Killian
When the fire department takes Lindsey down, she begins to sob like a baby, but Hope and I don’t stick around for that. Sheriff Bob wants a statement from us. He wanted to drive us to the station in one of his cars, which I thought was damn funny. I told him no, I’d drive us. And of course he agreed. What else is a man who takes a friendly cut from the Satan’s Martyrs supposed to do?
Hope stops next to my bike, looking down at it. “So everything is just normal now, then?” Her voice is bitter, but strong. “I know you saved me from that crazy bitch, and I’m thankful and all. But does that make up for the fact that you never, not once, returned a single damn text? Answered a single damn phone call?”
She stares across the bike at me. Across the other side of the amusement park, the fire truck beeps and buzzes as the ladder is retracted, Lindsey sobs into the night, and somebody coughs loudly.
I look into Hope’s eyes and try to find words which will make up for all of this. But there aren’t any words to fix this, I realize. No simple words, anyway. No words which will magically make her feel better.
“I thought you were a druggie,” I mutter, knowing it sounds ridiculous now.
“You didn’t even give me a chance to explain,” Hope states, lawyer-like, her voice calm and confident. “You shipped me off with Patrick and not once, Killian, did you give me a second to explain myself. Oh, fine, I couldn’t explain myself. But you didn’t even let me try. You just jumped to the worst conclusion possible. ‘Oh, her sister was an addict so she must be too. Oh, the Jackson clan have all been addicts at one time or another so she must be too.’ Do you know how much pride I lost calling you all those times? Do you know how embarrassed you made me?”
Her words thump into me, each one, thump into my chest and directly into my heart. “Hope,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry. I am. But was I supposed to guess that Lindsey jumped into the water, swam to the boat, climbed aboard and stuck a needle in your arm? Who would guess that?”
“I’m not saying that!” she snaps, her voice wavering. “I’m saying you should have given me the benefit of the doubt. But you didn’t want to hear it. Oh, no, Killian O’Connor has his code, and he’ll stick by it, even if it means dumping his girlfriend at a moment’s notice.”
It’s at this point in other relationships where I’d simply walk away. Women have tried to argue with me many times, tried to pull me into their bullshit, and I just leave them, get onto my bike, and ride into the night. I laugh about it later. Did they think I was really going to get into it? But I can’t do that with Hope, because I care. And I want her forgiveness. I need it. But I’ve never been trained in this stuff. Killing, fighting, outlawing. All that comes to me easy. But navigating an argument with a woman? I have no damn clue.
“Hope,” I whisper. “I—” Words desert me. “I—”
“You, what?” Hope demands, folding her arms underneath her breasts, pushing them up. I can’t help but look, but then I look up into her face, at the hurt in it, and I feel guilty.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. “I don’t know what else to say. I’m not just saying that. I really don’t. I never should’ve doubted you. I should’ve believed you, or at least given you the chance . . .” My shoulders deflate. Back at the wheel, when our hands touched, I thought we’d just reconnect in a heartbeat. I was wrong.
“I know you’re sorry, Killian, I do.” She twists her neck from side to side. “It’s just—these past few weeks haven’t been the best, you know? I sat down to paint more times than I could count, and nothing would come out, nothing at all. I just sat there and all I could think about was that night and—” She shakes her head, laughing softly. Then the soft laughter turns into a giggle, and the giggle into a guffaw. When she’s done, she wipes a tear from her eye. “At least I know now,” she says. “At least I know that I didn’t take those drugs. I was going really mad, you know. I started to wonder if maybe I had taken them without realizing it, like you and Patrick and even Dawn seemed to think.”
Though she laughed, I can tell she’s still angry. It’s like a war is being fought on her face: anger and relief fighting for control.
“We better get going,” she says. “The sooner we give this statement, the sooner that crazy lady goes away, the sooner I’m safer.”
“Let’s get going, then.” I climb onto the bike, reach under, and hand her the helmet.
She takes it with an unsteady hand.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’m getting on the back of your bike again,” she says. “After all this time, I’m just getting on the back of your bike again.”
She’s talking in the same tone she might use to describe sticking her hand into a furnace, as if sitting on the back of my bike is something to fear. I swallow a tennis ball which shifts down my throat in lurches. Will it ever be the same? I wonder. Will she ever forgive me?
“We can drive your car, if you want,” I say. “I’ll send someone by for the bike later.”
She looks into the darkness, biting her lip. Then she shrugs her shoulders. “Whatever, let’s just go.”
She sticks the helmet on her head and sits on the back of the bike, her arms wrapping around me. Not as firmly as they once did, but wrapping around me nonetheless.
My statement is quick and easy. Bob’s an easily swayed guy. Any man would be with the Satan’s Martyrs in his town, I guess. Now I sit in the waiting area which overlooks the office of the police station. A few men and women sit at desks, typing on keyboards and talking quietly into phones. All of this lit under white fluorescent lights which are blinding when walking in from the night. This is Rocky Cove, and crime isn’t exactly booming here. And even when it does, a few greased palms go a long way.
