Chapter 4 #2
He told her he was disappointed in her, that she was better than that, that we all were.
He told her she never should've lowered herself to committing such a petty crime, that the only excuse for theft was dire need, and she didn't have a good reason. But now that she’d been caught stealing, she'd be in the police records, and people would know who she was.
We found out later that wasn't true, but it sure as hell scared us at the time.
He definitely knew how to strike the fear of God in us.
And I, being the weirdo that I am, fell a little bit in love with him that day.
I wanted an older brother who’d care enough about me to lecture the hell out of me.
Crazy, isn’t it?
Over the years, I managed to convince myself that I really was crazy, and I couldn't crush on any of their brothers.
It wouldn't work at all. And over the years, I got to know who they really were.
And maybe in my mind they were a little larger than life.
Maybe in my mind… they kind of were superheroes.
Maybe in my mind they still are.
I tried to find my own happily ever after. I dated, lots. But I was never attracted to anyone, not really. Not until Fergus.
My friends told me to be careful, that I really didn't know him, that an online relationship couldn't be all that it was cracked up to be.
But I said that they were liars. I said they didn't really know who he was.
I told myself I did. Why would he come all this way, all the way from Wales, just to be with me?
Just to marry me? It didn't make any sense unless it was for real love.
He listened to me. Really, truly listened to me.
Or at least I thought he did. And yeah, of course there were warning signs, and I really should've listened to them.
The way he sometimes criticized my habits, or the things that I wore.
The way he told me that I'd be really attractive when I lost twenty pounds, but that he knew that I could do it, and that he'd be patient while I tried.
I wish that I'd had enough self-worth to see the warning signs for what they were. But I didn't.
I wanted the dream. The white dress, the church full of people, the little house with a white picket fence and the wee bairns at my ankles.
One or two, maybe even a little dog. Just something normal.
And I even told myself that if my dreams were small enough, that I had nothing to be embarrassed about.
I told myself if my dreams were small, that I could make them happen.
I told myself that if my dreams were small, I deserved them.
I should've listened. I should've listened to anyone who had a modicum of self-respect and an ounce of logic. But I didn't.
What kind of a fucking arse cheats on his wedding day? My ex, that’s who.
I nursed my wounds for a very long time. I couldn’t write. Who could write romance stories with happily ever afters when their own dreams had been dashed to smithereens? Sigh.
I told myself that the entire male population was at fault for my troubles. I told myself I needed no man, that my battery-operated vibrator would work just fine, and he’d never cheat on me. Ever.
Pathetic, I know.
It was so long that I went without writing, that I began to wonder if I’d ever write again.
But writing pays the bills, and I had a story to tell. The story of Mac and Bryn Cowen.
When someone doesn't have a moral compass, they can't help but admire someone who does. And now that I'm older, and I know that the moral compass of the Cowen Clan isn't the standard one? I still accept it as viable and honorable, because it was the first one I ever knew.
I could write their code clearer than they could, because it's something they might live, but it's something that I aspire to.
Fierce loyalty, steadfast protection, the ties of family and friends that are damn near unbreakable.
I mean, look what they did last night. Who cracks their head on a fucking tree, and ends up being taken care of? I don't think just anyone would welcome someone into their home to care for them. But they did. For me.
And if I'm really honest? A part of me hoped that telling their story would actually make them seem a little more human.
The stories are written in the present tense, and I don't skirt the issues of real human frailty and weakness, but in every single book they overcome the circumstances they're in. Someone gets a happily ever after.
That was all just how it started, though. Now I need the bloody money.
I think I fancied myself a sort of a liaison between the Cowen family and the rest of the world.
If they could fall in love with the men in these books, with the characters in these books, maybe they would see that humans are flawed, that they make mistakes, and that even people who live by a different code of conduct are still humans. Still worthy of respect.
Or maybe I’ve just thought too highly of myself.
And I never imagined that the Cowen family brothers would actually be concerned! Now that I think about it, maybe I shouldn’t have kept them quite so realistic… I could've put them on a fucking beach somewhere. I had to put them in the snowy mountains, didn't I? Oh God.
