Chapter Twenty-Five
Grace
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
I rolled over, looking at the clock.
3:15a.m.
Last call at the bar was at one. Then, I had to close down and clean up. Johnny followed me home every night, and by the time he left, I took a shower and crawled into bed. It was usually two-thirty.
That meant I had been in bed for forty-five minutes. Had been asleep for thirty minutes at most.
Who the fuck was banging on my door?
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
With a heavy sigh, I crawled out of my warm bed and walked through the living room. Standing on my toes, I looked through the peephole on my front door.
Shit.
Opening the door, I stared at the man standing there. His hands were braced on either side of the trim, his head down, as if he was staring at the floor.
“What are you doing here?”
“Hey,” he said, looking up at me with a lopsided grin. “God, you’re fucking gorgeous.”
Goose bumps left a trail in the wake of his gaze as his eyes swept over every inch of my body.
“Are you drunk?”
“Yuuup,” he answered, popping the p emphatically at the end.
“Did you drive here?” I demanded angrily. Looking around him for his motorcycle on the street, my hand still held the door, preventing him from walking inside. Instead of finding his motorcycle, my eyes locked on Johnny’s as he sat in his truck at the curb.
“Johnny dropped me off,” he said, just as the prospect waved and took off.
“Son of a bitch.”
“Maybe. Not sure anymore.”
Looking at him, confused, I searched his face for an answer that would make sense about why he was here.
Again.
His eyes were locked on mine, and I saw something familiar cross over his face. Something I had seen every time he looked my way. Something he was denying, not only himself, but me as well.
“You gonna let me in?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, just now realizing I was standing there in nothing but a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top. The cold air wasn’t what caused my nipples to pebble, though. No, it was the gorgeous man, with smokey eyes pinned on me, standing in my doorway.
Kingston O’Rourke.
President of the Silver Shadows Motorcycle Club.
“Why are you here?” I asked again.
He silently pleaded with me. I knew why he was here. The same reason he always came here. Though usually, he wasn’t drunk.
Stepping out of the way, I allowed him to enter my home. I could never deny him. I couldn’t stay away from him any more than he could stay away from me. I took whatever I could get from him. Did that make me pathetic? Sure, but what could I say? I was a glutton for punishment.
“I’ll make some coffee. Sit down.”
I walked to the kitchen and grabbed two cups out of the cabinet. The Keurig had to be the greatest invention ever. Living alone, I would never need a full pot of coffee. As I placed the pod into the machine, strong arms wrapped around my waist and tugged me back. My hands settled on the counter, and he buried his face into my neck as a shudder rippled through me. His large hand splayed over my belly, his fingertips toying with the waistband of my shorts.
My eyes closed, and I reveled in the feel of him. Just for a moment, I let myself believe before breaking the spell. Holding back the tears that threatened to spill, I asked him the same thing I always did.
“I thought you didn’t want me?”
“Wanting you was never the issue, princess. Having you is.”
“Don’t call me that. You can have me anytime you want to,” I reminded him.
We’d had this conversation numerous times, and it always ended the same way. Him angry that I didn’t understand the rules. Me hating myself for how weak I was when we were alone.
With others around, it was easy to pretend I hated him. It was easy to be angry with him. Here though, in moments like this, when he came to me in the middle of the night. When he wanted me for just a short time, where no one else knew. This was when I dreamed that things could be different.
Every time he knocked on my door, I prayed it would be different. I’d tell myself, this time he’ll kiss me, not just hold me. This time he’ll make love to me. This time he’ll stay with me.
Every time, it was always the same bullshit.
“You know I can’t.”
Turning in his arms, I glared up at him. “You can, but you won’t.”
“Grace,” he growled, and I felt it in the center of my soul. “I can’t.”
Dropping my eyes to his chest, I felt the moment he weakened.
“Baby, please don’t do this. Your dad—”
“Fuck him. He isn’t my dad!” I shouted, wrenching myself from his arms. I walked back into the living room, forgetting about the coffee. Keeping my back to him, I continued, “A dad is someone who’s there for you. Someone who raises you. I don’t have a dad. I have a sperm donor.”
