Chapter Eight
Pretty Boy
Edward hurt more than he could remember hurting in a long while. His gaze darted to the pool tables where he’d seen Dusty last. She was still on the phone, pacing back and forth and speaking in hushed tones. As far as he could tell, she wasn’t paying him an ounce of attention and hadn’t been since she’d ditched him beneath a wall of cheap whiskey.
He was sticky in places he didn’t care to be and, for some unfathomable reason, now smelled like pee, but, you know…it was still a win. He didn’t mind being ignored. For reasons he didn’t want to investigate, he didn’t like the idea of Dusty seeing him lose his control. Weakness wasn’t something he indulged in around other people. It wasn’t a luxury he could afford.
Thank God the bar was empty, save for the two of them. The volume at which he’d been complaining about his injuries would have been embarrassing otherwise. Edward had no idea where the others had gone and was too busy to ask, trying to staunch the flow of blood with a pair of underwear Dusty pulled from the corner pocket of one of the billiard tables.
“Don’t worry, Pretty Boy. They aren’t mine,” she assured him before going back to her call.
If anything, knowing made it worse? Edward glanced down at his arm. He was pretty sure he had the clap now. Still, the bar wasn’t equipped with a standard-issue first aid kit, so he’d have to take what he could get.
The scent of blood, the sight of it, was painfully familiar. Like bright, copper pennies on the tongue.
“Come on, Eddy, be a good boy and help Daddy.”
If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the whisper had come from right behind him, an insidious snake dripping poison in his ears.
“This is just what Dad’s do, kiddo. It’s normal, I promise.”
A sudden wave of nausea had him scrambling back against the counter, his breathing labored. Why was that bastard on his mind so much today? Each time Edward thought he was free of him, he always came crawling back stronger than ever.
Right, what was it he’d learned from Reddit the other day?
Breathe deeply from the belly.
His stomach expanded, and he squeezed his eyes shut—a kid making a wish. He tried again, then again when the trapped lightning in his chest evolved from panic to terror.
Check in with all five senses.
Right. Make note of five things I can see. Four things I can hear. Three things I can …
Wait. Was it five things he could see or five things he could feel? Why five? The number seemed excessive. A sickening crunch echoed in his mind as fear slipped expertly through him, chilling him to the bone. The constant replay of Crusher looming over him, fists like anvils, shifted. Now he was going after Dusty, hurting her, and then it was no longer the fighter he saw but someone else.
Momma cried out and stumbled back, the force of the final blow knocking her off her feet. The edge of the counter rose to meet her, and Edward screamed and covered his eyes. Too little to stop what came next, but old enough to hate himself for it.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Something cold and wet landed on his face. His ensuing gasp was muffled and full of gratitude as the memory was driven back like a demon in the night.
“Shit, Pretty Boy, if I’d known you were going to bitch this much, I would have left you with Eliot.”
Edward flushed and ducked his head as he worked to find his breath. It was difficult with the rag over his face. It stank like sour laundry, but he found he was unable to part with it just yet. Maybe because it cleared his head, wiped those dirty memories clean if only for a while. Or maybe it was because he wasn’t ready to face Dusty. He couldn’t see her face, but he could guess her expression. She’d mock him, just like his father, just like members of the board, just like Andrew. A man like him wasn’t a real man at all. Edward had known as much his entire life. Even now, it was easy to imagine the scorn in her eyes, the disgust, and his shoulders rounded as if he’d been hit.
“Pussy.”
Edward yelped when, with a low growl, Dusty jerked the rag away.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Edward had expected a lot of things—fury was not one of them. “W-what do you mean?” he asked, looking up at her.
A few things worth noting. She’d put her hair up in a bun at the top of her head, exposing sharp cheekbones and placing the scar bisecting her left eyebrow on a pedestal. While he’d been moping, she’d stripped down to a green spaghetti strap top and now held the shirt she’d had on earlier in one hand. In addition to a simple black backpack, she also carried an oblong duffle bag over one shoulder. She was scowling, brown eyes bright with annoyance but no hint of derision.
One … two … three … four … five.
“You’ve been sitting here sniveling for five minutes.” She motioned to his arm. “The least you could do is treat yourself so we can get going already.”
