Hope
I take one of the blankets which hang over the back of the couch and drape it over Killian. I’m still naked, and that in itself is a sign of how close we’ve become. Usually, with men, I have to get dressed almost as soon as the intimacy is over. Usually, I can’t bear to be naked around men, just naked, with nothing sexual happening. But Killian and I just sat there, naked, drinking and talking. It’s strange; I feel far closer to him than I have to any man before.
He curls up on the sofa. I stand up, go to the bag, and take out shorts and a t-shirt. I wriggle into them and pace up and down the cabin, holding my whiskey in my hand.
Could there be a future with Killian? I suppose it’s not impossible. We love—I stop, having to grip the glass hard to stop from dropping it. My breath attacks me. Giant, heaving breaths which make me grab the wall and lean over, panting. Love. Is that what I thought? Love? Love? Love? I try and steady my breathing. In the end I have to drain the last of the whiskey to come to grips with it. I can’t think like that. He’s drunk. He might’ve said more than he planned.
I try to repress the feelings rising in my chest. I go into the spare bedroom—the bedroom he told me I could convert into a studio—and sit on the edge of the bed. Placing the empty glass on the side table, I lean back and stare up at the ceiling. It’s as though the life we could share runs on a movie reel up there, with the projector somewhere behind me, perhaps buried in the mattress.
I see myself walk into this room, but there is no bed, just an easel and a stool and a board of pain. I strut into the room with a paintbrush in my hand. The walls and the floor are covered with white sheets. I don’t have to be extra careful, like at the apartment. I don’t have to curse when I spill a tiny drop of red on the carpet. No, I can let my imagination run wild. It gallops and gallops and I paint my best works here. And then Killian bursts into the room, grinning that cocky-as-hell grin, and scoops me into his arms. He knocks over the easel. I curse at him. He laughs and lowers me into the paint and we fuck like that, my back smeared with paint.
Be careful, a voice warns. You know how men can be.
That’s true enough. I think most women do. We’ve all had men say they’re going to do this, do that, they’re going to be with us forever, they’re going to cherish us, blah, blah, blah. And then what? We share a few sweaty nights and they’re gone, like the wind, and more often than not we’re glad they blew away.
Big talkers, but that’s all. Big talkers but small doers.
And what about his club life? I know it’s more dangerous than he lets on. I know so little about it, but I’m sure it isn’t safe. How can it be? Everyone in the Cove knows that the Satan’s Martyrs are outlaws. Outlaws. Like old Western outlaws, and how many of them had a happy ending? What sort of life would I be signing up to if I took him seriously?
The scene on the ceiling changes. I’m in the kitchen now, a brand-spankin’-new kitchen, a kitchen out of my dreams. Everything shines. Light slants through the windows and hits knives and surfaces and cooktops and ovens, and all of it is lit brilliantly in the dream. I’m dicing onions with a stupidly wide grin on my face, an—Say it! Say it . . . It’s an in-love grin.
Then the door opens and I look up, expecting to see Killian. But it’s not Killian. Instead, it’s a man, a gruff-looking man, one of Killian’s rivals, holding a shotgun. He points it at me and smiles, flashing yellow teeth, and then pulls the trigger.
I sit bolt upright in bed, gripping the mattress with my fingers.
How much do I really want to know?
Can you really have a life with an outlaw?
These are questions to which I don’t know the answers. I can’t even guess at the answers. I know I’m happiest when I’m with Killian, but I also know that Killian has done things, still does things, which put him in grave danger. With the other men, the biggest risk was they’d get bored, which was fine by me. With Killian, I could attend his funeral any day.
Stop it, I tell myself. You’re just driving yourself crazy.
I look up, and Killian is standing at the door.
“Tell me,” he whispers. He’s wearing shorts, but his torso is bare, showing his muscles, his tattoos. His blond hair is curly and messy, hanging low, and his blue eyes are brighter than ever, despite the drink. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I swivel, place my feet on the floor. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll tell you.”
“I meant what I said,” Killian says, once I’m finished.
“But you can see what I mean?” I persist. “You can see why I’m worried?”
We sit side by side on the bed, our legs touching, his hand folded over mine. “I can see, yeah,” he says. “You’re scared.”
“But not for myself. Well, maybe a little for myself. But mostly that one day you’ll be on a job and then . . . You’ll be gone, and then what sort of life will we have?”
“I get it,” Killian says. “I get it, Hope. An outlaw’s life is a hard life. You’re right. A dangerous life, too. I used to think that an outlaw who took a wife was a stupid man.”
“Maybe you were right,” I whisper.
His shoulders slump. “Maybe, but I’m not letting you go. Nothing could make that happen, not now. Nothing could make me do that. I’ll never let you go, Hope.” His voice grows fierce. “Nothing in the whole damned world could make me let you go. Not a man with a shotgun, not a hundred men with a hundred shotguns.”
