Twenty-Two
TWENTY-TWO
CHAOS
All I can think as I push my bike along the dark road is how the mighty have fallen. The shit I do for her… There’s no fucking way in hell I’d put myself through this bullshit for anyone else. The Harley weighs six hundred and fifty pounds—a dead weight when the engine isn’t running. My legs ache, reminding me I’ve been too busy to get to the gym the past few weeks. Another fucking thing that drives me crazy.
My brain runs better with routine. When things happen on autopilot as they should so that they’re one less task to expend mental energy on.
I’ve been dumping a fuckload of that energy into this woman of late, and yet, it’s everywhere else in my life that I itch to cut back. What does that say about me? What the fuck is wrong with me? I could cut this shit right now. Get my ass on the saddle and start the goddamn engine to ride home. She was right—I owe her nothing. And yet…
And yet you push your fucking motorcycle up a rural road at night to avoid waking her.
Circus rises from his spot, leaning against the wooden gate, when he spots me approaching. His long strides carry him to the edge of the dirt. It was his fucking photo that had me in a goddamn chokehold in the Sheriff’s office, calculating what I needed to say to cut the meeting short. I wasn’t under arrest—yet. Just someone whose cooperation they ‘appreciated.’
A scapegoat in the making.
Seeing Vanessa on my screen, backlit by her cottage lights in nothing but a sweatshirt, kitchen knife clutched in her hand… Jesus wept.
And so did my dick.
“Anything new?” I ask as the scary motherfucker approaches.
He shakes his head, thin dreads rattling. “Been quiet.”
The guy seldom speaks, so when he does, it still takes me by surprise how deep his voice is. “You get inside?”
He nods, his gaze shifting to her windows. “She was gone long enough.” He pulls his phone out and brings up the security app.
I kick out my bike’s stand and then do the same.
The details for the login transfer to my phone, Circus pocketing his as we wait for the feed to load.
“She’s got no idea?”
Another shake of his head. “I took my time.”
Vanessa’s trip to the airport was fortuitous, allowing my road captain enough time to get inside and place a few eyes around the house.
“Delete the app.” I register the location of each picture on my screen: one in her kitchen, another in the living room, and none anywhere that could compromise her modesty, like the bathroom or bedroom.
Those are my zones.
Circus thumbs his phone, trashing the app and turning the screen to show me it’s gone. I give him a short nod of thanks and then pocket my device for later. He sighs, lips rolling, his attention on her house as he shoves his phone into his back pocket.
“Something else you want to say?” I’ve never asked outright why it is he’s so avoidant of conversation, but at times it’s a fucking headache.
“She doesn’t seem like she needs all this.”
Because she doesn’t. I do. “You think I’m being paranoid?”
He glances at me and then back to her windows. “No.”
“Am I out of line here?” I narrow my gaze on him, Jinx’s attitude fresh in my mind.
He shrugs. “You ask the wrong guy.”
True. The man is the type to set up camp inside her house, trapping her until she breaks, and call it a day. “Make sure you walk your bike back to the junction before you start it, yeah?”
Circus nods, giving me a thumbs up as he turns for the farm.
My chest tightens when I watch the guy disappear into the night. Maybe I do push this too far? How long can I pretend it’s for the good of the club before the truth becomes glaringly obvious: this is wholly for me.
Circus was right: Vanessa’s no real threat. A brother parked outside her house for a few hours once or twice a week would be all it took to intimidate her into submission. The cameras are overkill. My nightly presence is a massive over-utilization of resources. I’ve got prospects for this kind of bullshit work; sure as fuck don’t need the president on it.
I kick the stand up and heave the bike into motion again. The roadside dips away a little to sweep into her driveway, gaining me momentum, and I tuck a boot onto the peg to ride out the glide. The Harley rolls to a stop outside her crooked garage, which looks like it hasn’t been used in years. Stand down, I opt to leave my helmet on the bars; unlikely to see anyone else out here with a death wish large enough to take Kings property.
The cat’s not waiting for me as I broach the steps of her back porch, which can only mean one thing: she has the fucker inside with her. I stall, bringing up the app on my phone. There’s no movement in the living areas—no sign of the goddamn animal. Hasn’t been for almost an hour—since Circus snapped the pic of her with a knife. Asshole probably shares her bed. The thought makes me irrationally jealous. It’s just a cat, you idiot. Just a bundle of fur that’s a convenience in her life, unlike what I could be.
What I plan to be.
I glance at her door as the sinking feeling hits like a freight train. Am I more trouble than I’m worth for her? It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Vanessa has deep fucking issues. Would my presence in her life make her mental health worse? You’re already in her life. She’s already seen me, spoken to me, and fucking touched me—I shiver with want at the memory—and she still looked at me with a smile.
If that isn’t proof this woman wants me around, what is?
I pocket my phone and reach for the door, stalling when the shadows draw my eye to the gap in the frame. She left it open. Don’t give a fuck if she knew Circus was out there. Don’t care one goddamn iota if she hoped I’d show. This kind of reckless disregard for her safety has got to stop.
