Chapter Twenty-Nine
Roxanna
“Visitors.”
My mother’s voice is hollow, weak, a monotone that breaks my heart to pieces to hear. Though she calls out about our guests, she doesn’t move to get the door.
Each day, she gets a little worse.
Every child at some point comes to grips with the fact that, eventually, they’re going to be their parent’s caretakers. I’d always imagined that day to be decades away, something that I’d see coming, presaged by doctor’s visits, diagnoses, retirement parties.
It’s not supposed to be like this.
“I’ll get it,” I say to the empty air — she’s already shuffled back to her room.
I’m quick to get up from my spot on the couch, and I set my laptop on the coffee table. I run to the front door.
I want some kind of distraction. I’ve hardly gone out, except for the couple times Maria’s dropped by to drag me — kicking and screaming — out to get food or coffee or the one time we went to see a movie.
My days fill themselves with the endless struggle to set my father’s affairs in order, figuring out my mom’s finances, looking for lawyers and feeling like shit about it because I’m helping with the defense of a man I know to be guilty and reminding myself that I’m only doing it for my mother.
I open the door.
My heart hitches in my chest.
Nash.
The man I want to see more than anyone else.
The man I know I shouldn’t be seeing right now.
He’s haggard, but looking miles better than the last time I saw him. Wearing his cut, a plain t-shirt and jeans, with his hands behind his back, relaxed, comfortable. He’s still a bear of a man — big, muscular, and he’s got several days worth of stubble on his face.
He smiles.
I smile.
“Hey, Houdini,” he says. I don’t even flinch at the nickname though I still hate it. His voice is warm, deep, comforting.
“Hey,” I say and I can’t help myself — I step forward and hug him so tight he grunts. He’s so solid, and the sensation of my body is a balm for my damaged heart.
I hate that I can’t have him.
I hate that this man will only bring more complications and violence to my fucked-up life.
“Easy,” he says, though he makes no movement to loosen my grip around him. “Any tighter and you’ll put me back in the hospital.”
“Shut up. Just let me have this moment, ok?”
“I missed you, too,” he says.
“I’m amazed they let you out so soon,” I say, letting go of him and standing back from him a bit. As good as it feels to see him, to be near him, I still can’t forget that just a week ago, he was ready to murder whoever he felt threatened his family. Including my father.
He smiles sheepishly. “I’m not out just yet. I’ll still be there a few more nights for observation. I couldn’t wait to see you and the doc finally gave me clearance to take an actual shower. It was fucking incredible – I stood in there for nearly an hour. So, I thought what better way to celebrate my freedom than to come see you.”
“I’m honored.”
“I’m relieved,” he says, his grin going crooked. “It was five days in a row of sponge baths from a nurse named Bruce. He was a good guy and all, but a few more of those and I’d have to take him out for dinner.”
“Looks like you dodged a bullet, there.”
“Too bad I couldn’t have done that a week ago,” he says, then, shaking his head, he continues on. “There’s a lot that you and I still need to talk about, you know.”
“That’s an understatement,” I say, glancing down for a second before I look him in the eyes. “Be honest with me, Nash, how many people were you prepared to kill?”
“When have I not been honest with you? I don’t lie to people I care about. I don’t expect you to understand right away everything about this life, Roxy. But, every option is on the table when it comes to protecting my family,” he says, his eyes bright, shining with the same intensity that ripples through his voice.
“I know,” I say. I pause. My throat constricts. The words don’t want to come out, no matter how much I know I have to say them. “And that’s why you need to leave.”
He shuts his eyes and pulls in a deep sigh. When they open, they shine bright with emotion. “When I was laid up, I had a lot of time to think. Most of that time, I focused on two things: how good it’s going to feel to finally hold my daughter. And how I owe it all to you,” he says. There’s a second’s pause, his brow furrows and a storm of emotions — affection, sadness, regret, love — swirl across his face. “I owe you more than you’ll ever know.”
“I’m glad I could help. I mean it. You deserve the chance to be a dad, and I know you’ll be a good one. But I still can’t stay. I can’t live this kind of life.”
“I knew there was a good chance you’d tell me to fuck off. But I also knew that, if I didn’t come here to say thank you, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. I never expected I’d have this kind of love in my life. There’s just one thing I need to do before I go.”
He kisses me.
It’s disarmingly gentle at first. Slow, heartfelt, tender in a way that’s so wholly foreign that it feels like I’m kissing a different man.
