49
I swiped at the tickle grazing my nose. My mouth.
“Tricky, stop...”
Hold on.
My eyes snapped open, and I jerked up, clutching the sheet tightly around my naked body. It was too late to reach for my gun in the top drawer.
Two dark eyes bored into mine, a bandana wrapped around his head, his dark hair down past his jaw, peppered with hints of gray. His large body hovering over me filled my vision.
Finger said, “Good morning.”
So casual, so warm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to be in my bedroom after all these years. It wasn’t natural. The world had turned upside down.
Madness.
My eyes darted to my alarm clock. Tricky had left maybe twenty minutes ago. He’d come over late after the brouhaha at the club with Catch and Nina, after he’d gotten his licks in.
Seeing that Flames patch last night on Catch’s jacket had made my stomach flip over and knot, my head swim. I’d frozen up at the sight, then I’d gotten out of there as quickly as I could, taking Jill with me. I’d dropped her off, got myself home, and waited for Tricky in my bed.
When he’d finally shown up, he started telling me about beating up Catch, about Nina and Butler, but I didn’t let him talk. He always wanted to talk, but I certainly didn’t want to hear about what had happened to Catch and bike club rivalries. I’d climbed onto his naked body and then he finally shut up. I was good at focusing. I was disciplined. Years of physical pain and deprivation had made a great teacher.
I blinked hard, but Finger was no mirage. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ll make the coffee,” said that scratched, rough deep voice. “You take a shower and get that boy off your body.”
“Finger—”
He took a wisp of my hair and held it between his thumb and forefinger. “I liked your red color.”
“It hasn’t been red for years,” I replied. “It was green last month, in fact.”
Something resembling a grin twitched a corner of his lips. “Ah, Lenore.”
His scarred skin was more weathered than I last remembered. That voice, though. The way that scratchy, husky voice would coil around my name and jam like overloaded electronic circuitry in my chest. Oh, that was still there.
He rose from the side of the bed. “Get up.” He stood in the doorway facing me, his hands over his head, planted against the lintel. He waited, his lips tightening as our eyes held onto each other’s.
I got up from the bed, letting the sheet fall from me, the air rushing over my heated bare skin, and prowled toward him.
So many years, so long ago, and here he was now. How many times had I dreamed of this? Yearned for it? Then just as quickly tucked it away, hidden it, punched it, stuffed it back down as if it were a Jack-in-the-Box revealing a forbidding skeleton instead of a cute clown or a pretty fairy? Jammed it all the way in and locked it.
But I could never throw away the key.
I’d always fostered that tiny shard of deep dark hope.
I stopped before him, not two inches between his body and my naked one. “The coffee is in a yellow ceramic canister on the kitchen counter,” I said. “The cream’s in the fridge.”
His eyes didn’t shift from mine. Not one second. This stoic harshness of his sent a unique slow flutter right through me, a flutter that grew heavy, buckled and burned in my belly right up through my chest. A sensation I hadn’t felt for such a long, long time.
Since him.
He remained still, his face severe. Goosebumps raced over my skin, my nipples hardening at his insistence. No hurry, no shame, no petty civilities.
Never between us.
Gone was the joyful man I once knew behind the scars; this man was ruthless and unyielding.
He dropped his arms, moving just a bit to the side, no longer blocking the doorway. I peeled myself from the magnetic force between our bodies and brushed past him, my bare breasts grazing uncomfortably against his leather. Closing the bathroom door behind me, I gripped the sink and took in a deep breath.
Under the burning waterfall of the shower, I shampooed and scrubbed with a jumbo loofah and plenty of almond and Shea butter soap. I did it all over again a second time with another shower gel, and a third.
I quickly towel-dried my hair and threw on a matching pair of my own bright green handmade undies, a billowy cornflower blue kaftan blouse, and my faded cropped jeans. Bright colors always centered me, like the ink all over my body. Barefoot, my thick hair long and damp down my back, I left my bedroom holding my breath, not sure of what I’d find.
Why was he here?
Pale sunlight filtered through my bank of kitchen windows. A fresh day, a new world, a different time.
My favorite pair of antique glazed earthenware coffee cups stood waiting on the kitchen table. Finger sat in a chair, his long legs spread open, his one heavily ringed hand on a bulky thigh, the other wrapped around the oversized golden yellow and stone colored cup. His missing middle fingers were an oddly comforting sight. Familiar, intimate even. A chill stole over my spine, and I released a breath to get rid of it. Three silver chains hung down his still defined chest sprinkled with coils of dark hair and covered in more ink than the last time I’d seen him.
Years had passed by, separating us further. A raging river of different experiences, people, sorrows, victories. We were different now.
Weren’t we?
“Are you in Meager because of what Catch did last night?” I asked.
“I had to show my face and make sure things didn’t get out of hand. Were you there?”
“Jump found him and Nina together, it got ugly, and I left right after,” I said. “Everything under control now?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He nudged a chair out to the side for me, and I sat, bringing the full coffee mug to my lips and taking a sip. Perfect.
