Chapter 5 Brielle
Lose Control, Teddy Swims
His amber eyes glisten in the dimly lit room. His stare is as intoxicating as his commanding presence.
It’s as if the world went silent and it’s only us remaining, suspended in time.
My flesh begins to prick as the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
When he approached the table, an icy ambiance surrounded the room, yet I remained comfortable in the cross hairs of this hunter.
His amber irises remind me of that—hunting, a prey being tracked by a predator.
Those that lie in the shadows and come out to devour their meal.
As I continue to assess each angle of his face, I’m in awe of how perfectly sculpted his jawline and high cheekbones are.
His strong hands grip the back of the chair and my mind wanders as I watch his fingers flex.
He has tiny scars painted across the top of his hand and on selective fingers.
His pale white hair is perfectly combed back.
His long dress shirt and suit pants press against the back of the chair.
I bite my bottom lip as my heart begins to pound and my words begin to race out of my mouth.
“At least, that is my dream. I don’t know why I told you that.
When I told my colleagues they started taking the piss of me.
I’m sor—” As I try to finish my sentence, he reaches forward, holds one long index finger against my lips.
The touch is so minor, yet so sensual. I stare at his finger, then gaze up at him. His amber eyes are lit with something I can’t quite identify. I feel caught in this hunter’s cross hairs.
“Don’t ever apologize for your dreams,” his gravelly voice states so confidently. Almost like an order.
I can feel the blood pulsing through my limbs at his contact, my breaths becoming shallow as my body reacts to him, wanting more.
I haven’t had feelings for someone like this in a long time, or ever, if I can even remember .
My breath hitches and the room feels ever so cold.
Following his eyes as they glance down at his watch, I notice a trail of scars travels up his wrist and disappears under the sleeve of his shirt. I swallow.
“I need to go. Nice chatting with you. Keep working hard, I know you’ll get your dream one day,” he states. He rises like a strong mountain and pushes the chair back under the table.
I can’t help but smile at the sight of him. He exudes the strength I wish I had. “Thank you, sir,” I murmur.
As he merges with the shadows, I realize I never caught his name. “Sir? Sir, I never got your name?” I plead with the darkness, but no reply comes.
At daybreak, brisk air greets me as I exit my apartment building and go to my shift at the funeral parlor. While there, I’ll help clean bodies and assist in other small tasks .
Before I can turn down the main road toward work, a motorcycle pulls up in front of me—a black OEC motorcycle. Atop it is a familiar young man, with pale white hair and striking blue eyes, in a gray tweed suit with black combat boots.
Robert parks in front of me and shuts the roaring engine off. “Well, hello there, my angel.”
His bright smile shines across his face.
“Hello, Bobby. I am very busy and on my way to my shift,” I murmur, trying to sidestep the motorcycle. He places a hand on my forearm halting me. A shiver courses through my body at the unfamiliar contact.
“Let me take ya to work, angel. I’ll pay you double whatever your shift was gonna and nicely ask your boss if I may borrow ya. We need ya expertise, please.”
I take a long look at him, contemplating the doubled earnings factor.
“Fine.”
I stare at the OEC motorcycle, wondering just how I’m going to fit on that contraption. He sees my glance and offers a hand for my belongings. “This your medic bag, baby?”
My eyebrows raise to my hairline at the pronounced endearment, though I don’t correct him.
“Yes, I have some supplies we may need in there, but let’s ask my boss if it is all right first.”
He nods then helps me onto the motorcycle.
Once we arrive at the funeral parlor a few blocks away, Bobby takes a couple seconds to convince my boss to let him borrow my services. I am not too sure if it was the money he offered or his Afton Adder reputation that aided in attaining this approval, but needless to say it worked.
Soon after, we pull up to a vast farm, with horse stables as far as the eye can see.
“All right, here we are,” Bobby states as he slows down the motorcycle.
I can smell hay, leather makings and a hint of horse droppings in the air.
He stops the motorcycle and helps me off while carrying my bag.
