The agony in his voice wrapped around me like sad, tearful mist.
“Oh, Art.” I couldn’t stand him hurting like this. Despite my bruised body and my killer headache, I shoved aside the blanket and wrapped my arms around the back of his seat, stroking his shoulders.
He reclined, folding himself into my embrace. His back rested against the beige leather, and he sighed heavily as my arms locked around his chest, holding him tight. “I’m going to say this once and only once, so pay attention.” I kissed the shell of his ear. “That night won’t change how I feel about you. I give you my ultimate promise. But I understand your need to wait to talk about it.”
He went deathly still. “You … you remembered?”
I hugged him harder. “I told you. All of it.”
He twisted out of my embrace, turning to face me with wide, incredulous eyes. “You’re telling me you remember me shooting your mother and father point blank, yet you still love me?” He shook his head. “Are you insane as well as amnesic?”
God, give me patience with this man.
I wanted to scream at him but we were both too tender and sore for another battle. Instead, I took the calm road and kept my voice even and soothing. “You didn’t kill them.”
“I pulled the trigger.”
“You weren’t yourself.”
Leaning forward so his nose almost touched mine, he seethed, “They’re dead because of me.”
I balled my hands. “They’re dead because of Rubix!”
My outburst stopped him long enough for me to spill the horrific memories of that night. Screw waiting. Screw his ideals. “Yes, you pulled the trigger. Yes, you were the one my parents saw the moment they died, but they knew as well as I did that it wasn’t you!”
“What do you mean it wasn’t me?” Arthur roared. His temper blazed as vibrant as the fire behind us. His features were harsh and brutal from his awful concussion.
My mouth parted. “You honestly don’t know, do you?”
He snorted. “I know just fine. I remember the weight of the gun in my hand. I remember the stink of gasoline. I remember the soundless bullet as it tore through your parents’ hearts. Don’t tell me I don’t know, Cleo, because I know too fucking well!”
His chest pumped, sweat shone on his upper lip and brow, and the sounds of sirens were no longer on the horizon but just around the corner.
“We need to leave,” I said softly. “There are two sides to every tale and you’re remembering the wrong one.”
For the longest moment, I worried he would ignore me and continue fighting. I doubted he had the strength to argue much longer or wish to be here when the fire brigade came screeching around the corner. But at the last second, he clenched his jaw and turned away from me.
Throwing the car into gear, he stomped on the accelerator; we tore away in a spray of gravel and soot.
I pursed my lips as I slid recklessly on the slippery leather, knocking already bruised elbows against the door. I didn’t protest. In a way, we weren’t just escaping the scene of an arson, but also running from a past that’d scarred both of us.
The sooner we were on neutral ground the better.
Keeping my eyes trained on the road, the only scenery illuminated was the golden strip from the headlights. The rest of the night was a blur of blackness.
Arthur didn’t speak as he took a left at the bottom of the gravel road and sped away just as the red and blue lights of help appeared from the right.
The car purred, chewing up ground faster and faster until my heart wedged itself in my throat. A few minutes passed before I squeaked, “Arthur, they’re far behind us. We’re safe. Can you … eh … can you slow down, please?”
He kept his eyes locked in front, but obeyed. The speed went from bullet to racecar, still too fast for my liking but an improvement nevertheless.
“You okay?” I asked. For some reason, I couldn’t shake the fear that no matter his assurances, he wasn’t okay. Something was wrong. Yet again, he was hiding. And yet again, I was lost.
“I’m fine. Stop asking that.”
I stiffened. Just because I couldn’t voice them didn’t mean my questions stopped. They kept me company as we drove in silence for a while. Finally, after miles were between us and the remains of Dagger Rose, I couldn’t stand the noiselessness any longer.
I carefully chose a topic that wouldn’t lead to an argument. “What exactly are you wearing by the way?”
The random question of his awful sweatpants and shirt made him laugh, cracking the tension. “It was this or a hospital gown with my ass hanging out. Be grateful it’s this.” He cast me a look in the mirror. He looked terrible. Feverish and white.
My heart tripped. “I want to know the full story of why you were in the hospital, but I’ll wait. However, I do need to know if you should be driving with a concussion.”
He looked away. “Probably not.”
I shuffled forward, reaching for him again, but he twisted in his seat and slammed his palm against my thigh. “Stay there. If I’m concussed, so are you. We both have pretty lumps and until you’ve been checked out, I don’t want you moving.” His voice turned bossy. “In fact, lie down. I don’t want you sitting up, especially without a seat belt.” He added deathly quiet, “Especially as I can barely see the road.”
“What was that?”
His skin stretched over his aristocratic cheekbones. “Nothing. Buckle up.”
Ideally what I wanted to do was crawl into the front seat so I could watch him closely, but Arthur’s fingers tightened around my leg. “Buttercup … do it.”
Huffing, I slid sideways. Once I was settled, he took his hand off my leg and placed it back on the wheel.
“Happy?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I won’t be happy until the shit inside my skull is sorted and I know you’re okay. Seeing you covered in blood is driving me insane.” His eyes flickered to mine, then back to the road. “You sure they didn’t cut you. You’re not bleeding anywhere?”
