17. Lily
17
LILY
M y skin crawls as my trauma stomps around in my head, demanding attention, braying for relief. The urge to cut rides me hard. An overwhelming desire to run stalks me. This is the first time I’ve set foot in this hospital since I was officially discharged after Alex’s first attack, and it feels as if I’ve been sucked back in time.
The stringent smell, antiseptic mixed with artificial fragrances and worry, assaulted me the second the automatic doors downstairs had opened. A one-two punch straight to the soul, the dark recesses of my mind immediately spewed forth forbidden memories and mental anguish.
Everywhere I turn, I encounter another reminder.
The familiar walls close in on me.
A failure of the soft green specifically chosen to offer comfort.
Every time an announcement blares over the speakers my heart skips a beat.
My nerve endings twang with warning.
Breathing is close to impossible.
It doesn’t help that the tension in the waiting room can be cut with a knife, not only because we’re waiting with bated breath to find out if Fret’s injuries are life-ending or not, but also because of the animosity flowing between my father and basically everyone present.
It’s the strangest thing. While we’re all braced for the worst, my normally melodramatic father seems almost uncaring. About me. About Fret. About the rest of my brothers. About the Shamrocks’ anger at his double-cross with the Maddisons. About the ambush by the Bishops. And, especially, about the cold war currently going down between him and Charlie.
With Crystal on one side, my stepmother is perched next to the double doors the doctors will come through when they’re able to give us an update. Upon our arrival, the two women greeted everyone but Dad. Their quiet disapproval of him doesn’t make sense, yet I can’t bring myself to care.
As worries go, my father is at the bottom of my list.
Sensing the despair and helplessness clinging to Charlie like a haze of smog, I try to drag a seat next to her. After discovering that the chairs are bolted down, I plant my arse on the floor by her feet. Stoic as ever, Zeke drops down next to me.
His back resting against the wall, his legs out straight, he pulls me onto his lap.
I don’t put up a fight.
I need him.
Mixed messages, be damned.
Of course, Slash sits down beside us.
Toker and Sander position themselves next to him.
Fingers of my left hand linked with Slash’s, the other hand held tight by Charlie, I sit with my head leaning on Zeke’s shoulder.
Keeping a watchful eye on my three brothers, occasionally directing my attention to the doctor’s entrance, I settle in for what I hope will be a short wait.
One that will end with the news that Fret will survive his injuries.
“How long do ya think it’ll take?” Although my youngest brother, Nate, poses his question to everyone in the waiting room, his gaze is focused on Zeke. “They should have somethin’ to tell us by now.”
“He’s in good hands.,” Charlie offers before my man has a chance to respond. “And the longer it takes, the better the news will be.”
The deep breath I hear Zeke take tells me he doesn’t agree with her optimistic outlook.
I’m not sure I do either.
There was so much blood.
Too much blood.
The thought of a life without Fret in it pushes me closer to breaking point. I wrench myself free of the descending cloud of doom, concentrating again on my younger brothers. Wyatt and Nate were much more sensible in their seating choices. Along with Slash’s little brother, Hunter, they’ve commandeered the long bench that dominates the wall opposite the doors, content to scroll their phones while we wait. The three teenagers sporadically murmur to each other, but on the whole, they are mainly interested in their phone screens and visually checking in with Zeke for silent comfort every now and then.
Not once do they spare a glance toward Dad.
It’s a lack of concern that our father returns.
Huddled in the far corner with Joker and Bear, my dad keeps his back to the door and his attention on the two Shamrocks clustered around him. Their presence is a conundrum. Borderline insulting. Neither man has a reason for being here outside of Dad. They’re not close with Fret, they aren’t part of the team of brothers Slash sent to man all the entrances. They have no part to play in our desperate wait, aside from assisting my father in his efforts to isolate himself from his family.
While the three men talk between themselves in low voices, Nadia stands a few feet away, fidgeting with her hair and straightening her clothes, while she pretends not to shoot quick glances my way when she thinks I’m not looking.
The silence that’s dawned in the wake of Charlie’s ambitiously buoyant response becomes oppressive.
A lump invades my throat.
The need to cry burns behind my eyes.
Zeke hugs me tighter.
Slash’s thumb moves back and forth over my knuckles.
