How did I think I could continue to live a singleton life? How did I think I would ever get anything past this woman?
I’ve been a fucking fool.
Hugging her close, I vowed, “No more hiding.”
Her body melted into mine. “No more hiding.”
Her head turned, her mouth inviting.
A kiss sealed our vow.
She was mine. I was hers.
Our problems had to be shared.
Our successes equally celebrated.
I would have to tell her … everything.
Chapter Fifteen
Cleo
Were love and hate the same thing?
They must’ve been because I had no other explanation for how I felt about Arthur. One moment, I wanted to smother him in kisses, the next I wanted to steal my father’s gun and shoot him in the leg. He was so strong but sometimes so stupid. Couldn’t he see what I was offering? Couldn’t he see what his father was doing? His mother saw it, but she was too frail to intervene. Well, I wasn’t frail and I wasn’t afraid. And I wouldn’t put up with idiotic behavior any longer. —Cleo, diary entry, age thirteen
Three days.
That was the allotted prescription that Doctor Laine advised.
Three days of rest and recuperation.
Needless to say it wasn’t easy to get Arthur to submit. He kept growling about time frames and battle dates. Mo and Grasshopper were constant visitors, locking themselves in a room with their president, cooking up plans and discussing war.
Every day I henpecked Arthur like the bossy woman he claimed I was. I made sure he ate, drank, took his pills, and even took to watching him at night to ensure he was dreaming and not unconscious.
I couldn’t shake the fright I’d had when he’d squished me against the couch and passed out. The sensation of having his body inside me, then feeling the withdrawal of his intelligent mind as he slipped away scarred me for life.
I meant what I said. I would hurt him if he kept anything from me again.
He’d turned me into this neurotic mess. He was responsible for putting me back together again.
I jumped at the smallest noise—fearing he’d fallen. I eavesdropped on conversations—scared that he might suddenly start slurring.
I was a wreck.
And facts were facts—Arthur was a terrible patient. He tolerated me hovering, but he finally put his foot down on the third day.
He was in his office, busy placing trades on foreign currency pairs that he’d tried to teach me about but gave up when my eyes glazed over. The way he delivered his endless wealth of knowledge was stilted—punctured with awkward pauses and hovering with quavering confusion.
The fear in his eyes belied his true thoughts and I didn’t need to ask what scared him the most.
I believed he used those teaching sessions for himself to recall what he knew—not to teach me what I didn’t. I didn’t want him overthinking that those skills were lost. I believed in Doctor Laine. He would remember.
He will.
It would just take patience.
I placed the meat lovers pizza beside his keyboard, and he looked up, jerked from whatever world he existed in while staring at the four glowing screens. Swiveling his chair to face me, he watched as I flipped open the box. “Lunch is served. As you can imagine, it was a mammoth effort to hunt and slaughter something as wily as a pizza.”
“Thanks.”
My heart fell. I willed him to crack a smile. The more hours that passed, the more he acted as if he was under house arrest. Couldn’t he see I was only trying to heal him so he could be whole once again?
Looking back at the screens, he distractedly handed me a piece of meat lovers.
Arthur might’ve killed bare-handed, controlled a Club of anarchist bikers, earned millions trading countless stock markets, but he was still the boy I knew from all those years ago. Still fixated on math—to the point of unhealthy obsession.
I eyed him while taking a bite.
The temperature in his office seemed determined to rival an Amazon rain forest, yet Arthur wore low-slung black shorts and dark grey hoody. He looked like a young college professor on a sabbatical with messy hair, five o’clock shadow, and tomato sauce smearing his lips, whereas I wore a blue maxi dress and cursed the heat.
Why was he wearing a sweater? Was feeling the cold another symptom of his concussion?
He said he felt much better, but the shadows in his eyes hinted that he was lying.
Again.
Seemed my threat in the bath three days ago wasn’t working.