What will they do if they find out I’m the writer?
Last year, I had an inside spy. Aisla was the one who would take down notes, tell me what was going on, feed me information with sordid, gritty details that made the perfect fodder for my books. She took copious notes, provided them to me, and of course I paid her well.
I never dreamed that she'd actually be apprehended by them, that they would suspect that she had anything to do with the novels that I was writing…
Thank God she got away. I wish I knew how.
At first, I imagined that they thought she was the writer of the books. She wasn't, of course. She was only my inside source.
I was preparing for a wedding and had no idea that she'd been apprehended by them. I found out later she’d been rescued the same night.
I guess people would assume that someone rescued her from her precarious position, but it definitely wasn't me.
I actually have no idea who it was and haven't been able to get in touch with her since.
I do know that she probably would be in major trouble with the Clan if they found her. And I do feel a little guilty about that, but I've gotten accustomed to living with guilt, it's just kind of something that I deal with.
Now what the hell am I going to do?
How am I going to get him off the trail? Pretending I don’t know anything about the books isn’t a smart idea, I know it isn’t. If he finds out…
“How’s your pain?” Tate asks, as we head outside. He extends his arm for me to take, and I do so reluctantly. I don’t like how attracted I am to him, how my skin feels like it’s on fire when we touch. It feels as if he has control over me, like my body has a mind of its own when he touches me.
Damn it.
The truth is, my pain level’s terrible. My head’s smacking, the pain’s throbbing, the skin’s tender to the touch, and it feels like someone's put a hot air balloon inside my skull.
“It’s fine," I lie.
He scowls at me, and God how I love the way that scowl sends shivers straight between my thighs. Seriously, what’s wrong with me that his stern disapproval affects me so? It’s like skydiving or something, dangerous as hell but utterly fucking delicious.
“Why are you lying?”
I look at him sharply. “How can you tell I’m lying?”
“Because you’ve had your hand to your head every second you think I’m not looking, and there’s visible pain on your face.”
I don’t reply. I suppose being a mobster makes him very aware of pain.
Oh, I like that thought.
Crazy!
“How’s your arm?”
I tuck it, in its sling, against my chest.
“Also fine.”
He makes a grunty sound of disapproval.
Also hot.
Maybe I’m ovulating.
I feel like utter crap. I want to fall asleep and wake up when this is all over, when my arm’s right again and my head doesn’t hurt so badly. I want to wake up back in my own home, without Tate’s scorching displeasure sending vibes to my knickers.
He opens the door for me, and as we exit a member of the staff comes outside. She's wearing a maid’s apron, and looks about ten years younger than I am.
"Where do you guys hire your help?" I ask him. "She looks as if she's barely old enough to drive. Honestly?"
He grunts again. Apparently, this is the way that he communicates?
“I have nothing to do with the household,” he mutters. “That’s all Mum.”
Oh, that’s total crap! I’ve researched this heavily. Liar!
“Oh, I see. You don’t know anything about the house help, hmm?”
How about Aisla, I ask mentally, smart enough to at least not say her name out loud.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, if I don’t shut up I’m going to bloody muzzle myself. It’s the meds, it’s got to be the bloody meds.
Did I really just say that out loud? Why?
“You’ve got something to criticize?” He frowns.
I scowl right back at him, but I imagine it looks like a little baby kitten with her fierce wee claws compared to a mountain lion. One roar and swipe of his paw and he’ll knock me straight on my arse.
“No, all good.” I need to let this go before I say something stupid.
Too late.
Of course I had nothing to do with letting Aisla out, and have no idea who did, though I suspect it was Paisley or Islan.
Based on what they've told me with a little wink and giggle.
They didn't want to see their housemate in trouble, or questioned, whatever the fuck they do for questioning. I know that. And I was grateful when they told me, because I’d feel bloody awful if I knew Aisla got herself in some sort of trouble because of me.
She sent me a quick email a day or two after she’d been let out of the house.