The shock of it makes me open my eyes while our lips are together. Scars and careworn creases, reminders of the hard life he lives, line his face. His eyes open for a second, meeting mine, and something burns in the look he gives me. Sincerity. Love.
The heat in his eyes melts me.
What harm can there be in one last kiss?
I let the kiss go on, on until my heart is racing, on until my hands are wandering up his powerful, leather-clad back, on until every part of me is crying out for more than a kiss.
I’m going to miss this.
For the rest of my life, there will be moments where I look back on this man and my heart will twist into unfathomably painful knots at the slightest reminder of how he makes me feel.
Gently, I place my hands on his chest, push him away, create some distance between us.
It hurts.
“Can you do one last thing for me?” he says.
“What’s that?”
“Let me buy you a drink.”
I know I shouldn’t. Every sensible part of me is telling me to say no, to end it right here. But there’s a look in his eyes and there’s something in his smile that captivates me more than any zip tie ever could.
“One last drink.”
He smiles again and I take his hand.
* * * * *
“An ice cream parlor? What are we doing here?”
My breath puffs in the air outside this tiny corner store in a suburb of Tacoma. It’s not ice cream weather. I can’t keep the confusion out of my voice, and Nash looks down at me with a smile.
“Getting drinks. You were expecting something else?” he says, opening the door for me.
There’s no one inside.
“When you said drink, I thought you meant like a beer or a cocktail or something. Not a milkshake.”
“It’s eleven in the morning.”
“And? Does the manly biker suddenly not want to drink in the morning?”
“I want a drink like you wouldn’t believe. But with the meds I’m on, I can’t. Not unless I want to die,” he says, turning to look out the window expectantly. “Besides, we had to come here.”
“Had to?”
He smiles, his eyes light up and he stands up straight. “Because today’s an important day. I wasn’t totally honest with you earlier about bringing you here. I had something planned.”
Two people come into clear view through the window. One, an older woman, dressed conservatively in a pair of dark pants, a dark blouse, and a light jacket. And the other, a young girl. She’s wearing a flowing, billowy tutu dress, like the kind that only little girls can get away with. It’s dark blue, with a design of a hummingbird and a rose in beads on it. Her brown hair’s done up in messy pigtails and her smile shines like the sun.
The two of them stop just inside the door, the little girl standing with her hands behind her back, suddenly shy in the way only kids can be when meeting someone new.
“Nash?” I say, warily, realization dawning on me.
“Yeah?”
“Is that Abigail?”
He nods.
“I told her all about you. That you were the reason I’m even in her life. She wanted to meet you,” he says, leaving my side to kneel in front of his daughter. His voice is so different — warm, loving, content.
He wraps her in his arms, and she looks at me over his shoulder through half-shut eyes.
I know this is an ambush. I’m trapped. Captivated by an adorable child and her loving father. Even if I could, I wouldn’t leave.
I step forward slowly. My heart fluttering in my chest and my stomach tying itself in knot after knot. I kneel down next to Nash, and Abigail.
“Hi,” she says and she does a little wave with her left hand.
“Hi Abigail. I’m Roxanna,” I say, feeling totally at a loss. “I’m a friend of your dad’s.”
“I know,” she says. Then, Abigail reaches out and places her little hands around my arm and squeezes. “Your arms are a lot smaller than my dad’s.”
I nod, confused. “Yes. They are.”
“He said you were really strong.”
Nash winks at me. “She is. The strongest woman I’ve ever known.”
“But she has small arms, dad,” Abigail says, still squeezing me. “How can she be strong if her arms are so little?”
“They are small, but she could still kick your dad’s ass,” he says.
“Language,” the older woman — who has to be the court-appointed chaperone — snaps. But there’s a hint of a smile pulling at her lips.
“She can?” Abigail says.
He nods. “That’s right. And she’s really good at magic tricks, too. She can get out of any trap, any handcuffs, and even if you tie her up.”
The chaperone gives me a knowing look that makes me blush.
“That’s right,” I say, proud. My pride’s partly for Abigail, and partly to wipe the look off the chaperone’s judgmental face. “Even if you don’t have big arms, as long as you’re smart and are work really hard, you can still be strong. Like Wendy in Bob the Builder. She isn’t very big, but she can build houses and move big rocks just as good as Bob or anyone else, because she is smart enough to figure out a way.”
“That’s right,” Nash says, ruffling his daughter’s hair. “You can do a lot just by being smart.”
“In fact,” I add, with a wink for Nash. “Bob would be lost without Wendy to figure things out for him.”