I smiled softly, loving his concern for me. His protectiveness. “Yes, I’m fine. Just the head bump.” He didn’t need to know what else his father did. I wasn’t raped—thank God—but the violation of his touch between my legs was a distant echo that I doubted a shower could wash away.
I didn’t know if it was shock keeping the past events from consuming me or the knowledge that Rubix would never have another chance to lay a hand on me—either way, Rubix had screwed up and it would cost him his life. There was no other path for him and I meant to be there when it ended.
Arthur will kill him. And we’ll both be safe.
My attention zeroed in on his injury. He had to get better and quickly. I had no intention of us ever being apart again. No wound or disease could deny us a happy future.
I won’t let it.
It was his responsibility to protect me and look after himself, just like it was mine to tend to him and love him unconditionally.
“We should go back to the hospital. I think you need to be seen by another doctor, Art.” I tucked my arms beneath my makeshift clothing. “You’re hiding something from me. You’re not as well as you say you are. And I won’t let you hurt when you can get help.”
His nostrils flared. “Always so damn nosy and bossy.” He narrowed his eyes. “Hospitals are public places. Anyone can get to us there. I agree, I need another doctor—we both do. But I’m not going to the hospital.”
“What are we going to do, then?”
“I’ll get the hospital to come to us.”
“Ah, yes. Money can do that.”
He scowled. “You come from wealth, so I don’t know why you’re suddenly uncomfortable with it.”
That’s true.
Why bicker about something so useless? Was it because of what he planned to do with his money? Or deeper distrust that wealth couldn’t buy happiness?
Arthur asked, “Was your family in England poor?”
I paused, my mind skipping back to the
movie nights with fish and chip takeaways and the occasional treat at Corrine’s favorite Indian restaurant. “No, my foster parents weren’t poor. They drove midrange cars and worked in clerical jobs. I was comfortable in their home and what they lacked in monetary wealth they made up for in love.” I smiled, thinking how lucky I was to be cared for by a family who didn’t mind I couldn’t remember and who put up with my years of quiet sadness. They’d been exactly what I needed and Corrine … she was the sister I’d never had.
A pang of misery hit me hard. I missed them just as much as I missed my biological parents. And I missed Corrine a ton. I missed our chats. I missed the studio apartment we shared.
“You loved them,” Arthur whispered. “I can tell.”
I met his eyes in the mirror. “They were all I had. They put up with me sullen and uncommunicative. They healed me even when my mind remained broken.”
They were good people.
I wanted to see them again—to tell them how much I appreciated what they’d done for me—to show them how happy I was now that I remembered.
I gasped. Oh, my God. “We could go to England after this. Go and see them. I’d love to introduce you and tell them I remember.”
Corrine would finally understand why I had a thing for green-eyed heroes in movies. I could show them my past and bring them fully into my future.
Arthur snorted. “You think they’ll still look at you the same way when you say you’re the daughter of a biker president and dating the man who murdered your parents? You think they’ll welcome me into their house?” Looking at the ceiling, he laughed. “Like that’s going to fucking happen.”
“Stop being so pessimistic.”
And I’m not dating you. Dating was temporary. What we had was permanent. As permanent as ink on skin or fossils in stone.
Arthur growled, “I’m being a realist.”
A slither of panic worked down my spine. Arthur was hot tempered … but never this argumentative. I couldn’t seem to say a thing without him jumping down my throat.
Is it his concussion? Did people suffer mood swings from a head injury?
Silence settled like dusting snowflakes as we sped down the motorway, following the long journey back home.
Arthur threw the car into fifth gear, then activated cruise control. His large hands held the steering wheel as he glanced at me in the mirror again. “I’m sorry.”
I tensed. “It’s not just a concussion you’re suffering … is it?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his eyes. “I’ll tell you. Just … let’s get home first, okay?” A shadow cast over his face.
“You do know the only way this will work is if we have complete honesty between us?” I didn’t shout. He needed to hear how serious I was without volume.
He froze. In a single breath, he switched from angry and invincible to deflated and terrified. “I know.” His eyes met mine. “If you can find some way to stay with me after what I did, I promise I’ll make it up to you. Give me a chance … to make this right. To give you more. To give you so much fucking more than I have.”
Once again that panic of him keeping secrets swarmed me.
“You don’t owe me any more than you’ve already given. And I’m not going anywhere. How many times do I need to tell you that?”
He sighed wearily. “For so long I’ve been driven by an obsession. To create more wealth. To create more power. Only those with more than others can ever hope to win. But now that you’re back in my life—the obsession is even worse. Instead of being satisfied, I feel as if I don’t fucking deserve you unless I continue to gather more of everything.”
His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. The motorway was a blur of lights and concrete. “I never wanted to go to war. But sometimes we have to become something we hate in order to get what we want.”
My brain hurt. What does he mean now? There should be a warning about falling in love with geniuses. Riddles to him were conversation. Equations and patterns were punctuation.
I wanted simple—if only to unscramble the puzzlement of the past.
Reaching behind his seat, he stroked my thigh still swaddled in the blankets. “You’re my more, Cleo. But it’s still not enough. It won’t be enough until the end.”