Next to me, handcuffed to her chair, sits a middle-aged, motherly-looking woman. She’s about forty, but well kept, with a bob of brown hair and a painted face. She wears jeans, furry boots, and a gray sweater. She looks over to me just as I happened to look over to her.
“What’re you in for?” I ask.
She blushes and shakes her head.
“Let me guess,” I go on, just shooting the shit for the sake of it, otherwise I’ll go crazy waiting for Hope. “You’re a serial killer, right? They caught you buried elbow-deep in blood and guts.”
The woman shakes her head again. “Shoplifting,” she says quietly.
“And they handcuffed you? Goddamn.”
She nods shortly. “Serious offence, I guess,” she mutters.
“What’d you get?” I ask, all the while looking over the top of her head, toward the back door out of which Hope will soon walk. And then I’ll make it up to her, I think. And then I’ll make everything better.
“Just some shoes,” the woman says.
“They’ll probably just fine you,” I say.
“I’m not so sure. People take shoplifting pretty serious these days.”
I look down at her handcuffed hand, see that she is wearing a thick gold wedding band over a diamond engagement ring. “How long’ve you been married?” I ask, thinking: Where is she? Am I going to have to go in there? Bob better not be messing me around.
She smiles. “Eleven years this January,” she says.
“And your husband, has he ever fucked up, really badly?”
Her smile grows wider. “Yeah, a few times.”
“And you’re still with him? You still love him, I mean?”
She nods. “I do.”
“Then tell me, mystery shoplifter, what the hell did he do to make it up to you?”
She looks down at me like I’m a naïve kid, but I can’t complain. When it comes to stuff like this, I am a naïve kid.
“Don’t humiliate yourself. Be sorry, but don’t cry and beg. Don’t plead with her. She’ll never respect you again if you do that. Be sorry—but be a man.”
I shrug. “I would never cry and beg, anyway,” I mutter.
“But remember, whatever it is, she’ll be angry for a while. There’s no stopping that.”
A police officer—a young lad called Shaneus—approaches the woman. “Time to write you up, Miss Stone,” he says.
“Hey, Shane,” I call. “Do me a solid and let her go, will you?”
Both Shane and Miss Stone flinch. “What?” they say at the same time.
“You heard me. Let her go. She stole some shoes, for Christ’s sake. You know how it is. Bored wife and shoplifting. No big deal.” Hope emerges from the back office. I stand up and look Shaneus in the eye. “I’m serious. Let her go. Don’t write her up. I’m leaving now, but if I hear you wasted police time on a shoe stealer, Bob will hear about it.”
Shaneus nods, chagrined, but he unlocks Miss Stone’s handcuffs and waves toward the exit. “Go on, then.”
I sit on the edge of Hope’s bed, watching as she walks up and down the room, wringing her hands. She talks aloud, but I get the sense she’s talking as much to herself as she’s talking to me. Her mind is like a pinball tonight, bouncing from one point to the next, but I can’t blame her. Crazy shit like this might be the norm for the Satan’s Martyrs, but it’s not for Hope. She’s changed out of her hoodie and skirt into sweatpants and a baggy poncho-type blanket.
“You hurt me, bad, that’s the truth. Very, very bad.” From one end of the room to the other, she paces. Over and over. Up and down. I start to get a neck ache following her. “You don’t have any idea how much you hurt me, Killian. It was like being stabbed in the heart. I know that sounds melodramatic as hell, but that’s really how I felt. Don’t get me wrong, either. It wasn’t that I was single, or even that you’d left me. That was part of it, obviously. But it was the way you left me. I was defenseless. I literally could not do anything to defend myself. And everyone thought I did it. Even my own sister.”
She stops, panting heavily, and turns to me with her eyebrows raised in a startled expression. “My own sister,” she repeats. “Do you know how much that stung? Imagine if everyone thought you did something you didn’t even remember doing and Patrick called you a liar. How would you like that?”
“Not a lot,” I murmur, feeling under fire. Is that what relationship arguments are always like? I think. How does any man survive?
“No, exactly,” Hope says. “Not a lot. I feel strange, Killian, because I want to hold you and slap you at the same time.”
I open my arms. “Slap me then,” I say.
“What?” she shoots back, but the corners of her lips twitch, a nearly-smile.
“Slap me,” I repeat. “Go on. I deserve it. Slap me as hard as you can, pretty lady.”
“Don’t call me ‘pretty lady’!” Hope snaps. “We’re not even close to there yet.”
“That’s good,” I say, sitting up, bringing my face close to her. “Good, get angry. Get damn angry. Get so angry you can hardly hold it in. Slap me, pretty lady. Come on, pretty lady. Slap me.” I smirk at her, cocky. “Come on. Do it.”