I almost wished I’d gone to medical school, rather than veterinary college—then I might be better equipped at healing him. Being in his office reminded me of stitching him up, leveling a gun at him, and suffering bone-deep knowledge that he was more than just a trafficker—I’d known.
And I hadn’t given up.
Just like I won’t give up now.
Taking a seat in the extra office chair, I chewed a mouthful of pepperoni. “Perhaps we should get the doctor back? Make sure you’re okay?”
Arthur swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You don’t trust me?”
The air sparkled with a sudden argument. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Oh, God. I don’t want to fight.
I put my pizza down. “I just mean I don’t want you pretending you’re better when you’re not.”
“And who says I’m not?”
I looked away, hiding the fire in my soul. “Whatever, Art. It’s your head. Your pain.” Snatching up my pizza, I waggled it in his face. “But if you suddenly pass out or drop dead, I’ll curse you forever.” My voice dropped with conviction. “Your life is now mine and it’s your responsibility to make sure you look after it, because if you don’t … I’ll be …”
“You’ll be what?” His voice was heavy and soft.
My heart did a little skip as he swallowed another mouthful.
“I’ll be pissed, all right? I love you far too much to let you leave me.”
Suddenly, the pizza slice went flying and he tackled me against my chair. His mouth smashed against mine. He swept me away with a consuming kiss tasting of passion and oregano until I forgot why I was mad and gave in to his command.
My legs parted, my nipples tightened, my core melted.
Then a little bell chimed, wrenching Arthur’s mouth from mine and stealing his attention.
I hated that little bell.
“Fuck!” He shoved away the pizza box, clicking his mouse furiously as a red dot on one of the screens swooped out of its little quadrant and shot past a blue line.
“What? What happened?”
“The fucking pair bombed. Ran straight through my stop loss in a matter of seconds. Christ, how I did I screw that up so badly?”
My heart raced at the rage and fear in Arthur’s tone.
“Perhaps it’s a bad day for that currency?”
He shook his head. “My system was foolproof.” His eyes met mine, full of panic. “I just lost a hundred grand. That’s the most I’ve ever lost since I began trading the fucking markets.” Fisting his hair, he tugged hard. “Damn brain injury. Damn fucking Rubix!”
“Hey, it will be okay.”
“Will it?” he roared. “Because I’m at the end of my fucking rope, Cleo. I can’t … I can’t stay here anymore. I need to be doing something. I can’t keep letting Mo and Hopper run my last plan for vengeance.”
Standing, he hit a key that blanked out the screens and stormed to the door.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
Spinning around, he snapped, “I’m done wasting time. We’re going to Pure Corruption.”
Grasshopper looked up from a ledger as Arthur barged into the common room with my hand clasped in his, dragging me in his wake. The main space at Pure Corruption was quiet and welcoming, its polished floorboards and spotlessly clean surfaces so different to Dagger Rose’s filth.
Grasshopper beamed. “If it isn’
t the prez and his old lady.”
Arthur threw him a look.
The coolness of the room was welcome after the heat of the late afternoon sunshine. My retinas still had imprints of tire scuffs and slick oil stains from the bright concrete outside Pure Corruption.
Brushing down my jeans and white T-shirt, I gave up trying to hide the dampness of my skin or the sheen of sweat. I missed my maxi dress, but it wasn’t exactly the most practical thing to wear on a motorbike.
I tried to untangle my fingers from Arthur’s calloused ones. The bike ride here and the bristling tension between us was enough for me to need some space.
After I managed to get free, Arthur threw me a quizzical glance before marching toward Grasshopper and sitting gingerly in a black single-seater beside him. “I need some fucking action, Hopper.”
Inching away, I beelined for the blown-up magazine covers on the wall. The high-resolution pictures of the man I loved glared down from their pedestals.
Arthur today looked nothing like yesterday’s smooth, sexy, corporate man who’d been primed and photographed.
The subtle backgrounds of the magazines harmonized the juxtaposition of shadowy president with vibrant accents. He looked like an underworld emperor reigning over his lowly minions.
