pot has rejected services to.”
“Bad men.” It’s not a question. I learned first-hand about the type of men the ranch turns away the day Myla had her freak out.
“Yeah. Bad men.” She picks at a loose strip of rattan that’s come loose on her coaster.
“The reason you asked for a job at the ranch was so you could print a list of men you know are pieces of shit, huh?”
She nods. “I had to know for a fact that they deserved to be punished, and I knew the guys wouldn’t flag them if they weren’t certain.”
“I’m guessing you bought the bike and asked Rigger to help you learn to ride because you needed a fast getaway vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“Last night must’ve been the first time you’ve taken a life. Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask, knowing her confession will make her feel a little better, even though it’ll make me feel worse. It’s another transfer of guilt from her to me, but I’ll carry that weight, just like I do for my brothers.
“His name is. . . was. . . Eric Lindquist, some big shot attorney with connections to a bunch of judges. When his computer came up during a child pornography investigation, his laptop was seized. He was arrested but never charged, and he walked away without anyone knowing what a disgusting piece of shit he is.”
My breath catches. The phantom pain of skin peeling off my back nearly suffocates me because Eric Lindquist’s sins are too closely related to what happened to me. I know all too well how damaging it is for the innocence of a child to be taken from them long before they’re ready.
“Men who hurt children are the worst of them all.”
I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the ball that formed there. “They are.”
“Anyway, I watched him for a couple days and learned his routine. Then, I pounced. Bones prescribed me some heavy sleeping pills after?—”
“Go on.” I don’t make her say it. What she’s admitting to is difficult enough without bringing that into it.
“I pulverized them into a powder and snuck into his house before he came home from work. He didn’t even have a camera alert system; that’s how confident this guy was that nothing bad could happen to him. Meanwhile, women are never safe, not ever, and the second we let our guard down, bad things happen.” She sneers.
“Unfortunately, that’s a truth I had to witness first with Tinleigh and then you.”
She takes a second to regain her control, her still-bouncing knee making the table vibrate. “He has a chef come in once a week and make meals for him, so all he has to do is heat them up. It was easy to mix the pills into his mashed potatoes. Then I waited outside his window until I was certain enough time had passed for the pills to work, and I walked right through the unlocked front door. I found him in his office, his pants open and his limp dick out. He fell asleep in his chair before he could get himself off to what was playing on his computer.” A fat tear rolls down her ruddy cheek.
“I wish you hadn’t seen that.” I yearn to pull her into my lap so I can hold her, offer her my comfort, but that’s what I need, not her. She needs a man to not violate her boundaries.
“Me too.”
“What then?”
“I tied his ankles and wrists to the chair. Don’t worry. I used the most popular zip ties on the market and paid cash for them. I had on gloves, and my hair was covered by a hat, so there’s no chance my DNA was left behind.”
“There’s little chance your DNA was left behind,” I correct because there’s no way to know for sure. “And you’re in the system because the County required it to work at the ranch.”
“I know, but I was really careful.”
“I can tell.”
“Anyway, I waited for him to wake up, and when he did, my nerves got the best of me. I almost ran out of there without doing anything else.”
“What changed your mind?”
“He did. You should’ve heard the things he spewed at me, calling me names, telling me all the awful things he was going to do to me when he got free.” Her posture straightens, and her knee stills. When her eyes meet mine, I see a hint of the killer in her, and from what she’s told me, I don’t know how I can blame her. “I carved off his flaccid dick and chucked it at him. It landed on his forehead before slowly sliding down his face as he screamed and retched.”
I look away, trying not to throw up myself. This isn’t the kind of thing a normal, mentally stable person can do. Everyone thinks that when push comes to shove, they could kill if they had to, but the truth is that human instincts have weakened over the years, and even when it’s your life or theirs, it wouldn’t be an easy thing to do. Shooting someone? Maybe. But carving away at flesh? No, not many could go through with it.
“Then what?” I ask.
“I straddled him and stabbed him over and over and over. I don’t know how many times, but as it turns out, it takes a lot of force to go deep enough to kill, so it took me a while. Eventually, I went for his throat and must have severed an artery.” She zones out, staring at nothing. “I’ve never seen so much blood. I thought I’d feel better, and I guess I kind of did, but I was also pissed he died so easily. I wish he’d suffered more.”
“I guarantee his soul will suffer for all eternity.”
“It’s not good enough.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I was covered in blood. I don’t know why I didn’t think about that. . . but I was wearing black and had left my helmet and leather coat with my bike, so it covered me up enough that no one saw anything when I rode home. Plus, it was late and dark outside.”
“What about shoe prints?” I ask, thinking of all the ways she might’ve messed up without even knowing.
“Cheap pair from a big box store. They’ve been selling the exact style for years, and there are literally millions of them floating around. I’m a size seven, but I bought a size nine and stuffed the toes with toilet paper.”
“That’s good.” It’s weird to feel proud that she really thought this through, but I am.
“I was disgusted when I got home. Having his blood on me felt like I was wearing his sin. I scrubbed at myself for an hour with a soap I saw at the clubhouse. No one told me it was to clean blood off hands or anything. I just figured if it got grease from fixing bikes off hands, then blood should be easy.” The corners of her lips tip up ever so slightly. “But I’m not stupid. I know what the club has to do sometimes.”
It’s not my place to confirm or deny, so I remain stoic. “What will you do with the clothes?”
“Hydrogen peroxide, a bar of soap, enzyme liquid detergent, and dish soap.”
“Shoes?”
“Treat them with the same cocktail of soaps and then drop them in a dumpster somewhere busy. Do I pass your test?”
“So far,” I say. She seems to have thought of all the logistics, but did she factor in the mental toll of taking a life? “How do you feel?”
“Strangely okay. I was a little manic last night, as you saw.” She peers over at me, the confidence she had up until now waning.
“That’s the other thing I wanted to talk about.”
“If you’re about to apologize that you took advantage of me or tell me it was a mistake, just please don’t.”
Last night was a mistake, and doing it again will be an even bigger one. She just admitted to killing someone and that she plans to do it again. The right thing to do would be to tell Cy, Rigger, and Lucky what’s going on so we can get ahead of this. She’d hate me, and that would be for the best because I’m not the right man for her, and she’s not the right woman for me.
My gut, conscience, and logic all agree that this is the right course of action, but I know deep down that’s not the choice I will make. Myla has somehow infiltrated my heart, and despite my logical mind telling me otherwise, I’m compelled to act on my emotions. It could be mere hormones clouding my judgment, but I refuse to believe that. This is something greater, a cosmic pull or divine intervention guiding me toward her. No matter what the consequences may be, I can’t turn my back on her. And if I have it my way, she’ll let me in so I can tow some of the weight she carries.
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
Her chin lifts. “What were you going to say?”
“That I loved what we did last night, and I want to explore these feelings I have for you.” I tap my fingers on the table, watching for her reaction.
She rears back, shocked at my confession. My honesty often has that effect on people, but I find that a lot of miscommunication and insecurity can be avoided when you lay all your cards on the table. Exposing yourself this way will make you vulnerable and uncomfortable, but it’s like any other practice; the more you do it, the better you get at it.
“No.” One word, no explanation, and she’s on her feet, padding down the hall.
Well, shit.