Every motion of the clock on the wall pushes me closer to breaking point.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick.
“I can’t deal with this,” I declare.
Without thinking, I press a kiss to the underside of Zeke’s scruffy jaw, then snaffle his wallet from the inside pocket of his cut. It’s such an ordinary thing to do, yet we both freeze, as the uncertainty that’s been between us since Alex’s bombshells and Fret’s shooting surfaces again.
Holding the black leather wallet aloft, an anniversary present from a couple years ago, I push through the awkwardness. “I’m going to get coffee… Zeke’s shout.”
Although his grip is too tight on my waist as he helps propel me to my feet, my fiancé plays along. “You know she’s goin’ all the way to the ground floor to get the good stuff. Speak now, or content yourself with the dishwater they try to pass off as caffeine up here.”
Opening my notes app, I type down their specific orders. When I reach my father, he simply inclines his head, silently ordering his usual—strong and black. Charlie doesn’t answer when I ask her what she wants, staring off into the distance like she can’t hear me, but I know her well enough to already plan to grab her a camomile tea.
Whether or not she’ll drink it in her current state is the real question.
“I can walk down with you,” Bear suggests.
“ Nah. ” With a tight smile and a curt head shake, I tell him, “Sander’s coming with me.”
“What? When did I say that?” my brother splutters. “Jesus, I just played a game. My legs are fucked.”
I narrow my eyes at Sander in a silent plea for him to go along with me.
The last thing I need today is to be stuck in Bear’s company.
He might be Nadia’s old man, but I don’t particularly like him.
Since the day Bear first lobbed at the Shamrocks to request a patch over from a smaller, rival club three or so years ago, something about him has rubbed me the wrong way. He gives me the same vibes as Joker—sly and inauthentic.
Zeke likes him, but I find him shifty as hell.
Bear only speaks to me when Nadia’s around. He’s always trying to one-up the other enforcers in front of the hierarchy. The speed with which he sweet-talked Nadia into bed and then into wearing his “Property of Bear” patch never endeared him to me either. His attraction to her felt contrived, almost like he calculated the best way to get closer to the Shamrocks inner circle with the least amount of effort, and then did everything he could to make it happen.
Not that I’ve ever told Nadia that.
She’s always felt out of place hanging with the club since she didn’t have an official role.
I’ve spent years trying to persuade her that she’s family, but she wouldn’t accept it.
I guess her history with Sander and Alex now explains some of her reticence.
After re-taking his feet, my man flicks my brother’s ear. “Just go.”
Deliberately blanking my dad, Zeke pulls me to him. He slides his hands under the back hem of my shirt and around my sides. Cupping my sore ribs, directly below the swell of my breasts, he softly strokes my skin. Goosebumps erupt. The shudder that runs down my spine has nothing to do with the pain I’m feeling.
“Make him carry the trays. You’re overdue for pain relief.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think to bring any.” To disguise my reaction to Zeke’s caress, I turn in his arms and wave his wallet in his face. “Didn’t even grab my purse.”
“Just as well that what’s mine is yours then,” he offers in a rough whisper. His warm breath flows over my ear, heating my belly, making my clit pulse. “Always will be.”
“Don’t,” I tell him with a sigh. Everyone seems to hold their breath, apparently as uncomfortable with the distance between me and Zeke as I am. Even my father has his ears peeled, an expectant gleam in his cerulean gaze. “Not here… not when we don’t know if Fret’s going to be okay.”
“Whatever you want, sweet thing.”
He lets me pull out of his embrace.
As Zeke re-joins Slash and Toker’s vigil, Sander and I exit the waiting room. We head for the elevator that will take us to the lower level, where the only decent café is located.
“I want you to know that Nads isn’t the bad guy,” Sander announces the moment we’re stuck in the lift together. “She had her reasons back then… and she’s done a good fuckin’ job of gettin’ her life together ever since.”
“You all still should’ve told me.” I stare up at the red numbers as they count down the floors.
“When?” my brother asks in a flat tone. “While you were healin’ from the broken bones Alex caused? While you were cryin’ because he’d affected your chance to have children? Or should we have made Zeke tell you that he’d discovered your best friend was aidin’ your twin’s addiction while you were in therapy for slicin’ your own skin open to bleed out the poison you believe Alex’s infected you with?”
