Chapter Thirty-Five
L iz held her breath, scared of missing a single moment, her tear-filled eyes pinned to the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen…right next to her in the bed.
Next to her, Erika slept curled up against her father, who was dead asleep with his thick, strong arms wrapped around his little girl. They were snuggled up like they couldn’t get close enough. In that moment, Trouble looked…at peace; the creases usually around his eyes weren’t there, the hardness from his usual badass expression was missing, and his body was lacking the tension of carrying the burden of the world on his shoulders.
Understandably, while Erika had no idea what had happened, she’d felt the tension in the air at the clubhouse, and she’d wanted the closeness and comfort of her parents.
They’d come home from the clubhouse, ordered pizza from Gino’s, and ate while watching The Beekeeper . Trouble loved the action, Liz loved looking at Jason Statham, and Erika just enjoyed being cuddled by her daddy. It was a simple, normal evening—even if its beginning was terrible.
That day had begun with so much excitement and anticipation for an evening of relaxation and then amazing sex with a man who’d done the impossible; earned her forgiveness. She would be the first to admit that when they’d reunited two years ago, she’d been determined to treat him like the plague, keeping her distance and making sure all of her vulnerable parts were securely covered. And for the next two years, he’d done an amazing job of pissing her off, hurting her pride, and kicking at the pieces of her broken heart still lying on the floor. He’d used Amelia to push her back, keep up the animosity, and—as he admitted—hurt her…because he was hurting. For sure, that was an asshole move. But then…after her attack, he’d changed. He’d gone from asshole Trouble to Erik, the man she loved. He’d shown his soft belly, waiting for the deciding blow, knowing that he’d been in the wrong and deserved whatever damage she did to him.
But— God —she was tired of being on the attack, of being on the alert, of being strong and fierce and impenetrable—when what she really was, was betrayed, scared, and uncertain. She put on armor each and every day, determined to protect herself from the slings and arrows of hurt that Trouble shot her way. And when he put down the bow, threw open his arms, and made himself a target of her disdain…she’d wanted nothing more than to pull off that armor, drop it, and run into his embrace.
And now…they were here, in bed, together.
A family.
“You okay, baby?” Trouble’s sleep thickened voice rasped, intruding on Liz’s thoughts. His eyes were dark, filled with tender concern.
She offered him a soft smile. “Yeah, just thinking,” she admitted on a whisper.
“About what?” Between them, Erika shifted in her sleep, grunting against her father’s chest. Liz couldn’t help but grin, and Trouble’s smile was so adoring, Liz felt the warmth of it in her atoms.
“Let me put her to bed, then I’ll come back,” Trouble murmured, kissing Erika’s head. “You get ready for bed, then, when I get back, we’ll talk.”
Liz didn’t need to ask what he wanted to talk about; there was almost too much to say, but it needed to be done if she wanted to move forward.
And she did.
She wanted to move forward with Trouble.
There were just some things that she needed to get off her chest first.
She watched as Trouble slid from the bed, and gently, carefully picked up their daughter, cradling her like princess cut crystal against his chest. He looked down at her, his gaze overflowing with fierce love, and Liz knew she was making the right choice—for Erika and for herself.
Trouble quietly left the room to put Erika in her bed, and Liz hurried to change into her pajamas, wash her face, brush her teeth, and spend five minutes staring at herself in the mirror, trying not to break down.
She’d stabbed a man that afternoon. Slid the blade right between his fourth and fifth ribs with the intent to cause exsanguination—she’d wanted him to die, and the last thing on her mind in that moment was her oath as a doctor. He was holding her hostage, had every intent to harm her, and had threatened her daughter. No one threatened her daughter! And she knew that, even if she did as Danil Oblek wanted, her life was over. It didn’t matter if he didn’t kill her, the promise of pain and violation in his eyes, told her that she was going to wish he’d kill her.
“I did what I had to do….” To save herself…and her daughter.
But no matter how many times she said that, thought that, it didn’t stop her mind from replaying how it felt to sink that scalpel into his side, or the sound it made as it went in, or the sound he made as the pain registered…. She’d done that. To another human being.
What did that make her?
Shaking, unable to look herself in the eye, she turned away from the mirror. The sob she’d been holding in for hours finally broke free, and with it a cascade of tears.
One second, she was alone, and the next she was wrapped in familiar strong arms.
“Oh, baby…that’s it…let it all out, I’ll hold you while you let it go.” Murmuring into her hair, he squeezed her, holding her against his chest as he slid them to the bathroom floor. He rocked her, murmuring soft, reassuring words as she fell to pieces.