Chapter Ten
Kill
I was going to hell.
I knew that now. She’d turned thirteen last week. I’d told myself she was old enough to be accountable for all the frustration and need building inside of me. I’d believed my own rationalizing that she was mature enough to know what she offered.
So … I’d kissed her. I’d stolen her first kiss on a swing in the park. And again when we’d arrived home.
I’d taken her behind the Clubhouse and stuck my tongue down her throat. And fuck if it wasn’t the best thing in my entire life. —Kill, age sixteen
Home.
Nothing in the world could beat the welcoming embrace of safety and sanctuary.
The gates around my property rolled open and the smooth Merc needed only the gentlest coaxing to slide into the awaiting garage. The car fit perfectly with the black Mustang and Land Rover. It was as if the last remaining spot was made for it.
My custom Triumph rested like a mythical beast in the center, waiting to come alive and hurtle down roads. Its matte black framework sucked light from the space like a black hole—there was no chrome—unlike Grasshopper’s decaled extravaganza.
As I parked and wrenched up the handbrake, I admitted my garage of vehicles was complete with this latest machine.
If Grasshopper had stolen this, then I would return it to the owner with a thank-you gift. But if he’d bought it fair and square, then I was keeping it. Fifty-fifty chance. I supposed I’d have to wait to find out.
Cleo rustled in the back. She’d fallen asleep in the last thirty minutes. The moment her eyes closed and her face slipped into slumber-softness, I’d freaked the fuck out. Should she sleep after what she’d been through? Should I keep her awake until a doctor examined her?
But watching her rest¸ I didn’t have the heart to wake her. I didn’t have the strength to fight with her again over something that had the power to smash us apart.
How can she even look at me? How can love still glow in her gaze?
I couldn’t understand how she’d come out of my father’s madness and not only remained strong and stubborn, but also remained the same Cleo who I thought I’d lost forever. She was something unique and so damn priceless.
“We’re here, Buttercup.”
Her eyes cracked open, awareness slowly animating her face. With a soft groan, she touched her head and sat up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to leave you alone.”
My lips twitched. Even now with her own pain, she was more worried about mine.
Fuck, I loved this woman.
Swinging her legs to the floor, she went to open the car door.
“Wait!”
Her eyes popped wide. “Why? What did I do?”
“Don’t move.” Without waiting for her reply, I shot from the car and opened her door. The world shot upside down. My brain sloshed in my skull and a rush of sickness hit the back of my throat. Shit, I shouldn’t have moved so fast.
Holding on to the car door, I breathed hard through my nose. The pressure throbbed with every heartbeat but slowly eased.
I didn’t want Cleo moving on her own. The doctors said movement only worsened the swelling on my brain. If Cleo had a concussion, too, I would rather move for both of us so only one of us had severe side effects.
I’ve already lost most of my IQ … what’s a few more lost points if I can fix her?
When I opened my eyes, Cleo’s face was stark with worry. “Arthur, you need to sit back down. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m fine.” I ducked to her level in order to grab her.
“Wait. What are you doing?” She swatted my hand away as I gathered the blankets. “I can walk, you know.”
I didn’t bother replying.
Scooping her behind the shoulders and knees, I plucked her from the leather and hoisted her into my arms.
Oh, fuck me.
Nausea slammed into me. My brain felt as if it would ooze from my ears like spaghetti.
“Good God, Art, put me down. You’re shaking like a crack addict.”
“Give me a sec,” I muttered through gritted teeth. She hung in my embrace. A second turned into a minute, but my brain finally decided today wasn’t the day it would explode and the pain receded to a tolerable level. “See, all good.”
She huffed under her breath as I kicked the car door closed and strode away from the Mercedes.
One foot in front of the other.
I’d forgotten a shitload of important information but walking wasn’t one of them.
Carrying Cleo through the connecting door and into the two-story-high foyer, I suffered a spasm of rage at the thought of men infiltrating my home and hurting us. They’d tainted this place and proven I’d been far too arrogant.
Cleo squirmed in my arms and placed a delicate kiss on my scruffy chin. “It’s so nice to be home with you.”
A wash of comfort and contentedness settled, easing with familiarity and a promise that things would be dealt with once and for fucking all.
I stared into her moss-green eyes. “I agree.”
Her lips parted, conjuring the always present lust and desire that seemed to infect us. There was no cure for what we suffered. There was no pill to dampen our tempers or simmer the violent hunger for each other.
And I was glad. I wouldn’t take such a medicine even if it did exist.
She made me alive.
Too alive.
Stupidly alive and prone to mistakes and disastrous errors all because she preoccupied me.
“Nothing seems to be taken,” she added, glancing around the grey painted walls and black and white wall hangings.
“I wouldn’t care if they did.” Possessions didn’t mean a thing to me. Apart from the Libra eraser that I’d had for so many years, of course.
This house didn’t hold precious mementos such as photographs and love notes written when we were teenagers, but it did have a part of Cleo already in its walls. My blood had seeped into the grout of the tiles in my office while she’d sewed me up. My sweat had dripped into the carpet as I fucked her and loved her before I even knew she was the girl from my past.