“Don’t… don’t … throw all that in my face.” His succinct description of what I was like back then is enough to make my throat fill with bile and my chest squeeze tight. “Not when I was hurt trying to protect—” Although I stop myself from finishing the thought out loud, Sander recoils from me. I grab hold of his forearm. “I didn’t mean it. I swear.”
“You should, though. If I wasn’t so weak, Alex never woulda gotten his claws into you.”
“That’s not true. If it wasn’t your drug use, he still would’ve found something else to blackmail me with. He’s insane… once I had his attention, I don’t think there was any way out for me other than via a hospital bed or a coffin.”
“Jesus, Cherub.” Sander’s voice is shaky as he says, “You had an entire MC at your back—shit never needed to go as far as it did.”
The elevator lurches to a stop, and the doors open with a ping.
“Maybe you’re right.” As I step out onto the ground floor, I shrug. “Or maybe you’re just as delusional as Dad.”
Stomping off, I leave Sander behind. It’s a rude and dismissive move, yet I can’t bring myself to care. While I shouldn’t have allowed the conversation to get so far off track with my knee-jerk reaction to his description of my state after Alex’s attack, I’m not going to allow him to act like the Shamrocks are my saviours.
Sander jogs after me. “Come on, Anna… you know I’m right. The Shamrocks would’ve protected you back then.”
When he draws level with me, I sarcastically ask, “The club would’ve protected me… you mean like they protected me from being kidnapped yesterday? Like they protected Fret today? Or do you mean that the club will protect me the next time he comes after me, even though they’re batting zero for three already? I mean, sure … blame me for trying my best to avoid a massacre at our birthday party, but let’s be real here. The Shamrocks aren’t God. They aren’t X-Men. They can’t supernaturally protect me just because they have a stockpile of guns and wear matching patches.”
“Fuckin’ hell.” Sander scrubs his palm over the back of his neck. “I’m not blamin’ you. I’m just saying that you need to stop being so blindly stubborn ’cause the Shamrocks can protect you.”
My feet grind to a halt, and I whirl on my brother to share the epiphany that hit me as Joseph Kingsley had his officer of the “law” hold us at gunpoint at the compound. “No, they can’t. No one can. Until one of us is dead—either me or him—Alex is going to keep coming after me. And when he does, he’ll probably even manage to rape me again because that’s his biggest weapon in this fight.”
During our argument, we pass by an older dark-haired lady sitting on one of the benches that lines the corridor my brother and I are stomping down. With a gasp, she jams her hands over her heart when I say “rape me again” before pushing back to her feet and fleeing in the opposite direction. She’s moving so fast that she comes close to running in her desperation to get away from me before I can infect her with my status as a rape victim.
You know, since it’s contagious and all…
I roll my eyes.
“Just as well she didn’t overhear the entire story,” Sander darkly muses. He shoots a glower at her retreating form. “Reckon her shoes woulda caught on fire.”
“Welcome to my reality,” I snap. “Rape victim trumps addict on the shame scale, any day.” When my twin flinches at the hostility in my statement, I hasten to explain, “Ignore me. I’m just a bit sensitive today. Dad’s grinding on my last nerve, and then there’s Fret, and Zeke, and... it’s all a bit much right now, you know?”
“I know.”
Our discussion dies off when we reach the end of the line of people waiting to get into the café. We stand in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts. After placing our order and grabbing the buzzer synced with our number, I make my way to a free table. Always famished, Sander grabs himself six protein balls then joins me. While he scoffs them down, I flick Zeke’s wallet open and shut.
Each time it opens, the picture of us that he keeps in the transparent window mocks me.
We’re smiling.
Happy.
It took me more than five years to rebuild myself from the broken girl Sander described in the elevator to the grinning girl in the photo. Feels like it took Alex a mere five hours to undo all that hard work.
“How did Dad play off his decision to let Alex live to the Shamrocks? ’Specially without takin’ it to a vote.”
“Not sure.” Flicking my gaze from the image to Sander, I screw up my nose. “It was definitely an ambush, though. None of the brothers knew the Maddison’s would be there—I swear they all thought they were coming to watch me put a bullet in him. Their anger when they discovered otherwise was clear.”