She didn’t know how long they sat like that, the floor growing harder and colder under her ass, but eventually, the tears stopped.
“You wanna talk about it?” Trouble asked, his voice gentle, not a hint of judgement to be heard.
Knowing she had to “let it all out” she nodded.
“Right, then, let’s get up off this hard ass floor. I think there’s the stuff for my world-famous Texas Hot Chocolate in the cupboards. I’ll whip up a batch while you settle into the couch, and then you can talk until my ear falls off—how does that sound?”
She cracked a smile, her cheeks hurting from the tear chaffing. “That sounds perfect.”
He helped her to her feet, leading her out to the living room with a hand on her lower back. It felt right to have his hand there, to have been in his arms while her world fell apart.
Trouble left her on the couch and headed into the kitchen, and while she waited for his world-famous hot chocolate, her gaze landed on the new pictures on his entertainment center. There were three of them. One was a picture of her and Erika that she’d taken on the first school field trip to the Grand Canyon, the spell-binding natural wonder in the background. The next picture was of Erika standing next to the wax figure of Taylor Swift at Madame Tussaud’s; Erika’s smile was so big, it barely fit in the frame. The last picture was one she hadn’t expected…it was of her, standing in the clubhouse medical room. She was dressed in her usual pencil skirt, silk blouse, and 4-inch heels, and she wasn’t looking at the camera. The picture had been taken when she had no idea Trouble had been standing there. In the picture, her eyes were closed, and there was a soft, sweet smile on her face. She remembered, then, that she’d just listened to a voicemail from Erika, in which she’d gone on and on about her day at school, until the message cut her off. Her girl knew how to fill up any silence with endearing monologue.
But why did Trouble have a picture of her like that?
The man, himself answered, his rugged voice cutting through her thoughts. “I took that the day after the medical room was complete. You’d come in to do a final inspection of the space, and you’d just stopped in the middle of the room.” He stopped talking, then swallowed. “The look on your face…it was like looking at young, idealistic, heartful Liz…from before I’d torn our hearts out.”
Trouble had come into the room while she’d been mesmerized by the pictures, and he was holding a steaming mug in his hands. His Texas Hot Chocolate was dark chocolate, milk, cayenne pepper, and a dash of cinnamon. It was fucking delicious, and he knew how much she loved it when he’d made it… before ….
“The day after the clinic was—” She gasped. “You were still being asshole Trouble to me then. Hell, that morning, I came into the common room to find you grinding against Amelia at the bar.”
Trouble’s face flushed with a sheepish, guilty expression. He dropped his gaze, and shrugged.
“I still loved you, even then, when I was being a piece of shit. I was still drawn to you, needing to be near you, see you…. I know it was unfair, disgusting, cowardly, but I hid so I could watch you. I took that picture, looked at it every fucking day, and I finally had it printed last week.”
In the silence that followed that revelation, Trouble handed Liz the mug and sat down beside her. She sipped the hot, chocolatey heaven, and hummed in contentment.
He chuckled softly. “Glad to see you still like it.”
She cocked a grin. “It’s still delicious.”
Unable to tear her appreciative gaze away from his ruggedly beautiful face, she could see when the humor he’d been using as a buffer to the pain fell away.
“I know what it’s like to be so scared, so desperate, the only thing you can think to do is protect yourself…violently,” he admitted, his voice so broken and heavy, her breath caught.
What was he saying?
He couldn’t mean—
“I killed my father.”
Trouble stared into the wide, unbelieving gaze of the woman he loved as he spoke the words that left him flayed, bleeding, and exposed—like a lone soldier, wounded, downrange, surrounded by enemy combatants.
“You…killed your father?” she repeated, croaking. Color leached from her face, her mouth dropping open in shock. He bit back a curse, but nodded. “Like…accidently?”
Holding his breath, he shook his head, and she followed the motion with her eyes.
“Not accidentally?” she rasped.
“No,” he declared, “I did it because the motherfucker had just killed my mother, and was going to kill me, too.”
Liz gasped, her empty hand flying to cover her mouth as tears flooded her beautiful eyes.
“Erik?” she breathed, the sound of his name on her lips both euphoria and torment, because it was the first time in so long…but it was the worst possible time.
Closing his eyes, he didn’t see her move, and when the touch of her hand against his jaw heated his flesh, he jerked back.
Why was she touching him? He was an asshole, a coward, a piece of shit.