Edward shook his head. “A pair of used underwear and some tweezers aren’t exactly marvels of modern medicine.”
Dusty grinned, and like the first time he’d seen it, it was a bright spot of mischief. “Oh, you a bougie bitch, huh? My bad, Pretty Boy. I didn’t know.”
“Goddammit, Dusty!”
Chuckling, Dusty knelt beside him and ditched her duffle bag. “Adele,” she said, then froze. Edward got the impression that she hadn’t meant to tell him her real name, but Dusty shrugged and cleared her throat. “You can call me Adele.” Her eyes darted to his, then away. The first thing she’d ever been shy about. “Adele Burdot.”
Adele .
The way she said her name, rolling each syllable along her tongue as if they were made of magic and dipped in moonlight, made him think of Paris. Of Monet painting ballerinas with bated breath and gentle strokes of his brush. Whatever he might have said in response died in his throat, though he found his voice again just as she lifted the sleeve of his shirt away from his wound. Bright spots of pain danced before his eyes, but he gritted his teeth and remained quiet as Dusty reached up to grab a half-empty bottle of vodka. Breath quickening, he turned away.
Common sense told him it would be smarter to cut his losses and go to the fucking hospital. But common sense was easy to ignore. He’d been doing it most of his life, after all.
“This mean I’m in the crew?” he managed, through the nerves. No way in hell he was going through with this without at least a complementary Legion jacket or something.
In the ensuing silence, the only thing shared between them was the sound of their breathing.
One, he thought. He met her eyes.
“You’re a weird one, Edward Hayes,” she said, in her poured whiskey of a voice.
Two.
He winced, more from the sound of his name than the sting that accompanied Dusty’s ministrations. “So, you know?”
“They got your face plastered all over the news, darlin’,” she said, as she cleaned his wound with the wet rag in her hand.
“Oh really?” His fists clenched as she worked on smaller debris in his wound, her eyes narrowed and her face a mask of concentration. “If I’m weird, who’s your standard for normalcy? Ape?”
She chuckled, and like everything else about her, it was earthy and warm.
Three.
“Ape is a lot of things.” She glanced at him, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “Normal ain’t one of them.”
Edward wasn’t a fan of blood—even now, he was shaking at the sight of the red stream pooling beneath his hand—but he found he couldn’t turn away again. Looking away meant no longer seeing Dusty, and he was reluctant to deprive himself of the sight of her. As she worked, he studied how the light played off her tattoos, how the bright reds and greens danced across her brown skin as she moved. Like musical notes spilling across a page, they painted a picture of a song he wanted very much to sing.
Desire was a dark, whispering thing in the center of his being, something fierce and eager. He wanted to explore her, wanted to grow familiar with every rise and curve, see how well her hips fit against the palms of his hands. See if there was more art hidden beneath her clothes and whether she would allow him to paint another, more sensuous masterpiece with his tongue and fingertips.
“Who’d you vote for in 2016?”
Her question derailed his train of thought, and he blinked. “Wait? What?”
Before he could formulate an answer, Dusty poured the vodka over the hole in his arm.
“Fuck- er !” Edward slammed his head back against the bar as his vision went black.
“That’s more like it,” she crooned, pleased.
Through the haze of pain, he could hear a zipper.
Four.
Dusty tore a spare shirt from her bag into long strips. Panting, Edward asked, “Care to share with the class?” Maybe she was a sadist. It would explain a lot. He would have liked to say he found her less attractive now because of it, but it would have been a lie.
“You were too quiet. I was starting to worry about you.” She wrapped the bits of cloth, pinning the ends in place with pieces of duct tape from a roll atop a dusty mini fridge. He wondered why it was kept there, but the sheer amount of tape holding the pipes beneath the sink together was answer enough.
Slumping, Edward gripped his forearm as Dusty sat back on her heels, satisfied. “ You were worried about me ?” he queried.
“That so hard to believe?” She cocked her head to one side.
Edward shrugged, then thought better of it. “Didn’t take you for the type to worry about anyone but your crew.”
“Please.” She held up a hand, her expression pained. “ Please stop calling them that. We’re a street gang, not a club.”