“Can’t believe he’s still playin’ his games.”
“At least he’s not trying to marry me off to Alex this time.”
Sander chokes on the last of his protein ball. Coughing, he clears his throat, then quips with a laugh, “Give him time. Maybe he’ll try to give you to Hugh this time?”
“I’d like to see him try... Zeke’d raze the earth if he attempted that crap again.”
“And Slash... there wouldn’t be a trace of Dad’s DNA left by the time he was finished with him.” Sander chuckles. He reaches across the table and places his hand over mine. The curiosity in his eyes has a humorous tinge to it. “Do you ever think that you and Slash?—”
“I think Dad’s losing his mind,” I blurt out in a rush. The thought has been percolating in the back of my mind since our run-in earlier today at the clubhouse. I would prefer to discuss it with Fret since he spends the most time with our father, but Sander will do for now. “He’s not well mentally. Like, dementia, or something.”
My twin sits back in his seat with a frown. “Why do you say that?”
“He tried to say that he could’ve stopped me and you from getting hurt five years ago. Then he made some comment about Zeke being responsible for Alex not being dead already. It’s like he’s living in an alternate reality.”
“Or he’s just straight-up lying. Tryna salve his guilt by rewriting history.”
“Maybe,” I concede. “That’s what Zeke said. I don’t know, it’s just... I’m going to ask Fret what he thinks, he’ll know.”
I fall silent at the mention of our brother.
“He’ll be all right,” Sander promises.
The backs of my eyes sting. I keep my focus on the photograph in Zeke’s wallet, unable to meet Sander’s gaze as I tell him, “You didn’t see him. The blood. Too. Much. Blood. It was everywhere… I’m pretty sure he was tortured before they shot him.”
My brother covers my hand with his again and leans into me. Heads together, we breathe in each other’s calm until our buzzer vibrates the table. After stirring in the sugars and pressing the caps into place on our drinks order, Sander swoops in to do exactly what Zeke demanded. He takes the trays from me, holding them over my head when I attempt to snatch one of them back.
“I’m not useless, you know?”
“No one would dare think that about you, little Cherub.”
Nothing more is said as we make our way back to our floor. The elevator is packed. A trio of noisy kids make a ruckus, somehow oblivious to the pain that’s obviously weighing down their parents. They get off on the same floor as us and walk ahead. After they enter a waiting room a few doors down from the elevators, Sander blocks the corridor to stop me from going any farther.
“Take a seat.” He uses his chin to direct me to the bench that runs along the wall between each set of doors. “Think we have a couple more things to discuss.”
Once I’m settled, he claims the section of bench next to me and hands me my coffee. I take a much-needed mouthful, all the while keeping my eyes on my brother as he sips at his drink.
Slumped shoulders. Hangdog air about him. The frown line between his eyes is deep. A heavy, dense quiet hangs between us. I’m about to break it when he finally speaks. “Nadia’s story is hers to tell.”
I nod, biting my tongue because I don’t want to argue anymore. He’s more than likely right, anyway. That doesn’t mean I’m about to go all kumbaya on her arse when the time comes. She hurt my twin. Lied to me when I needed her truth. I can’t let her get away with that—no matter how much the men in my life might feel she deserves a break.
Of course, I don’t have to alert Sander to that little tidbit either.
“Let’s just say that she was in a fucked-up place because of me, and because of her father, and Alex took advantage of that.”
My breath leaves me in a rush. “How?”
“Similar to what he did to you, except he used drugs to get away with it instead of blackmail.”
I’m glad that he made me sit for this revelation because the moment it sinks in, my head starts to spin. Sander rescues my coffee from my shaky hand. He places it back in the tray and moves it to the far side of his lap. Sliding closer to me, he drops an arm over my shoulders and tucks me into his side.
“I don’t understand,” I mutter, closing my eyes to combat the dizziness.
“None of us do,” he replies. “Doubt we ever will. I mean, I know he hated me for reporting his hazin’ and getting him expelled for life from the federation, but it doesn’t make sense for him to use you and Nads to get back at me.”
“I’m your twin, so that kinda explains it.” Sander squeezes me in a silent apology. “And I guess since you and Nads were on and off during high school, he saw her as another way to hurt you. And me. Whatever his reasoning, the fact is, I need to put him down before he hurts anyone else.”