He only stared at me.
“Pretty stupid thing for both of them to do,” I said.
“Very stupid. It’s taken care of.”
I met his gaze. “I have no doubt.”
He stroked the thick, uneven handle of the mug. “You got a lot of these handmade mugs and dishes, flower pots too. You taking pottery classes or something? Hobby of yours?”
I drank more coffee. “No.”
He scanned the three framed photos of Beck I had on the sideboard.
“How’s your boy?”
“Beck’s good.” I rubbed my fingers over the scalloping on the cup. “He’s a professional musician.”
“Guitarist?”
I smiled. “And a pianist, and a drummer. He lives in LA.”
Finger crossed his long legs. “But you stayed on here?”
I swallowed more coffee, savoring its rich heat in my mouth. “I like the Black Hills, this is home for me.”
He only nodded, his eyes flicking around my small kitchen. “You with Tricky? His property? His old lady?”
“I’m no one’s anything. Tricky and I have a good time together off and on when it suits us.”
His dark, probing eyes slid to mine once more. I was suddenly desperate to know if he had an old lady. He must have one. He’d been his club’s president for a long time now. The chief of a dynasty, undoubtedly sought after by many a woman, and rightly so. Did he have kids? He must have had kids. He’d wanted children.
I didn’t ask. I only clamped my jaw together. What was the point of asking? Life had pushed on, and we’d pushed on with it and against it.
“Tania’s the one who called me, let me know about Catch at the club,” he said. “He’s her little brother.”
“Yeah, she told me that her brother is a Flame. Ironic, huh? Small, crazy world.”
“Isn’t it?” His lips curved up in a slight grin. “I made sure the Jacks understood that she and I know each other, so they don’t fuck with her now that Catch has pissed them off for the third time.”
“Good, I’m glad. She’s moved back home to be with her mom who’s sick. She’s getting a divorce and opening a business here too.”
“I know.”
“So, you showed up and defused any more fireworks over there, huh?”
“I only defuse when I want to.”
Another shiver raced over my skin at his eerie tone.
He brought his mug of coffee to his lips and drank. “You good here then? Your business?”
“I am. It was tough getting started, but I’ve built a good reputation, and I have solid fans far and wide. I even get a number of tourists on their way to Mt. Rushmore or Sturgis. I’m thinking of expanding online, and I’m designing a makeup line now. I’m happy with my little success.”
“You deserve it.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s you in those ads.”
My face heated, my tummy clenched tight. “You’ve seen them?”
“A few of the old ladies at my club have bought your stuff. One of my bros hung a poster of yours up on a wall at the clubhouse.”
“Really?”
“Hmm.” He drank, he drank me in. “Never a face, just a body.”
A body he knew so well.
His gaze fell to my chest, studying my web of tattoos. He leaned forward slowly, and my pulse heated. He pulled my blouse to the side, out of his way. The rough pads of his fingertips seared my skin as they traced the spray of tiny stars, tear drops, birds, and flowers that exploded down my skin, over my left breast.
“This is beautiful,” he said, a finger tracing the letter embedded in the flowers.
“Thank you. Work in progress.”
My breath stalled as his knuckles brushed over the gold compass whose dial pointed north. His forehead wrinkled, and his heavy eyes lifted to mine once more.
“You still have my compass?” he asked.
“I—”
“No, don’t tell me. Forget it,” he breathed.
His careful stroke continued, and I wanted to wrap my fingers around his wrist, but not to stop him from touching me. No, to feel the sinewy strength in that arm, to kiss his hand. To encourage him. I suddenly wanted to run my hands up to his shoulders and let him crush me in his embrace. The crush of him. Fuck, how I missed that. I’d blocked it out.
His breathing deepened as his thumb caressed the top of my bare breast, setting off a spiraling ache inside me. It wasn’t only the pulse of lust. This was fuller, richer, dizzying. All these years of living a half life when it came to men flared up in front of me, laughing at me, mocking me. Nothing but hollow, vacant…but his one simple touch, the weight of his stare.
I cleared my throat. “I’m proud of you for what you’ve accomplished.” I clenched my jaw before I whispered something else, something more that I shouldn’t.
His head dipped as his hand cupped my breast fully, an inarticulate sound escaping his lips. He was ignoring my superficial remarks, wanted more from me than just a friendly conversation.
So did I.
My hand reached out and brushed a scarred cheek. Years ago, I used to want to be able to magically heal those scars with a touch, a kiss. But now I liked the grooves, the jagged lines under my fingertips. They were him, us. A story. Our story. Pain and strength. Survival.
He groaned at the graze of my fingers, his eyes creasing as if he were carefully re-reading something familiar, taking it in. He bent his head and planted a gentle kiss over the compass just below the base of my neck, and I choked back a cry in my throat. The musk of old leather, metal, and the light, clean scent of shampoo rose between us. I held my breath, fought to remain still.
He slowly removed his hand from my flesh, and I sat up straighter in my chair, my pulse bucking uncontrollably. Neither of us said anything for a long while.