“What’s the difference?” he asked, feigning cluelessness. He knew a bit about biker clubs, but was by no means an expert. From what he understood, most motorcycle clubs were about camaraderie and individuality. It was a place where like-minded people could come together. The Legion, however, was more of a street gang than a traditional club. The exceptions to the rule, as it were. Being called a ‘club’ or a ‘crew’ would rankle, but as far as he was concerned, it was revenge for calling him Pretty Boy. Edward wasn’t sure how he would get back at her for the bullet, but he’d figure out something. Without thinking, his eyes darted to her lips as her face flushed with annoyance.
“You—” She took a deep breath and calmed. “You know what?” she continued. “My therapist says I’m in charge of my own emotions, and I choose not to engage further with your bullshit.”
“You see a therapist?” He hadn’t meant to sound so shocked by the news. He just couldn’t picture Dusty sitting in a therapist’s office for an hour, playing twenty questions. Somehow, he didn’t think she’d have the patience for it.
“Of course I do,” she said archly. “So does everyone else in the Legion. Men are hormonal as hell. I can’t have you assholes running around with guns, hyped up on testosterone and trauma.”
It wasn’t something he’d expected, but Dusty spoke as if her gang of misfits getting seen by a mental health professional because they were hormonal was standard practice. And fuck, maybe it should have been.
“We do violent shit and talk about our feelings. You should try it sometime.”
He chuckled awkwardly, and Dusty shook her head. “Up,” she ordered gruffly, holding out a hand and helping him to his feet.
He’d been sitting still for so long, his legs and back protested. It was the craziest thing. He could exercise for hours at a time, but sitting on the disgusting floor of this hole in the wall was like getting run over by a truck. Once he was upright, Dusty didn’t let his hand go and neither did Edward try to pull away. Instead, he breathed in the scent of her—smoke and something dark and sweet. A spent bullet dripping honey. He’d swallow her if she’d let him.
One . The thought, filled with a longing he was unused to, brought him up short. He took a step back, wiping his sweaty palms on the side of his pants and hoping she hadn’t noticed, stopping the count before it could go any further. There was nothing but trouble down that road.
Dusty narrowed her eyes. “Come on.” She turned away, and Edward hustled after her.
“Where to next?” He was nervous but excited.
“To see a friend.” She slid gracefully over the top of the bar instead of walking down the length of it.
“Another one?”
Dusty’s head cocked to one side in curiosity. “What? You don’t like my friends?”
He nodded too fast. “The ones I’ve met so far seem”— bloodthirsty? —“lovely.”
“Thanks,” she said sardonically. Was he desperate, or was there real affection there?
‘ Probably just desperate. ’
Dusty headed toward the front door, turning off lights as she went.
Suspecting he was about to get left, Edward eyed the bar top. Dusty had made it look easy, and he was feeling confident. He considered the logistics, then flopped onto his back and pushed off with his feet. In his mind, he did a little somersault that didn’t jar his wounded arm at all. The problem was, he didn’t factor in his exhaustion and blood loss. So, instead of flipping like a ninja, he scooted like the Pillsbury doughboy and fell headfirst off the bar, scattering several left-over cups in his mad bid to right himself.
Edward shot to his feet sooner than his sore noggin would have liked, trying to look nonchalant. Had she seen? No, thank God. She’d opened the front door but hadn’t reacted to the commotion.
“Hey, Edward,” Dusty called, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I’m going to need you to hurry the fuck up.”
“Why?” She opened her mouth, but he shook his head. “The truth, Dusty.”
Dusty’s lips tightened. “It’s called plausible deniability for a reason, darlin’.”
Searching for meaning, he checked in with his other senses. An acrid stench reached his nose, and the blood drained from his face. “Is that gas?”
Before she could respond, a figure appeared in the doorway.
At first, Edward was sure it was one of the other members of the gang, but the knife in the stranger’s hand and the hatred twisting his features convinced him otherwise.
The newcomer looked between Edward and Dusty and scowled. “Which one of you fuckers is Bobby Dustflap?” he barked.
Dusty’s hand clenched around the straps of her duffle bag. “For Christ’s sake,” she muttered beneath her breath.
Edward couldn’t have agreed with her more.