When I lapse into silence, and my indignant statement hangs between us, Sander shakes his head. I extricate myself from beneath his arm and hold out my hand for my coffee. Without a word, he passes it to me and grabs his own. In the quiet of the corridor, I run over what my brother just said about Nadia and find that the anger I’ve been holding since I learnt the role my best friend played in Sander’s drug use has lessened a little. A combination of the agony in Sander’s voice and my own trauma at Alex’s hands makes it hard to hold her actions against her.
If anything, we should start a support group for survivors of Alexander Kingsley.
I’m sure there’s more victims than the two of us.
“So, was this your roundabout way of telling me to lay off Nads?”
“I’d appreciate it if you would.” He leans away, and grinning, pokes me in the upper arm. “We all know how much you love to flex your muscles and bring us all to heel whenever we annoy you. I guess I’m just hoping you’ll stop and make sure she’s worthy of your wrath first.”
Holding up the arm he just prodded, I clench my muscles, then use my finger to push up my puny bicep. “Oh, so I’m supposed to retire these guns just because you say so?”
“Yeah.” Sander chuckles. He holds his hand out, palm down, and tilts it from side to side as he says, “Maybe not retire, per se . Just give ’em a rest long enough to use your ears for once.”
“I can do that.”
“Good.”
Satisfied that we’re back on solid footing, I make a move to retake my feet. My brother grabs my elbow to hold me in place. This time, when our gazes lock, the humour has drained from his face, and in its place is genuine fear.
“What?” I try to smooth out the line formed by his drawn together eyebrows, but he catches my wrist. “You’re freaking me out, Sander.”
“Good. ’Cause it scares the fuck outta me that you believe you’re gonna handle Alex by yourself.”
“What else am I—” Sander presses his fingers to my mouth to shush me.
“I don’t know… maybe give Zeke a chance to explain what happened back then too. Hear him out. He has his reasons.”
“That’s none of your business.” With a shake of my head, I attempt to stand again. I am sick to death of hearing how the men in my life are going to save me from a situation they don’t seem to fully comprehend. “My relationship is?—”
This time he grips my thigh to hold me in place to stop me from stalking off as he speaks over me. “I mean it, Cherub. He loves you to death—and with Dad bein’ all up his own arse about the Alex situation and the Maddison’s—Zeke’s the one who’ll protect you. Me, Slash, Toker, Cub, Fret… fuck even Hunter and Wyatt and Nate… we’ll all do our best, but we’re not as crazy as your old man. Especially when it comes to you.”
Sander shudders as he trails off.
I grimace.
In my brother’s eyes, I spy the same memories that have invaded my head. Zeke isn’t known as Venom just because of his striking resemblance to a young Tom Hardy. My man is lethal. Dangerous. Unhinged when he truly loses control. Unafraid of making people bleed. Animalistic, easy to anger, slow to forgive, self-righteous yet highly critical of himself. Venomous when given a reason to bite.
Zeke’s assessment of himself as dark and dangerous earlier today as putting it mildly.
And to top it off, it was my dad who gave him what would become his road name when he patched into the Shamrocks...
It’s a story I’ve heard hundreds of times.
The beginning of Venom.
Back when he was almost eight, and I was no more than nine months old, he first displayed the other side of his personality. Toker had been holding me, dancing around our living room to an MTV music video when he lost his balance and dropped me. After picking me up from the floor and passing me to my mum, Zeke knocked Toker to the ground and pummelled my cousin with his bare fists until the screams of my mother drew the attention of our fathers, and they managed to pry him off my cousin.
The scar on Toker’s forehead and the bend in his nose is a permanent reminder of that day.
Hades was mortified. He blamed himself for his son’s violence. Felt that it happened because he was a single father most of the time. Zeke’s mother was off overseas doing as she pleased, therefore, Zeke was missing a woman’s touch. Compared to Hades’ freak out, my father had simply checked out the bump on my head, then slapped Zeke on the back for protecting his little Cherub, before he crowed about Zeke reminding him of his favourite comic antihero from the eighties.
