Chapter 11
Esme was drunk.
It felt amazing.
All damn day she’d been overloaded with memories; weighed down by the heavy pressure of her dead husband as he haunted her from afar.
She’d searched for him around every corner today; every step she took, she listened for his footsteps. Rayna knew that she was doing it, and she hadn't said a word.
She’d let Esme deal with her turbulent emotions in her own way, and while it wasn't the healthiest, she didn't feel as if she were caught in a riptide anymore.
No, now she felt like she was floating.
She felt weightless, as she wandered across the great room of the clubhouse towards the jukebox in the corner.
She told herself she wouldn't pick a song that reminded herself of Chris.
Esmeralda promised herself she’d pick a good song, a happy song.
Until she saw a familiar title written in faded ink; then it was like her fingers had a mind of their own as she pressed the keys accordingly, inhaling sharply when the heady melody met her ears…
My ming is raging, my body is shaking, yet I am all alone.
I can hear your voice, and the lights are on, but there’s nobody home…
The words pierced through her armor like the blade of claymore.
Esme fought to breathe as the lyrics nestled into her ears and spread to her heart like wildfire.
I still hold on to what we had, before you let me down.
I can still see your reflection on the water, where you let me drown…
Amongst the laughter echoing all around her, and the plumes of smoke clouding the air, she caught a glimpse of Prettyboy watching her.
Instead of meeting his gaze head on like she’d done all day, she turned back to face the jukebox as more familiar words met her ears.
There’s a war going on inside my head-
Outside I’m alive, but on the battleground I’m already dead.
The words were like a sandy balm to her bruised soul as she stepped away from the jukebox.
Why did I do this to myself?
Why?
Esme tried to convince herself that she was okay. She told herself that if she just took a deep breath, she’d make it.
I cant handle it.
Her feet were moving before she could stop them, and sure enough, she was sprinting towards the exit sign above the front doors before she could stop herself.
The room was closing in on her; surely everyone else was too busy partying to realize she was gone, and even if they did realize it, she doubted anyone would come after her.
She just needed a little space.
A little time.
The silhouette of my reflection says I’m still here.
But on that bloody battleground, I start to disappear.
Who are we, and what have we done?
Our souls are nothing but ashes, scattered beneath the sun.
I’m haunted by the ghost of you…
The ghost of you…
The song had her shakily inhaling the crisp nicotine from a cigarette given to her by none other than Green, and even that didn't make her feel any better.
Esme was pretty sure she was going to cry.
The night sky overhead was nothing but a blanket of brilliant sparkling stars that captivated and destroyed her at the same time.
Is that where heaven is?
Is that where Chris is supposed to be?
Esme kept walking until she was face to face with a giant octagon. She recognized it, knew it was where Axel and Fury fought for sport.
She’d seen a few fights in her day, but none lately.
As she smoked, as she cleared her head, as she looked up at the stars again, she heard footsteps behind her.
Esme didn't say a word as she recognized the shuffle that belonged to none other than Prettyboy.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” She finally whispered.
“Are you okay?”
She glanced at him, at that black bandana that hid half of his face from her.
His eyes were as intriguing as ever.
“Do you honestly care about the answer to that question?,” She wondered.
He seemed taken aback by her question.
“Yes.”
She nodded as she dropped her cigarette onto the ground between them.
Esme took a couple of steps closer to Prettyboy, until they were almost chest to chest. She had to look up to see his face, but she didn't mind.
“Why would you care if you don't like me?”
Prettyboy’s forehead wrinkled in confusion.
“Who said I didn't like you?”
Esme shrugged.
“You haven't been very nice to me, Prettyboy.”
He dipped his head closer to hers, his warm breath almost meeting her lips through the stupid bandana covering his mouth.
She wanted to see the rest of his face so badly she could feel her fingers twitching in her pockets.
“I’m not nice in general.”
She tsked, her tongue meeting her teeth.
“See, I don’t believe that. You’ve shown me how kind you can be twice now, but every time I try to return the favor you shut me down. Why is that?”
Prettyboy canted his head to the side as he looked down at her.
He lifted one hand slowly, his fingers tugging on a few strands of her curly hair.
She watched the midnight tresses as he worked them between his calloused fingers; was it okay that he was touching her like that?
Should she tell him to stop?
Even though she knew that she’d more than likely regret it in the morning, she didn't tell him to stop.
Instead, she stepped even closer to him.
“Why won’t you be my friend?,” She asked.
Prettyboy’s gaze met hers.
“I don't make a very good friend.”
Esme could see some of his scars peeking just above the collar of his red t-shirt, and she was beyond tempted to pull it down so she could see the damage.
“You haven't even tried to be my friend,” She pointed out.
Prettyboy only nodded.
Esme sighed, her breath lingering between them.
“You still haven't answered my question.”
She found herself smiling as she looked up at him.
“You still haven't answered mine,” She argued.
Prettyboy looked like he was smiling, but she couldn't tell for sure.
“Are you sassin’ me, Esmeralda Quinn?,” His husky voice asked.
Something about the way he asked the question had her insides clenching.
He’s a good man, darlin’.
Those words scrolled through her head again, only this time they were said in her own voice.
Prettyboy was still watching her, still waiting for an answer.
“Are you a good man, Prettyboy?”
Something flickered in his eyes before he slowly shook his head.