Nash gives me a look. “I don’t think that’s true. Bob’s a great builder. It’s in his freaking name.”
“No, seriously, it’s true. Bob forgets how to use his phone. His phone,” I say.
“She’s right, dad. Bob is super dumb sometimes,” Abigail says.
“It looks like it’s two on one here. I guess I’m overruled,” he says.
“Make that three on one,” the chaperone chimes in. “Bob’s often a knob. And he’s way too nice to that weird scarecrow.”
“You like Bob the Builder, too?” Abigail, Nash, and I practically say in unison.
“Of course. I’m not an idiot.”
Maybe this chaperone’s not so bad.
Nash perks up like he might’ve found a new friend. It’s kind of cute.
“What about music? Name three of your favorite artists.”
The woman doesn’t even hesitate. “The Scorpions. Dokken. And, I’ll confess to occasionally jamming to some Bob Dylan.”
Nash reaches out, squeezes my arm, and just stares at the woman. I suppress a laugh as a cough.
“I think we’re all going to get along great, even if you’re wrong about Bob,” he says. “Let’s have some ice cream.”
The four of us settle in at a table — Abigail and Nash on one side, the chaperone and I on another. I get a coffee and sip it and watch while Nash feeds his daughter a sundae that’s ninety-percent whipped cream and hot fudge. Most of it gets on Abigail’s face, some of it from Nash dabbing a cream-covered fingertip against his daughter’s nose, and some from Abigail nearly burying her face in the sundae.
We settle in, and we talk.
And every passing moment, I’m amazed at the man sitting across from me — a family man, a loving father, a man I realize I only got a glimpse of until today. In a twisted way, the kind of life he’s going to have — surrounded by loved ones, with a loving daughter — is the kind of life I’ve always dreamed of having for myself.
He’s shown it to me, and now, I’m going to have to find the strength to walk away. It cuts me to my heart.
I’m trapped.
I’m trapped, and, though I know if I think about it I could figure a way out, my heart won’t let me.
I want this.
I want to be surrounded by people I love, people I can share my life with. And, despite everything that’s gone on between us, the fighting, the conflict, Nash is still here, still extending an invitation.
All I have to do is take it.
* * * * *
The visit ends with a kiss on Abigail’s cheek, a promise to see her again as soon as I can, and Nash and I walking hand-in-hand back to his old pickup truck, the same one he abducted me with weeks ago.
“She’s beautiful,” I say to him. “You have a lovely daughter.”
“I’m lucky as hell. I don’t know where she gets it from — she didn’t inherit it from me or her mother.”
I shake my head. “That isn’t true. I think she gets it from her dad.”
“Think what you want. Maybe she brings things out in me that weren’t there before,” he says. “All I know is I want to give her the best that I can. I’ve seen what there is to lose, and there’s no way I’m letting that happen.”
Turning the key, he starts up the truck and gets us back on the road. There’s this sense of finality between us as we get closer to my home that, though its what my brain tells me is best, still makes me uneasy.
“That was a cruel trick, you know.”
“What trick?”
“Showing me your daughter. Rubbing my nose in it.”
“I’m not doing a damn thing like that. This was about showing you what you helped make happen. I wanted to thank you.”
It stings in ways I can’t fathom, my heart is alive with agony.
“She’s cute now, and she looks up to you. What happens when she asks what you do for a living?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I tell her the truth. I tell her her father makes mistakes sometimes, her father crosses the law sometimes, because he had to protect his family from people that want to hurt them. When she’s older and if she wants to know more, I’ll tell her everything.”
“Everything?”
“She’s family. Of course I’ll tell her. When you lie to the people you care about, when you build some double fucking life, that’s when the people you love really get hurt.”
He’s not wrong in that. I look down, pull in a shaky sigh. Staring at a spot on the dash, I say: “what do you want from me?”
“You. Just you.”
I still can’t look at him. But with the tears brimming in my eyes, I could hardly see him, anyway. Part of me leaps at hearing those words from him, overjoyed at the prospect of building a life surrounded by loved ones; part of me is too scared for words, frightened by the violence and darkness that’s such an integral part of his life.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“I know it’s not going to be easy. Nothing that’s worth it ever is. All I can do is tell you the truth: I will never lie to you; I will always be me, and I will always want you for being you,” he says. “There are two people that mean more to me than anyone else: her, and you. And I’m going to be a greedy son of a bitch and say I want you both in my life.”