“I know.” I squeeze his hand. “But sometimes it’s not as easy as that.”
He laughs bleakly. “I know that. I wish it was, though.” He yawns, stretches his arms. “Sorry, pretty lady, but I’m drunk and exhausted. Just think about what I said, yeah? And I’ll do the same. What you told me makes sense. Maybe one day I’ll let you know everything there is to know about the club.”
“I’m not even sure I want that,” I mutter. “I’m not even sure I could handle it.”
He stands up, stretching his arms. “I’m going to bed, beautiful,” he says. “Just know that I didn’t lie to you. I meant it. I meant every word.”
Then he leaves me, and I heard the door to the other bedroom open and close.
I sigh and lie back on the bed. He’s still saying he meant it. He’s still saying he wants it.
I look up at the ceiling, but it seems the invisible projector has stopped working. I don’t see a thing.
I need to take my mind off things, if only for a little while. I walk through the cabin and stop outside the other bedroom’s door. Placing my ear against it, I hear that Killian is snoring lightly.
I go to our bag and find my cell, turn it on, and call Dawn.
I need to see how she’s doing, for one thing, but there’s another motive, too. Dawn has always been skilled at taking my mind off things.
It’s around eight o’clock at night when I call. It’s crazy to me that Killian and I have wished the entire day away with fucking and drinking. While it was happening, it didn’t seem to take long, not at all. Or maybe it was that time seemed to stop; the cabin became a refuse not even time could touch. I shrug to myself. I don’t know, that’s the truth. When I’m with Killian, anything is possible. You’re rambling drunkenly to yourself, I think, and then Dawn answers the phone.
“Hey!” The voice which answers is chirpy and happy. It reminds me of Dawn long, long ago, when we were children, before Mom and Dad died, before she found the sweet release of drugs.
My first instinct is to ask whoever this is why they have Dawn’s phone.
But then the mystery person says, “sissy,” and I know it’s Dawn.
“You sound—better,” I gasp.
She laughs, a sweet sound which makes me feel about eleven. “I feel better,” she says. “I don’t know. All this stuff, the food and the medication and the rest, and Patrick. Patrick has been great, Hope, really great. I don’t know where you found him, but he’s a really great guy. We’ve been playing checkers. Me, playing checkers. Well, he’s much better at it, but I’m getting pretty good, too. You wouldn’t think checkers would be such a hard game, would you? But it can be really tactical.”
I let her voice run on, savoring the sound of it.
“The worst is over,” she goes on. “I’m sure the worst is over. Oh, Hope, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did it. I mean, I do. I’m an addict. Patrick’s been talking to me about admitting that you’re an addict. I don’t know, the way he put it, it seems to make more sense than all those other people, the rehab people, I mean. They said it judgmental, but Patrick’s been through the same thing. He knows. He understands the pain and the struggle. So, Hope, I’m sorry and I’m an addict.”
I’m dumbstruck, literally dumbstruck. I feel as though my tongue is stapled to the floor of my mouth. I try and talk, but I’m too stunned. I feel as though I’m talking with a different person, as though the Dawn who for the last few years has sneaked and lied has been replaced.
“Can you forgive me, sissy?” Dawn asks. “I know it’s a lot to ask—”
“Of course,” I breathe. “Of course I’ll forgive you. This has happened so—”
“Quick! I know!” I can almost see her bright, smiling face. “I’m as shocked as you are.” She lowers her voice. I imagine her glancing at the door to make sure nobody is listening. “To be honest, I think Patrick has a lot to do with it. The others are nice—that Gunny guy, and Craig, you know, the one with the gun tattoo—but Patrick is really great. You wouldn’t think one of those bikers could be so kind, would you?”
“Sister, you don’t know the half of it,” I laugh.
“Oh, really?” she giggles back. We’re kids again, I think, a smile spreading across my face. We’re teenagers again, talking about boys, and everything is okay. “You’ll have to fill me in at some point.”
“I will, Dawn, but not now.”
We talk for a while longer. I tell Dawn about what Killian did to Lucca, and Dawn laughs so hard that she has to put the phone down while she rolls around. When she returns, she says: “I wish I was there to see that. He’s always been such a pig, hasn’t he?”
“Worse than a pig, but Killian put him right.” I realize there’s pride in my voice: pride for my man.
“Ooh, sorry, sissy. Patrick just come in. Do you mind if I . . .”
“No, of course not.”
“Okay, great! I love you!”
“I love you, too,” I smile.
She hangs up the phone. I stare at the phone, unable to stop from smiling.
She’s getting better, I think, and it’s all thanks to Killian.
I go to the bedroom. He’s sleeping on the edge of the bed, but he must sense me, even in sleep. When I approach, he shuffles aside, leaving a space for me. I climb in and he wraps his arm around me, pulling me close to him.
I fall asleep with my face buried in his chest, smiling against his skin.