Esme was startled to see that one of her own hands was slowly gliding upwards, running smoothly across his abdomen; her tanned skin looked pale under the bright light of the moon. Mentally, she was screaming at herself to stop touching him, but in her drunken state, all of her inhibitions were lowered.
Her walls were down, leaving her open and vulnerable.
“I have it on good authority that you are.”
Prettyboy seemed to be as caught up in the moment as she was when her fingers traced along the edges of his cut.
He dropped her hair and pulled her hand away from his cut.
“You’re drunk.”
“Yeah, I am. But, that doesn't change a thing,” She muttered.
Prettyboy didn't let go of her hand.
“Do you want it to?”
“Want it to what?,” She asked breathily as she looked up at him again.
“Do you want things to change?”
Esme wasn't sure what he was referring to; her current situation or the unsettling reality that was her life as whole.
“I want to be happy again,” She admitted.
The words felt like a secret, like a hidden desire, but Prettyboy didn't mock her for admitting such a thing.
Instead, he told her, “Me too.”
Esme stepped closer to him, so close that their hands were all but stuck between them.
“If I ask you to let me see your face, will you show me?”
Prettyboy stiffened, but she kept him from pulling away when she wrapped her free hand up in the hem of his t-shirt.
“I’ll share something with you that I haven't told anyone else. A secret for a secret.”
Prettyboy didn't say anything, so Esme figured that was his own version of agreement.
“The day that Chris died, I was busy with the last minute packing. We’d been up the night before planning for our honeymoon. I was exhausted,” She said.
Even saying the words out loud made her tremble, but Prettyboy surprised the hell out of her when he wrapped an arm around her waist, steadying her.
“I was- I mean, he told me to get my rest. We were supposed to leave that night, and he wanted me alert while we were riding. So, I cuddled his pillow and fell asleep. I fucking slept through my own husband’s death…shouldn’t I have known? Shouldn't I have felt it when he died, Prettyboy?”
“I don’t think it works like that, sweetheart.”
She wasn't looking in his eyes, she couldn’t; instead she familiarized herself with the logo on his t-shirt.
“When Axel delivered the news, I was just getting out of bed. I was just finishing up the packing when he came into my room and told me that Chris was gone. Just…gone.”
Even though Esme knew she shouldn't do it, she found herself leaning into Prettyboy, their fingers interlocked between them.
“You can’t blame yourself for that, Esme. There was no way you could have known.”
“I shouldn't have let him go into town alone. I knew the roads were slick from the rain.”
“That’s bullshit. Wilder was an experienced rider. He knew what he was doing. There was no way anyone could have foreseen his accident,” Prettyboy said gruffly.
Esme looked up at him, her eyes wet with tears.
“If I cry, will it make you mad?”
“You’re already crying, and I’m not mad.”
She sniffed and closed her eyes when he gently reached up to wipe away the slick tears rolling down her cheek.
“Will you let me see your scars?,” She whispered shakily.
“I don’t think so.”
“It would be the friendly thing to do,” She said as she opened her eyes.
His eyes were intense as they bathed her in their glow.
“Please?”
Prettyboy sighed deeply.
“Close your eyes,” He ordered.
Confused, Esme closed her eyes.
“Keep them closed and give me your hands,” He said.
Esme lifted her hands until she felt his warm palms along the backs of them.
She heard a slight rustle before she felt his warm breath against her palms. Goosebumps broke out across her flesh as she felt the thick hair of what was obviously a shortly trimmed beard.
The bristly hairs tickled as she cupped his cheeks in her hands.
“Keep your eyes closed, sweetheart.”
She did as he asked because she didn't want to stop touching him.
Esme wanted to keep feeling him beneath her fingertips and she wasn't sure which part scared her more; the fact that every part of Prettyboy was slowly invading all of her senses, or the fact that she liked it.
Her slim fingers met the puckered skin he was so terrified for her to see; she could feel the rough edges of it as she felt her way down his cheek, chin, and eventually towards the column of his neck.
“Can I ask you something?,” She whispered.
“What’s that?,” He asked, his raspy voice caressing her eardrums like a bittersweet tune.
“Are you as handsome as you feel?”
“I’ll tell you a secret Esmeralda Quinn, but you have to keep your eyes closed,” Prettyboy whispered.
Esme worked her thumbs along the underside of his chin, her eyes still closed, her heart thundering wildly against her ribcage.
“Okay,” She said.
“I don’t think I want to be your friend.”
Esme couldn't explain why, didn't even want to bother wondering, why his words hurt so much.
“Oh,” She tried to pull away, but Prettyboy kept her hands against his ruined skin.
In fact, he pressed his body against hers when he finally, finally whispered his secret.
“I want to be more than your friend,” He whispered sweetly.
Esme knew it was probably her drunken mind playing tricks on her, but she could almost imagine him leaning in to kiss her when she felt his breath flow across her bottom lip.
“You do?”
“Yeah, I do. But, now I think it’s time we say goodnight.”
He pulled her hands away from his face and she heard that bandana fall back into place before he told her she could open her eyes.
When her blue eyes met his green ones, she smiled.
“Goodnight, Prettyboy.”
He lifted one of her hands into his, shocking her into silence when he kissed the back of it through the thin material of his bandana.
“Goodnight, Esme.”