“Is that was Declan is? He wasn’t there to raise Beck. Is he not her dad? Is he just a fucking sperm donor?”
I knew my words made him angry. This is what we did. Fate and tradition wouldn’t let us love each other, so instead, we tormented one another.
“That’s not the same thing and you know it.”
Spinning around, I glared at him.
“He didn’t know she existed. As soon as he did, he stepped up. He loved her. He wanted her in his life. The asshole that knocked up my mom hasn’t wanted anything to do with me, ever. He doesn’t get a say in what I do with my life,” I yelled, turning my back on him again.
I refused to cry over a man I had met once in my life. A man who looked right at me and had no idea I was his daughter.
“I wish you had never told me, baby,” he whispered, wrapping me in his arms again. Caught up in my outburst, I never heard him move behind me. “If I could have claimed you before I knew the truth... it would be different. But I can’t. Not knowing what I know.”
“If you wanted to, you could.”
“Please don’t do this. Not tonight,” he begged.
Pulling away again, I went back to the coffeepot, replacing the pod, and setting a second cup under the spout. I pushed the buttons to brew myself a cup and handed him the one that had just finished. I leaned against the counter and waited.
Neither of us said anything as we watched each other, waiting to see who would speak first.
When my coffee was ready, I turned off the machine and added sugar and cream to my cup. I broke the silence, knowing if I didn’t, I’d never get any sleep.
“Why are you here?”
“I needed you.”
Looking up at the ceiling, I blinked back the tears.
Why did I let him do this to me?
Why did those three words hit me in a way ‘I love you’ never would?
“You’re a coward,” I whispered as a single tear escaped and ran down my cheek.
“I know.”
Setting his coffee down, he stalked toward me.
I quickly placed mine on the counter, knowing that when he reached me, I would open my arms and let him consume me. He lifted me off the floor, and I wrapped my legs around him, burying my face in his neck this time.
He held me so tight I could feel his resolve breaking. I wouldn’t take advantage, though. That wasn’t the way to draw him in. He would never forgive me for using his weakness against him. I needed him to want me more than he wanted my father’s respect.
“What happened?” I asked, knowing he needed to talk. That was why he always came here.
To talk.
To unburden himself.
And I let him.
I would happily do anything in my power to lessen the burdens he carried.
Slowly he set me back on my feet, my body sliding along his, torturing us both with every move. Reaching over, he picked up my cup, handing it to me. He turned away without a word and walked to the couch. Following behind him, I grabbed his coffee and brought it with me, setting it down in front of him.
He dropped onto my sofa, laying his head back with a heavy sigh. It must be bad. Usually, when he came to me at night, it was superficial. We talked about nothing. We argued about us, about my father. He would sleep on my couch and was always gone before I woke up.
I couldn’t explain our connection. It had been there since the first night we met. When I angrily, and foolishly, told him everything.
Who I was.
Why I was here.
He turned his back on me then, denying us both what was between us. One drunken confession and I lost the one person who could have made my life whole. And the kicker was, I lost him before I ever had him.
Now, I never would.
He wouldn’t let me.
I sat, curled in the corner of the couch, my feet tucked up under me, facing him. Both hands were wrapped around my cup, and I waited for him to be ready.
“Declan isn’t my brother.”
I sat up straighter, setting my cup down on the coffee table in front of us.
“What?”
“He’s actually my uncle. My parents were my grandparents. At least, my mother was. I’m not related to my dad at all, except he was married to my mom. Or rather, my grandmother.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, trying to wrap my head around what he was telling me.
“You know, I spent fifteen years in a 1% club and never had as much fucking drama as I’ve had here in bumfuck, Nebraska.” He turned his head to look at me. “Stocks was right. This club is a fucking soap opera.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying my brother has been lying to me for my whole fucking life. My father, my real father, is the head of the fucking Irish Mob in Boston, and no one bothered to tell me.” He turned back and closed his eyes. “I guess that explains why Dec is a cop and I’m a fucking criminal.”
“King, I don’t know what to say.”