My eyes trailed over the one of him in a tailored suit.
I’ve never seen him dressed that way.
My heart flurried at the thought.
To run my hands over the silk of a freshly laundered shirt. To coyly remove the cuff links from his wrists before helping him shrug out of the expensive material.
Yes, I would like to see him in a suit.
My mind skipped back to when I’d first arrived. He’d blindfolded me with his tie. He’d trussed me up and took me from behind.
A cocktail of jealousy and nostalgia wedged like a pebble in my tummy. I never got to see him develop from boy to man. Would I be lucky enough to be there while he grew from vengeful to peaceful?
God, I hope so.
Grasshopper and Arthur mumbled too low for me to hear. I let them talk. There was no point interrupting when I had nothing to offer or contribute. They would kill Rubix and Asus. And I didn’t object to that plan, but the thought of full-on war frightened me tremendously. Arthur’s love for me might be immortal but he was still dangerously human.
His name is Kill. And in return, he’s killable.
I had no intention of losing him a second time.
I continued gazing at the covers until Grasshopper stood up and clapped his hands. “I’ll arrange it. Leave it with me.”
Arthur nodded, running his fingers through his hair.
The silence was like diesel-laced smog, stinking up the room. Unable to stand the murky thoughts or horrible conclusions of what Arthur and his men would embark on over the next few weeks, I said, “I want to know why you’re in the Wall Street Journal and the Times.”
Art’s head snapped up. The same pain he’d had in his eyes for days glowed bright. Heaving himself out of the chair, he came toward me. His black jeans and T-shirt silhouetted his figure while the brown leather cut glittered with the silver thread of their MC. “It was a way to get my name out there. Wallstreet’s idea. Definitely not mine.”
Grasshopper followed, pointing at the magazine picture of Arthur sitting behind his desk, glaring at the camera. “That one was taken the morning he surpassed five million—all earned from trading the FX market.”
My eyes snapped to Arthur. “Five million?”
Arthur frowned, glowering at the collage of triumphs and downfalls decorating his Clubhouse. “It was the beginning of everything. With money came power and with power came freedom.” Forgetting where he was—or perhaps not caring—he hesitantly wrapped his arms around my waist, hugging me close. The tension of our mini-fight finally dispersed like raindrops on a hot road. “I’m sorry.”
Grasshopper kindly gave us some space, drifting away and texting furiously on his phone.
I leaned into Arthur, hugging his forearm around my middle. “Me too.”
“I don’t want you to worry, Cleo. Whatever is going on inside me will get better. I just need to know you won’t hate me while waiting for me to heal.”
I flinched. “You think I could do that?”
He shook his head. “The way I’m feeling right now, I keep fearing you’ll be gone when I wake, or realize what a liability I am and break my heart.” His voice dropped to a tortured strangle. “No matter what you say, I live with the memory of what I did to your parents every goddamn day. I’m worthless and selfish and so damn thoughtless.”
My chest throbbed.
“I’ve sent the message. The Club will rally. Told them to get their asses here in thirty minutes,” Grasshopper announced, dimming his phone and returning with his gaze pensive and full of planning. He looked between us, sensing unfinished business but in a way, I was glad he’d interrupted.
Until Arthur found salvation in himself, there was nothing I could do to make his guilt go away.
Arthur nodded. “Good.”
“Also Wallstreet called. Told me about the other thing.” Grasshopper’s eyes told a complete story that I couldn’t follow. But Arthur did.
“Great. Tell him the journalist who covered the last leak can have the scoop on this, too. Tell him to set up a meet next week and it’s all his.”
“You got it.”
I looked between the two men, chewing my lip. “Care to share?”
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know I promised to tell you everything, but this is complicated.”
“You’ll find out soon enough, Butterbean.” Grasshopper winked. “You’ll be freaking proud of him when you do.”
I frowned. “Why? What are you planning?”
Arthur kissed the top of my head, clearing his throat. “Something huge. Now, change the subject ’cause we don’t have time to get into it.”