It’s absolutely stunning. We walk down a path with high-ceilinged oak stables on either side of us, so many beautiful, pristine horses kept inside. They live better than some individuals in London .
As I take in the scenery around me, I notice a horse stable set aside, away from the main area. “What’s that over there? Other animals?” I ask.
Bobby looks over to where I am pointing and sends me a small smile. “That, my dear, is my brother’s stable. He keeps his prized horses in there. They are cared for by him and his own assigned stable hand. I’d love to come back and be one of his horses in the next life.” He chuckles.
A beautiful Arabian horse pops its head out as the silky black strands blow lightly in the wind.
“Wow,” I softly whisper.
Bobby smiles. “That is Olive, his prized possession. I often joke that it is his girlfriend, for he cares for that horse more than anyone else in the family probably, besides our grandmother, Baba.”
I sputter out a chuckle at the thought, then return my mind to our assigned reason for being there.
“So, what will my expertise be needed for today?” I ask politely.
Bobby places the bag in his other hand and chuffs, “Well, baby, we wanted to try to be cowboys today. So we pissed off one of the more mental horses that isn’t broke in and tried to see who could hold on the longest.” Bobby smiles down at me as my mouth slightly gapes.
“You have to be kidding me,” I state.
“I’m not. Biscuit and Roger got pretty beat up by the horses’ hooves, so I figured you’d be pretty entertained mending them. It’ll take you out of your mundane hospital routine.” He winks then nudges me with his elbow in the upper arm.
I contemplate the fact I am getting paid double a shift at the funeral home hospital. I shouldn’t feel guilty for doing one selfish thing for myself.
I shake my head slightly to clear my thoughts as we meet two individuals who are badly bruised and slightly bleeding.
One is a young man, perhaps fourteen years old. He is as skinny as a stick, with dress pants, black combat boots, suspenders and a long sleeve blue shirt rolled up his forearms. He uses his tie as a makeshift bandage to his bleeding forehead.
Bobby motions to him and states, “This is Roger, and this,” he motions to a much rounder gentleman who is roughly forty years old, “this is Biscuit.” Large bruising has already started to form on Biscuit’s neck and arms, and there is a large gash around seven to nine inches long on his stomach.
“Boys! Are you okay!?” I begin tending to them immediately, noticing the areas that need addressing first.
“Well, ’ello there. I ain’t nevah seen a nurse lookin’ like you before,” Biscuit remarks in a cheeky fashion, snapping his suspenders.
“Well, thank you, dear, but let’s focus on the task at hand. You look like you nearly got killed by a bucking horse!” I peek at the laceration to the young boy’s forehead.
“I wouldn’t have, love! Look at this big pile of protection I got!” Biscuit pats his belly, then winces as he realizes the contact vibrated his wound. As I reach for my antiseptic and stitching, I carefully lower the young man’s arm and see a burn on his forearm.
“What is this?” Unfortunately, I get distracted by the burn mark, noticing the scarred skin and how there is a snake in the shape of the letter A .
The young boy looks at me with bright, proud eyes despite the blood running down one side of his face, over his half-hooded eyelid.
“This is my mark of loyalty. I earned it. I’m an Adder,” he states so boldly, so proudly.
I stare at him in confusion as Bobby interjects, “Some of the men earn that mark, to be a part of the family. To be an Adder, to show loyalty and to be a part of something bigger than themselves.”
I start to clean his wound, then prepare my stitching kit as I curtly state, “Then help me understand as I stitch you.”
The young boy begins to explain.
“I used to live on the streets. My mum was a drug user and worked in the massage parlors but refused to use condoms. So then I arrived, but she loved drugs more than me. She tried to sell me to someone, who beat me, so I ran. I found these stalls the night I ran away from that bastard. The horses were so welcoming, and I was using their stalls at night, thinking the Aftons hadn’t seen me, then stealing what scraps of food I could find. ”
I notice Biscuit and Bobby look at Roger with pride instead of shame as the boy continues.