“Tell me, Erik…tell me what happened,” she pleaded, the blue of her eyes deep and filled with agony…for him.
“My father was a piece of shit drunk, who cared more about his whiskey than his livelihood. We owned a piece of land outside Skimmer, a tiny town in southwest Texas. It wasn’t much to look at, didn’t grow much more than what we could use to feed ourselves, but it was home. Karl bought that land usin’ an inheritance he got from his grandfather, after he’d come to America from Norway, lookin’ for western riches. He thought he’d come to Texas, buy land, and strike oil like those hillbillies in the TV show. After ten years of scrapin’ by and breakin’ his back, he got married to the preacher’s daughter, thinkin’ that havin’ a wife to cook, clean, and open her legs every night would help alleviate some of the stress of runnin’ his farm into the ground.”
He sucked in a deep breath, then met Liz’s searching eyes—she was curious, but cautious.
“When they got married, my mother was eighteen…my father was forty.”
Liz gasped, then groaned in disgust. “What the fuck? That’s some medieval shit.”
Despite himself, he chuckled. “You’re right, but that’s small towns for you, especially in Texas. My mother married him, thinkin’ she’d have a good life away from her Bible thumpin’ pa and his righteous hand of discipline, but she ran headfirst from the fryin’ pan into the blazin’ fire. At first, according to Ma, he’d been a loud drunk, yellin’ and throwin’ things when he got to the bottom of the bottle. After I was born, though, things got worse. He got more drunk as the farm produced less goods, and the more drunk he got, the more violent. Got so bad that there wasn’t a day my ma didn’t have a new bruise—and I know there were far more where I couldn’t see ‘em.”
“Oh, Erik…” Liz breathed. Her hand on his face, Liz brushed her thumb over his cheek. The sensation of her gentle comforting touch made what he had to say next that much more agonizing.
“I hadn’t reached five yet when he started in on me, his hand, a board, a broken rake, a beer bottle—there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t use to ‘teach me respect’. By the time I reached the 4 th grade, I’d broke five bones, cracked seven ribs, and had more concussions than professional footballs players get in a lifetime.”
“Why didn’t anyone help you?” Liz demanded, fire lighting in her eyes.
“What could they do? Small town. Antiquated values—no one could come between the head of the household and his family; he could do whatever the hell he wanted, long as he called it righteous. Believe me, there were a few concerned looks when I went to school with a new black eye or plaster cast, but no one said nothin’ sideways ‘bout it, because it wasn’t proper .”
Liz growled, her nostrils flaring wide. “That is some motherfucking bullshit!”
Chuckling, he took her hand in his and squeezed it, silently thanking her.
“You’re right, it was bullshit, but there was nothin’ we could do outside of leavin’—so that’s what we planned to do, Ma and I.”
Her gaze pinned to his face, she saw his expression. “I’m guessing it didn’t go the way you planned.”
“No, baby, it didn’t. Pa always went out drinkin’ with his buddies every Thursday night, and when he got home after the bars closed ‘round 2AM, he usually slept off the booze all day, typically rollin’ outta bed right before supper. So, we planned to leave while he was sleepin’ off his bender. But…that day…somethin’ happened.” Swallowing down the rising bile, he continued, “I don’t know what happened; I was upstairs waitin’ just like Ma told me to. She was supposed to make sure he was in bed, dead to the world, then she’d come up and get me, and we’d get in his truck and leave it all behind. But…right ‘round the time we were supposed to go…he-he must’ve woken up, because all I hear is him yellin’, stuff breakin’, her screamin’—”
“Oh, God, Erik—” Liz pressed her lips against his cheek, the warmth of her kiss mingled with a wetness that could only be his tears.
“Then it went silent. I was so fuckin’ terrified…I didn’t know what to do. I knew she was dead, I could feel it, and then I heard him comin’ up the stairs. I knew that he was gonna kill me, too, and all I could think about was staying alive. I was sixteen! I was desperate, terrified. So I grabbed the rifle I’d taken from the downstairs closet. Ma wanted to take it with us as protection, for just in case…. I grabbed the gun and waited, not more than a second later, he was bustin’ through the door, eyes wild, blood all over his clothes—”
“Holy shit!” Liz cried.
“And I didn’t even think about it, I pulled the trigger, blasting a hole through that motherfucker’s chest. I ran after that. Never looked back. I lived on the streets in Dallas for a while, until I got a job as a busboy at a diner in Austin. After that, I slept at the homeless shelter, lied about who I was and where I was from, and bided my time until I could enlist at seventeen. From there, you know the story.”