Maybe she doesn’t give two shits about herself, but I do. That should be enough.
I bunt the door so it swings open under its own steam and sus out the surroundings. No sexy little enigma about to shank me as I step inside. No cat prepping to howl my presence before I’m ready for her to know I’m here.
I move into the kitchen and gently shut the door behind me, fully engaging the lock this time. Like fuck anyone other than me is getting in here. Her countertops are clear; nothing on the coffee table tonight. In fact, the house is so goddamn organized that it sticks out as being too tidy. Is my girl a stress cleaner? Is she one of those chicks who disassociate from the emotional pain by busying their mind with asinine tasks?
I draw a steady breath and make my way through to her bedroom, anticipating the goddamn animal arriving at the least opportune moment to trip me up so that I crash to the floor and wake her. Miraculously, I make it to her doorway without incident to find out why.
Sure enough, the smug little fucker is curled up against her back, head raised, as he no doubt stares me down in the dark. Asshole. What concerns me more, though, is the papers spread across her bed. There’s only a handful of torn pages, but from what I can make out in the half-light, they’re choc full of information. Why didn’t she put it in her journal? Did she hope I wouldn’t see?
I pause inside the door and shuck my boots. I get the distinct feeling I won’t be leaving in a hurry, and the fact I parked my ass on her bed that first night, grubby kicks and all, was downright disrespectful.
My mother always had some superstition about shoes on a bed, and although I never really understood it, the concept stuck.
The cat’s head swivels on its fat little body as I move, tracking me across the space. I flip it the bird and scoop up the pages for light reading.
Something dark and heavy clatters to the floor. Fuck. Frozen mid-movement, I watch Vanessa for any sign that the ruckus roused her. Curled on her side, facing away from me, she doesn’t move. Eyes could still be open, though. I squint harder, making out the rise and fall of her ribcage. Steady. Too slow for somebody frozen with fear.
I point to the cat and then the door. Fuck off. I don’t need anything else in here that might disturb her.
The feline begins to purr. Goddamn animals.
I sweep the floor near where I stand with my socked foot and bump against whatever fell out of the notes. Attention fixed on the object of my desire as she sleeps, I slowly bend my knees and pat around with my left hand until I find it. A phone. Interesting. Even more curious that a simple swipe with my thumb unlocks the device to reveal the factory background. Even the apps are minimal.
This is not the phone of a person who regularly uses one. Huh.
My gaze falls to the page in my other hand, and even when I tilt it toward the cracked curtains, there’s not enough light to make out her words.
Good thing I have something that can help, then. I flick the phone’s torch function on and drag the light over the secrets of her soul, freezing when one particular detail stands out.
A name. A man’s name.
I look at my woman as she sleeps, at the tantalizing dip and curve of her silhouette. Did she do this on purpose, knowing I would find it? Does she want me to see the shit she keeps inside to rot? I tread lightly around her bed, moving to the same side she faces. Asleep. Precise ly as I assumed. Her lips part a fraction, lashes light against her cheekbones, she slumbers with one hand tucked beneath her head, the other curled under her chin.
The cat rises, stepping delicately over her legs to reposition itself on the same side as me.
I shake my head at the fucker. Consider using the phone as a weapon on the asshole should it fuck this up for me. And decide that probably wouldn’t be the best way to get on Vanessa’s good side. Lucky break, fucker.
Instead, I shuffle back until my heels hit something soft—a pile of washing near her closet—and then lower myself to the floor, legs bent before me, elbows atop my knees. The pages hang in my left hand, the phone in my right to provide the light I need.
She speaks of an absence of love in her life. Of the grief of never knowing what a childhood full of joy and imagination could have created.
She muses over if she’s enough. If she matters to this world.
What can she give when all she can draw from is pain?
Who would that help?
I let my hands hang lax as I glance up at her peaceful form again. She doesn’t need a purpose to do good. She doesn’t need a ‘cause’.
Her pain was the pressure that created a diamond. The force that shaped the stunning masterpiece before me.
I’ve wracked my brain on my rides the last few days, pondering what the fuck it is about her that draws me in? Why am I the moth to her flame? Why, when I know she’ll only cause damage, do I seek her out all the same?
Because she reminds you that everyone holds inherent worth in this world.
I look at Vanessa, at the shit she’s been through, at the struggles she still faces, and I see a woman who deserves nothing but happiness. Who deserves a reward for her continued strength in the face of adversity.
Lesser men have crumbled. And yet she gets up day after day, a tiny spark of hope that there’s more out there for her, driving her forward.
Nothing that has happened to her is enough for me to deny her that happily ever after.
There is nothing she could do to diminish her right to be here. To be alive. To be happy.
She’s my reason why. Why, after all the shit I’ve done, I have no reason to deny myself the same.
Because every criticism I lay upon myself is one that I’d cut down the second it left her lips. Her pen.
Every negative thing I say about myself is a lie I’d debunk if she were to tout the same.
And yet, here I sit, aware on a deeply fucking subconscious level that I’m not good enough.
I’m not what she deserves.
I’m just what she needs.