“I will,” she warns. “And it won’t be a little lady slap, either. It’ll hurt.”
“Good!” I exclaim. I jump to my feet and close the gap, so that I’m standing right next to her, looking down at her. “Slap me!” I urge. “Do it, Hope! Slap me! Do it! Or are—”
Her hand makes a s-lap! against my cheek. I feel my skin go red, and then—s-lap! She hits me again, on the other cheek. She wasn’t lying; she’s hit me hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. I smirk down at her, nodding my approval. “Doesn’t that feel better, pretty lady?”
“Yeah,” she says, as though surprised. She slaps me again, again and again. I stumble backward with each slap until I fall onto the bed. She stands over me, hands raised, staring down into my eyes. “I hope it hurts,” she says. “I hope it really does.”
I bring my hand to my cheek, touch the tender flesh. “It does,” I promise. “It hurts really bad.”
“Good,” she says.
She aims her hand, and I brace myself for another slap. But then she lowers her hands to my face and touches my cheeks tenderly. “You were right,” she says. “That did make me feel better.”
I reach up and touch her hands, feel how small they are, how tiny compared to mine. “I told you it would,” I say.
Then I pull gently on her hands, pulling her toward me. I can’t yank her because her arm, though wrapped in a bandage beneath her sleeve, is still gouged with Lindsey’s fingernail marks. I pull on her hands so gently that she could quite easily pull away.
But she doesn’t.
She falls atop me. I collapse backward and she splits her legs over my waist. Then we kiss. We kiss and it’s like all the pain and the feeling of loss we’ve felt since the night on the boat pours out of us. Heat explodes in that small bedroom and we sink into each other, our tongues battling, our teeth smashing together, writhing, moaning.
Finally, she pulls away. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she says, face as red as mine feels. Lips parted, tongue sticking out, pupils dilated, looking horny and happy and sexy.
“Of course not,” I say, smiling up at her.
“Oh, fuck it,” she whispers, and then kisses me again.
I reach up and grab her ass. Her ass is molded to my hand, I’m sure of it. As soon as I grab it, it feels right, feels in place, feels like it’s where it belongs.
But then Hope leans up, breaking off the kiss for a second time.
“I’m not that easy, Mr. Biker.”
I lean up, trying to bring our lips together again, but she raises a finger and brings it to my lips.
“Uh-uh,” she smiles.
“I’ll do anything,” I say, my voice intense and serious. “I mean it. Anything. I’ll do anything to make it right. Just name it. I’ll swim from here to England. I’ll go to Canada and punch a bear in the face. I’ll—fuck it, I don’t know—I’ll strap myself to a rocket and go to the moon for you.”
She giggles. “Is that your idea of romantic, Mr. Biker?”
Goddamn, I’ve missed her calling me that.
I shrug. “It’s all I can come up with.”
“I don’t need any of that,” she says. “But there is something you could do for me. If you really want to do something.”
“I do,” I say. “Tell me—anything.”
“Talk to Lucca, please. He’s been a nightmare these past—”
“It’s done,” I tell her. “I’ll never let anyone talk to you like that again. From here on, you’re my woman.”
“For real?” she asks, her voice oddly soft.
“Forever,” I breathe, and then press my lips hard against hers.
Talk to my woman like shit? My woman!
My woman!
It feels good to call Hope that again.
I walk into Berelli’s Gourmet at ten o’clock in the morning, a few minutes after Lucca walks in.
The kid at the bar—Willy?—nods to me. “Hello, how can I help?”
“Here to see your boss, kid,” I grunt.
I walk into the kitchen, through it, and into the back office, which Hope told me was where Lucca hangs out most of the day. When he isn’t perving on his staff. Or shouting at people.
When I barge into the office, Lucca leaps up from his chair. “What the hell do you think—” Then he sees that it’s me, and the words die on his lips. He begins to shiver and shake his head. “I thought you were done with that—”
“That what?” I say casually. “Go on, finish.”
I reach into my jacket pocket and take out my gun. When I point it at him, he pisses himself. A line of urine shows clearly through his brown khaki pants.
“Nothing,” he whispers. “I wasn’t going to say—nothing.”
“Listen,” I yawn, keeping the gun pointed at him. “I’ve warned you once, haven’t I? I told you. Stop shouting at my fucking woman. Men like you . . . man, what do think you are? Do you think these women give a fuck about you? You’re a goddamn pervert.” I shake my head. Lucca stares at the barrel of the gun in terror.
“From now on, you don’t have a cock, got that? If I hear one more whisper about you touching any woman who works for you, I won’t come alone next time. You know Gunny, the Remington brothers, what about my brother, Patrick? None of them are very fond of perverts. Oh, and I need to make sure you get the message.”
I jump across the table and smash the grip of the gun into his nose. Blood sprays across the desk.