3. Candy
CHAPTER THREE
CANDY
T his man is always fine as hell. However, something about him kneeling while looking at me with admiration has turned him into the most breathtakingly gorgeous man I’ve ever encountered.
He takes my hand he’s holding, placing it over his heart. The cool leather of his cut feels pleasant under my heated palm. It’s the perfect counterbalance.
Butch and I are silent for a few beats before he speaks. “I see you, Candy. The real you. The woman you try to hide from everyone else. And I like what I see.”
The hell?
“The real me? What are you talking about? I am me.”
Butch shakes his head. “You show people what you think they want to see, say what you think others want to hear, and act the way people expect you to behave. But none of it’s real.”
My brows pull together with my mounting aggravation. “There’s nothing more real than me, Butch.”
“Right now, with me in this closet? I agree. This is the most genuine I’ve seen you. You’re not cowering in front of me. You’re,” he swallows, clearing his voice to smooth out his rough bass, “challenging me. Holding eye contact, demanding my obedience, standing your ground—you’re establishing dominance. But out there, for all the rest of the world to see, it’s a show. So when I say I see you and like what I see, believe it.”
My impulsive reaction to hearing Butch dissect my actions, like a psychologist finding the root cause of my self-dissociation, is to deny and hide away from him. I want to be pissed at how invasive he is, seeing way more than I wish to show anyone.
I’m not mad though. Not even a little.
He said he sees me , that he likes me .
Something instinctual inside of me has me reacting…o h, my. I think I saturated my thong.
Shaking the lust from my thoughts, I feign bitchiness. “You mean to tell me I’m passive with everyone else because I want to be? Please.”
He shakes his buzzed cut head, unaffected by my false irritation. “No. I’m saying you’re choosing to be dominant with me because I’ve already submitted to you.”
My eyes widen as I take him in on his knees, gazing longingly at me.
Holy shit! He’s right. I am the dominant one in this dynamic, and I’m not sure how to process this new information.
Yes, I’ve never enjoyed being told what to do. Certainly detested not having control with a sexual partner, too. Yet having someone vulnerable by choice, at my feet, is more thrilling than any sexual experience I’ve encountered before. It’s empowering to have this control and humbling to have someone wanting to accept my authority.
Before my mind can dive deeper, Butch interrupts my thoughts.
“Humor me, please, and tell me why you’re hiding in a closet?”
His question makes me uncomfortable. I try to lean away, trying to create some distance between us. But there’s nowhere to hide when I’m already hiding. There doesn’t appear to be an out. Opening up to others is not easy for me.
“I can see you closing off. Don’t do that. Not with me.” He waves his hand around the closet. “We’re alone. No one else is here to judge you, and I sure as shit won’t be judging you. I may not have earned your trust yet, but I’m a man of my word. I swear on my cut, whatever you share in here will be safe with me.”
My first instinct is to build a self-defense wall around me to keep Butch out. However, if he can be vulnerable with me, I should be able to be the same with him. At least that’s what I’ve gathered from watching others in the club having healthy relationships with their partners.
Butch is swearing on his biker cut—a vow on the patch is not to be taken lightly. If he’s telling me my thoughts are safe with him, he means it.
Besides, being honest with Butch is probably a wiser idea than constructing some lame excuse, like I was looking for some obscure cleaning product in the dark. He’ll sniff out the lie immediately. And lying won’t do me any favors when I need to earn back the trust of others in the club.
Before I lose my nerve, I spit out my explanation. “Sometimes I need to take a moment to collect myself before facing others.”
He frowns, seemingly not understanding my reasoning. “But you have a suite you could use for that. You shouldn’t have to sit on the cold concrete floor while trying to harness your emotions.”
“Red,” I say, explaining in the fewest words possible why my suite isn’t an option.
“Ah.” Butch gives a small nod, understanding. He knows Red and I share a room. Privacy is scarce when you have a roommate.