“You have a family now?” I started a conversation that would put distance between us once more. My chest tightened waiting for his answer.
“No.”
“An old lady?”
“A couple have come and gone.”
“Oh. I thought—”
“I was always yours,” his voice rasped, his heavy eyes holding mine. “There’s no one else but you. Never has been, never will be. No matter what pussy I’ve had in my bed, it’s always been you on my cock, and in here.” His long fingers landed on his chest.
Devastating, brutal honesty.
“Finger—”
“Not a fucking one,” he breathed.
My heart twisted, my head swam. “What do you want from me?”
“You.”
One word, and the house held its breath, the world stood still.
He said, “I want to be with you, Serena.”
Serena.
My insides tumbled all over the dark wood floor. The first time he’d used my real name was in a gloomy, shadowy basement dungeon a million years ago. Hearing it then had touched me with a prick of sweetness, an unexpected rush of yearning for more, an inexplicable ache. It touched me now, but deep and thick and rough. He’d come back for me once, twice, and he’d come for me today. The only one who ever had. No slinking away, no concealing. Finger kept his promises. His word was a vow.
My unrelenting steadfast soldier.
But Finger wasn’t made of tin, like the fairy tale. He was made of volatile fire and fierce fury. That insistence of his, brewed on vengeance and laced with hope, had destroyed the iron chains that once held us bound and forged the gleaming metal of his hard faith that had set us free.
My heart beat wildly under his glare. “It’s been years. We barely know each other anymore,” I said.
A thick, dark eyebrow lifted. “Does that really matter?”
The room shifted around me.
“Do you think I’m just going to hop on the back of your bike, and we’re going to ride off into the Nebraska sunset?” I raised my voice. “There’s no point now. You’ve got your life, I’ve got mine—”
“No point? No point? Timing fucked us, but fuck time! From the first moment we met, we didn’t have separate lives.”
His raw urgency jolted through me, detonating everything in its path.
“What is it?” His scars tightened, his stern jaw jutted out. “You all up in this Jack?”
I smoothed my hands over the polished wood surface of my kitchen table. “This is about me. I finally have my life the way I want it. I’m financially independent, living off my own work, part of a good community, good friends, good people I trust. My son is grown up and following his own path. And all the ugly shit is over and in the deep past and it needs to stay that way.”
“Seeing me brings the deep ugly all back, huh?” His eyes narrowed, his lips smashing together.
I touched his arm. “Seeing you makes me realize how far we’ve both come, and I’m glad. Glad you’re doing well. Glad we can sit here and have a cup of coffee.”
He threw his head back and laughed.
My scalp prickled.
“You think I came here for a cup of coffee with you?” he said, his eyes gleaming dark metal.
“Did you kill Med?”
“Turo took care of him. He did it for you. He told me himself.”
Nausea swirled in my gut. “How do—”
“After he gave me your new name, I let him live, and that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” He chuckled.
He was quoting Casablanca now?
“We ended up helping each other out,” he continued. “For years now.”
I choked back a slew of slimy images of Finger and Turo scheming together, killing together, consuming women together.
“To be clear, the Jacks are my friends. Are they your enemies now after all this crap with Catch?”
“No.”
“But they could be?”
“You’re so concerned about them, huh?” his voice snapped back, a shadow passing over his features. “You hang out with them now?”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
His eyes flared. “Just long enough to get laid?”
“Yeah, long enough to get laid. But, more importantly, to support my friends like Alicia and Grace who’ve been very good to me. Finger, everything’s changed, we’ve changed—”
He swung his head to the side and pushed up from the table. The mugs shook, coffee spilled. We both stared at the puddles of dark liquid. In a flash of movement, he bent over me, a warm hand cuffing my neck. My pulse pounded under his grip.
“This hasn’t changed for me, Sunshine. This hasn’t changed, and we are not over,” he said. A Mission Statement. Finger’s Declaration of Us.
His raspy voice uttering his ridiculous nickname for me blazed through my veins; a whisper of an ancient intimacy sending a skitter of hot iron barbs around my throat, spiking my skin, burning deep.
“We’ve been over for years, Finger.”
“All the reasons to be apart are done with—Med, your marriage. Why shouldn’t we be together?”
I stiffened. There was one reason. One.
His grip eased, his fingers sliding down my throat. “We’re alone, Lenore. We don’t have to be.”
“I’m not alone.”
His lips quirked. “I wasn’t alone last night either.”
His words jammed in my chest like rotten garbage leaking toxins, infecting me. “I’m sure you weren’t.”
“None of that makes a damn bit of difference, both of us killing time. But I won’t let time kill us any longer.” His voice was firm, even. “You’re a part of me, the very best part, and we belong together. If all it is with Tricky is getting laid, dump him. You got me now.”
Finger released me and strode off, his heavy footfalls booming through my small house, the creaky wood floors groaning under his turbulent battering. The screen door whined, slammed, and I flinched. His bike’s engine ripped the air and thundered away.
I sank back into my chair, wrapping my arms around myself. But it did no good.
The shaking wouldn’t stop.