Grasshopper shifted. The silence became awkward.
Dammit, why can’t he just spit out everything and let me decide what’s important or not?
Needing to dispel the festering quietness, I asked, “Do you trade, Grasshopper?”
Hopper shook his head, his body unyielding as a brick wall but somehow warm and friendly. “Nope. Too much risk for me. However, I trust Kill to manage a few investments on my behalf.”
Arthur chuckled. “A few investments? That’s what we’re calling it these days?”
“Hush, dude. I like having cash but I don’t like people knowing where the decimal point falls.” His blue eyes flickered to mine. “No offense. Still not used to never having to worry about money.”
The entrance slammed as men trickled in, summoned by Grasshopper. They didn’t stay, making their way briskly to the meeting room and disappearing.
My forehead furrowed. “But Wallstreet was rich—wasn’t he?” I’d wanted to check online and research Arthur’s mentor but hadn’t found the time what with being stolen and used as a pawn in a decade-old game. But I listened to my gut and my gut said he was rich—some people just wore money as if their clothing glittered with newly minted dollars.
“You’re asking if my father gave me any of that wealth he ‘lost’?” Grasshopper highlighted the word with air quotes.
Arthur didn’t move, just kept his eyes on the magazine covers.
More men entered the Clubhouse, stomping in boots and leather, being respectful not to interrupt our conversation.
“The answer,” Grasshopper said, “is nope. Not a dime. I wasn’t exactly Mr. Responsible when I was younger. I don’t begrudge him keeping away temptation.”
“And you don’t hate Arthur for being the chosen one, as it were?”
Art and Hopper sucked in a harsh breath.
What are you doing, Cleo?
“Sorry.” I dropped my head. “I didn’t mean it like—”
“No, I understand.” Grasshopper leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. A relaxed smirk decorated his lips. “Without Kill
, the Corrupts would’ve murdered each other and brought an end to our Club. I always knew what my role would be.”
Arthur stiffened, his hard stomach flexing against my back. “Oh really? And what was that?”
Grasshopper’s mohawk swayed as his head whipped to face his president. “Wallstreet told me to be by your side at all times. To give you support. Make sure you weren’t hurt.”
Arthur made a noise in the back of his throat. “Did that include spying on me and reporting back to him?”
Whoa. Where did that come from?
Grasshopper froze. His eyes were the only thing that changed from narrowed to wide. “Wow. Can’t believe after all this time, we’re finally having this conversation.”
More bikers arrived. Somehow, they recognized the tense atmosphere and beelined for the meeting room. Only once they’d disappeared did Arthur let me go. “I’ve wanted to ask for a while. Now’s a good time as any.”
I stood adrift, waiting for one of two things: a fight or acceptance. Testosterone thickened the air. It could go either way.
“Yes, I reported to my father, but only on how he’d chosen the right man. He picked you out of everyone, Kill. You’re like another son to him and I would never betray you by speaking behind your back.”
Arthur didn’t make a sound.
Hopper added, “With what you’d lived through you deserved a lot more than suspicion and control. Wallstreet saw that and left you completely in charge. I was nothing more than a friend to you.”
Never-ending moments ticked past before Arthur finally nodded. “You’ve been a good friend, Jared.”
Hopper beamed. “And you’ve been a good leader.” Swiping his thumb across his phone, he looked at the time. “Some of the brothers are here. We ought to head to Church, see who’s gathered. The rest can join us.” Turning to leave, he rubbed his forehead. “Minus the four men on patrol duty and the two shadowing Night Crusaders’ every move, of course. They’ll have to be updated later.”
Arthur grunted in thanks. Yanking me close, he kissed the top of my head. “Ready for your first Pure Corruption meeting, Buttercup?”
Wait. Church is men only …
“Yeah, Butterbean. Top-secret stuff.” Grasshopper shoved his hands into his pockets, grinning. “What is said can never be revealed—just like that movie with those rules.”