“What about my suite?”
Again, Butch takes me by surprise. “ Your suite?”
“Yeah, mine. One, I don’t have a roommate who would bother you. And two, I spend most of my time in the tech room. You could use my space to regroup.”
This man, whom I’ve never spoken with until today, sees me more clearly than anyone I know. Still, we’re strangers in a way. And he’s offering me access to his private suite at headquarters?
“Are you serious?”
“Have you ever heard me joke?”
I shake my head. “Never heard you speak to me until today, let alone joke.”
Butch looks down at the ground, the skin under his scruffy cheeks growing a dusty pink. “Sorry about that. I…I don’t enjoy talking.”
“Does it hurt?” I ask tentatively, pointing at his scar.
“Not usually. When I was first injured, my throat felt like it was on fire every time I opened my mouth. It’s better now. Though, if I were to talk excessively or shout, it might feel raw afterwards.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry about.”
“Can you tell me what your reason is for not speaking?” I want to know, but I don’t want to pry. He could refuse to respond, and I would respect his boundary.
“I—” He clears his throat before speaking again. “I don’t like my voice. It sounds monstrous.”
My heart twists, pain lancing through me upon hearing the hurt in his words. “Your voice is not monstrous, Butch.”
“It makes me feel, I don’t know, embarrassed, I guess? You wouldn’t believe how many people ask what happened when they see my throat or hear me talk. I don’t enjoy explaining to strangers the day I nearly lost my head. It’s not a story I like reliving.”
“I understand.” I hold my head high, attempting to rein in my emotions. “There are things that happened to me I don’t enjoy discussing with others either. Since I want to work through my issues, I do it during therapy. But I don’t like talking about it aside from my sessions.”
My silent biker looks away, an angry scowl marring his handsome face.
I place my fingers gently under Butch’s chin, encouraging him to look at me.
With his eyes focused on me, I take a moment to drink him in. Hazel eyes with gold flakes meet mine. His mouth parts slightly, and his tongue runs along the inside of his bottom lip.
Damn. He’s a fine fucking specimen.
Something about having his undivided attention has me acting bolder. I reach out with my hand, cupping his scruffy cheek.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re a hero with battle scars—a survivor.”
He swallows loudly, holding my stare. “So are you, Candy.”
“Survivor? No, Butch.” I drop my hand from his face. How do I explain my tragic past without breaking into tears?
As I mull over how much I’m willing to reveal, Butch patiently waits for me to explain. I can feel his eyes piercing my skin, digging to reveal the secrets I buried.
“Candy,” Butch whispers in his rough voice. “I want to understand you if you’re willing to share with me.”
I balk at his request, looking him square in the face. “Why? After what I’ve done to this club, why do you want to get close to me?”
“Is this about the hacker you were coerced into helping? You were forced, Candy. No one in the club holds what happened against you.”
I want to argue, tell him he’s wrong. But before I can get my thoughts out, Butch follows up his last statement with, “Whatever you say is safe with me. Please let me in.”
Though his voice is gruff, I can hear the sincerity in his words.
I sigh, hating what I’m about to say out loud. “I don’t feel like a survivor when the men who hurt me most are still on the loose. At this moment, I feel more like the victim being stalked by sadists.”
A dull ache forms in my chest as the past resurfaces, throbbing like a bruise. Admitting my thoughts to Butch is difficult. But for some unconscious reason, I continue, almost like I’m relieved to confess my past to someone who isn’t my therapist and wants to understand without feeling obligated.
“There were regulars who visited Bianchi’s brothel. One group of men liked to do horrendous acts against the women in the club. There were three of them. Two of the men in the group were the ringleaders, orchestrating the sex acts played out on me. The other more or less went along with whatever the other two told him to do. Each night when I close my eyes, I relieve those dark moments. The abuse never ends—only transforms into a different way to hurt me.”