Now, I don’t remember the day for obvious reasons, but I’ve heard the tale enough times to know that Dad followed up his laughter with a comment that still gets repeated every time he needs to tap into Zeke’s dark side, “When I find his trigger, he’ll be my best weapon.”
Yet, even as I recall the times Zeke’s allowed his darkness to get the better of him over the years, even after he expressed worry that he could scare me, I still can’t make myself agree with Sander’s assessment. Sure, my man dishes out carnage when it’s called for. He’s killed before, dozens of times if the stories are true, and I’m positive he’ll kill again.
There’s one startling difference between the two men, though.
My fiancé needs a reason to turn into a monster.
Alexander Kingsley is a monster.
Through and through.
The worst part is that I’ve been on the receiving end of Alex’s savagery, yet I don’t believe I’ve witnessed the true depth of it. I honestly doubt Alex even knows how far he’ll go to satisfy his obsession.
“Not even Zeke at his worst is a match for pure insanity.”
My brother manages to frown harder at my blunt judgement. “I think you’re wrong. He’ll do whatever it takes to get you free of Alex’s twisted schemes.”
The door to our waiting room is wrenched open, effectively ending our conversation. I appreciate the interruption, since it’s clear that no one else is seeing what I’m seeing. I don’t want to argue with my brother anymore, but he doesn’t seem to realise that Alex isn’t a rival club trying to steal Shamrocks’ territory. He’s not a gangbanger who didn’t pay his debt. With his father’s connections and his grandfather’s criminal organisation at his back, Alex isn’t even someone who can be bought off.
If the psychiatrist who testified at the trial was telling the truth, Alexander Kingsley is an obsessive-compulsive with violent and sexual intrusive thoughts, and an antisocial personality disorder that manifests as psychopathic tendencies. His diagnosis is a mouthful, although I imagine the medication that he’s supposed to take to control himself is even harder to swallow.
Maybe the club wasn’t paying attention in the courtroom… all I know is they’ve underestimated the power they have over this situation.
It sucks to discount the men in my life as a safe harbour, but I know I’m right.
I need to kill Alex if I’m ever going to be set free of him.
“How long does it take to get coffee?” Slash inquires. He strides into the corridor, shaking his head when we don’t immediately clamber back to our feet. “Everyone’s worried about you two.” Before we can answer, he cocks his head to the side, the concern that was creasing his handsome face disappears in the same second as he look us over, then Slash says with a smirk, “This’s a twin thing, ain’t it?”
“Maybe,” Sander retorts. It’s common knowledge that my twin believes we have some kind of telepathic connection. If we do, it’s one sided, because I can rarely guess what he’s thinking unless his mouth is moving at the same time. “But we’ll never tell.”
Even though I’m not sold on his theory, I laugh when Sander does. Disagreement temporarily put to the side, we bump shoulders and follow Slash back into the waiting room. As Sander hands out the drinks, even though they’re probably cold by now, I ignore Zeke’s silent request for me to retake my previous position on his lap. Instead, I swallow down all the angry words I want to throw her way, and rather than cut her cold like I did earlier, I take hold of Nadia’s hand to pull her over to a pair of free seats.
The surprise that flickers over her face, only to be replaced by pain and regret, is enough to tell me that Sander is right. Just like there’s more to my story than the fact Alex raped me, there’s more to Nadia than the time she spent supplying my twin with the drugs that would eventually lead to both our downfalls.
Does this mean I won’t ever tell her how upset I am over what she did?
No.
But I can honour my brother’s request to hear her out first.
“How was work?” I ask with genuine interest.
“It was—it was.” Nadia pauses to lick her lips. Sorrow fills her eyes, then she rolls her shoulders and offers me a conspiratorial grin. It’s close to real, although I know her well enough to see the anxiousness she’s trying to hide. “It was busy as usual, but I managed to get to that new second-hand shop on my break. Designer shoes. Handbags. I got my hands on a Burberry trench coat for fifty bucks.”
“No way.” I force my best smile as I exclaim, “I’m in the market for a new pair of Louboutin’s… tell me they had some?”
As Nadia launches into an in-depth description of the YSL heels that caught her attention, I glance at Sander. He hits me with a look of gratification that comes right from the heart, and I find myself, not for the first time, wondering exactly what went wrong between my twin and my best friend.