“Still, Nash, there’s so much about your life that scares the hell out of me.”
“I know. But the two of you sure as hell give me motivation to be as good a man as I can. It’s going to be complicated, and it sure as hell is going to have some danger, but I’ve got every reason to try. For her. For you.”
My heart warms, but doubt burns inside me with an overwhelming intensity. Can I take this risk? Can I deal with the consequences? Can I give up my life in Chicago for a life in Stony Shores, surrounded by family, by love, but knowing the tumultuously violent currents threatening to pull us under?
I raise my gaze and look at him, and nothing on earth could keep the swell of emotions from dripping down my cheeks. “I can’t even imagine how we’d do this. My life is so fucked up right now. Your life is so fucked up right now,” I say, my voice surging with pain.
“We’ll figure it out.”
I want to reach out, to seize what he’s offering, but it feels like doing so would just make things worse. “What would I do about my job? My life back in Chicago? If I lose that, I’ll be giving up so much. What the hell are we even talking about — this is so fucking foolish I should be embarrassed.”
He rips the wheel to the side, slamming the breaks and bringing the truck to a jarring halt. Whipping around, he looks at me, eyes blazing.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he says, his voice a simmering growl. “The woman sitting next to me uncovered corruption between a drug gang, the sheriffs department, and a fucking judge. She’s the kind of woman I’d be over the fucking moon to have my daughter model herself after. What is it you specialize in? White collar crime?”
“Forensic accounting,” I say quietly.
“Now, I’m just a dumb fucking biker and an ex jarhead, but, as I see it, you’ve punched your fucking ticket. You’re brilliant. Any firm in the country would get a goddamned hardon at hiring the fucking intern who uncovered the kind of shit you have. Go ahead and have your doubts about anything else, but I won’t ever let you doubt how fucking smart and capable you are.”
My throat constricts. I squeeze his arm, and that squeeze turns into a hug, and that hug into a fervent kiss. His lips taste like chocolate ice cream, and his scent — spice and light sweat and engine grease, the smell of hard work with his hands. My resistance melts.
Fucking hell, this man overwhelms me.
“You’re a bastard, you know that?” I whisper against his cheek. “You’re an evil, captivating bastard, and I think I love you.”
“I think I love you, too.”
He kisses me, but it’s awkward as hell because we’re both smiling so hard we can barely purse our lips. This is the first time in days I’ve smiled and really, truly, meant it. If this man can make me smile and feel the way I do about us, and about myself, while things are this dark and screwed up, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I don’t give him a chance.
“I need to tell you something,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“It’s about the stuff your club was bringing in. I know where it’s at. My father has a cabin out near Mount Rainier.”
He stops me with a kiss. “I appreciate it, but there’s time for that later, Houdini.”
I kiss his cheek and bring my lips to his ear. “If I don’t escape this time, you can’t really go on calling me ‘Houdini’ anymore, can you?”
He sits back, eying me. “Fat fucking chance. That’s your nickname. That’s how the club knows you. It’s set in stone. It can’t be changed.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding. You don’t get to pick your own nickname. Do you think I like being called ‘Bear’ all the time? Do I look like I have a grizzly fetish?”
“Yes, actually, you do.”
“You’re right. I do. Because bears are fucking awesome, and I put a lot of work into growing that beard and earning my nickname.”
“So how does that help me? How am I supposed to be proud about being named after some creepy Hungarian man?”
He shrugs. “Maybe you can redeem it. Make it sexy. Then, when people around here think about Houdini, they won’t think about some weaselly, dead-eyed creep with weird hair and a bondage fetish, instead, they’ll think about some beautiful, brown-haired woman. Also, hopefully, with a bondage fetish.”
I roll my eyes. “Hinting at something?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, smiling. “Still thinking about leaving, Houdini?”
“Fuck you,” I say. “And, no.”
He kisses me again, and with his free hand, he opens the glove compartment. Zip ties, dozens of them, spill out onto the floor. “Good,” he growls. “Because I came prepared.”
Laughing, I gently bite his ear and, reaching down, I snatch one up and hand it over. “If you went through the trouble of getting them, well, it seems a shame to let them go to waste.”
“Right here?” he says, his eyes lighting up.
“Right here.”
“Be still my fucking heart.”
“Hurry up before I change my mind.”
The plastic zips tight around my wrists, binding me. Another locks my hands to the door. Leaning in, he nibbles my neck and brings his lips to my ear. “I was wrong earlier — I don’t just think I love you, I know it.”