Butch is silent for a moment. I can feel his eyes on me, scanning my face and body language. As uncomfortable as this moment is, I admit I enjoy having his attention. It makes more goosebumps surface on my skin.
“The group of men, was one of them Bianchi’s enforcer—Luca?”
My emotions are too high. I don’t trust my voice not to crack if I speak. Instead, I give a stiff nod.
“Atlas told the crew what he did to make you turn against our club. Did he force himself on you when Bianchi held you captive, too?”
I shut my eyes, trying to push out the violent memories hovering under the surface of my psyche. “Yes.”
“Candy,” he pleads in his rough voice, “please look at me.”
As I take a deep breath, I hesitantly meet his gaze. My eyes slowly fill with moisture of their own accord. Crying in front of others always makes me feel weak. With Butch, I sense my tears are safe with him. Still, I don’t want to dump on the guy emotionally the first time I speak with him.
Butch swipes away a rogue tear rolling down my cheek with his calloused thumb, then cups my cheek with his free hand. “Who were the others? Give me their names.”
My tongue goes dry with the memory of the men Butch asks for. “The one who followed the other two’s directions was Patrick Duffy—some investor. What he invested in, I have no clue.”
As much as I want to forget Duffy’s portly face and body, I can’t. The man wasn’t as sadistic as the other two. He got off on being ordered around by the other men—like the high school outcast seeking acceptance from the popular crowd at school. He’d do anything to fit in with the cool group. Total pick me tool.
Butch’s jaw ticks. “And the other?”
Out of all the men, this one makes me pause. The hairs on my neck stand at attention, like I can still feel him near me. The danger that refuses to go away.
“He called himself Cú Sidhe .”
“Come again? Is that Gaelic?”
“No idea.” I sniffle. “I once overheard Lorenzo complaining to Luca the Irish hound was becoming too comfortable in his presence and needed to be watched. That’s all I know.”
Recalling the past—specifically Cú Sidhe —is too much. The dam breaks, and my tears run free. I bury my face in my hands as the first of my cries wrack my body. Anything to keep Butch from seeing me crumble apart.
Biker boy pulls me down to his level, rearranging us so I’m straddling his lap. He ropes his arms around me, letting me cry into the crevice between his neck and shoulder. He softly shushes me as he rocks us.
“Hear me when I say there’s not a thing I wouldn’t do for you, Candy,” Butch declares, an edge to his already jagged voice. “You may be the soldier, but I’m your sword and shield. Whatever you order, I will carry out.”
Years of anguish slowly rise to the surface as I recall all the vile acts committed against me.
The forced submission. The humiliation. The pain.
My past can’t stay buried any longer—the ground must be tilled before I can grow.
“I want them dead,” I croak as a harsh sob bubbles past my lips. “I want those who violated me dead. I want it to hurt as much as they hurt me.”
Butch is silent for a moment before asking, “Is that an order?”
A what? Oh! Does he mean what I think he means?
Wiping away my tears, I pull away from Butch’s shoulder to read his face. I need to see if he’s being serious or horrified with me wishing harm on the men who harmed me.
There’s neither fear nor disgust in his expression. Butch stares back at me expectantly, patiently waiting for my reply.
Here is a man offering to rid the world of the men who violated me in the most evil ways, to give me the inner peace I desperately seek. All I have to do is ask.
No, not ask— command .
Another minute passes with me carefully weighing the consequences of what I’m about to do. The men in this MC aren’t big lugs, full of empty promises and bullshit. They’re oath takers and men of action. If I wave the green flag, Butch will put my wish into motion.
Should it scare me if I have no empathy for what’s about to come for the dirty bastards who haunt my memories? Maybe, but I don’t care.
My decision made, I straighten my spine. “Butch?”
My biker’s hazel eyes sparkle in the dim light of the closet. “Yes?”
“End them.”
His lips curl into a mischievous smirk on his striking face, making him look like some archangel ready to rain hellfire on my enemies.
“As you command, my goddess.”