“This worst part is, if Maureen hadn’t shown up here, I still wouldn’t know shit.”
Maureen.
I didn’t want to hate her. She wasn’t a bad person; it was just that King was enamored with her, and I didn’t know why. I tried not to be jealous, but ever since she showed up, his attention had been on her. I knew he saw something in her, I just didn’t know what it was. He had a way of reading people right off the bat.
When Beck returned home, he connected with her immediately. Turned out she was his niece. Or I guess not.
“So what does that mean?”
“Hell if I know. He’s here.”
“Who?”
“My father.” He ran his hands through his hair.
“Oh.”
“FUCK!” he shouted. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this shit? How fucked up is this?”
I watched him. Waited for him to look at me. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.
“No.”
“What do you want?’
He turned to look at me again.
“You.”
“I’m right here.”
He pulled my legs across his lap and squeezed his big body between me and the back of the couch, resting his head against my belly. I trailed my fingers through his hair, feeling him shudder.
“I want to stay with you tonight.”
“You usually do when you come over in the middle of the night.”
He tilted his head to look up at me. His eyes pleaded with me.
“I want to be in your bed. I want to hold you while you sleep.”
“Ok,” I said softly, putting my feet on the floor. I couldn’t deny him. Denying him meant denying myself, and I wanted this. More than I wanted to admit.
I stood up and held my hand out to him. He grasped onto me, hefting himself up, and then pulled me close. His eyes fixed on my mouth. His hand cradled my cheek.
“I need you, Grace.”
My own hand lifted, clasping onto his wrist. I closed my eyes, as I leaned into his palm, trying to shut out the combination of joy and pain those four words filled me with. And then I felt it. His lips were a whisper against mine. I leaned into him, my body begging for more. But he pulled back.
I opened my eyes and searched his. They say the eyes are a window to the soul. What I saw wasn’t his soul. It was mine. In his eyes, I saw the reflection of everything I felt. Everything I wanted but couldn’t have.
I led him to my room. He sat on the end of my bed, and I went to kneel before him and help with his boots, but he stopped me.
“Get in the fucking bed, Grace,” he snapped, his eyes closed tight.
With a huskiness that vibrated through my veins he explained, “I’m sorry, baby. I don’t have the strength to see you on your knees in front of me without succumbing to the greedy bastard that I am.”
Quickly scrambling to the side of the bed, I climbed under the covers while he removed his boots. He stood, removing his cut and placing it on top of the dresser. I watched, mesmerized, as he reached behind his head and pulled his T-shirt off, revealing his back to me.
The Silver Shadows brand was tattooed across his back and shoulders. The front end and handlebars of a motorcycle inked in black, shaded in iridescent silver.
My eyes traveled down the rippling muscles to his ass, still encased in his jeans. Biting my lip, I did my best to prevent the groan that begged to escape from so deep inside of me that my insides cramped with the effort. When I failed, he looked over his shoulder at me and grinned like he was enjoying my agony.
Turning around to face me, he reached for the button on his jeans, and I lost my nerve. I turned my back on him and hunkered down into the blankets. Not wanting to see what I wasn’t allowed to have.
A moment later, the mattress dipped beneath his weight. The blankets lifted and his warm body settled behind mine. His heavy arm laid over my waist, his large hand covering my belly as he pulled me back tight against his chest.
“I’m sorry, baby. I wish things could be different.” He sighed into my hair.
Me too, I thought to myself, as a tear slid down my cheek. He didn’t expect a response, so I covered his hand with mine and closed my eyes. This could be my life, if it weren’t for my deadbeat father.
Morning came, and I woke up alone.
Just like every other time, King was gone before I woke up. If it weren’t for the lingering scent of his cologne on my pillow, I might believe I dreamed the whole night.
It was the first time he’d slept in my bed. It was also the last. Next time, I wouldn’t answer the door. Next time, I would be stronger.
Who are you kidding?
When it came to Kingston O’Rourke, I had no strength. I was as weak as a newborn. I talked a good game in front of everyone else. Letting our friends believe we hated each other. But when we were alone, he owned me.
Body, mind, and soul.
And I would always let him.