“You know what kind of man Carlos is, right?”
“Been told a few stories about him. He’s a brute—uses pain and fear to get what he wants.”
Reaching out, I take one of her hands, forcing her to drop her arms and step towards me. “Bear in mind, that to tell a story those people got to walk away with their lives. Imagine what he does to the ones who aren’t so lucky.”
“Am I meant to be scared by this?” she asks, staring down at our joined hands. “Am I meant to cower in fear so you can cuddle me better?” Her tone is scathing, disbelieving, and nothing short of spoilt.
I shunt her hand away, causing her to step back, cradling it with wide eyes.
“What the fuck did you do that for?” Tears form in her eyes, and I know I’m being an asshole given she still doesn’t know if Tommy’s going to make it, but fuck—she needs to learn.
“Because of you,” I answer. “You’re so fuckin’ naïve. You play your games with these men, but I don’t think you quite get how fuckin’ serious this is.”
“I think I do,” she mumbles defiantly.
“Bullshit!”
Ryan takes a couple more steps back as I launch off the chair, ripping the T-shirt I wear up by the waist to show her scars that outside of Malice and Ty, only the women who’ve shared my bed have seen. “See that?” I ask, jabbing angrily toward a series of raised lines on my flesh. “Stab wounds.” I let go of the fabric and start untying the drawstring on the sweats. Her eyes flick between my face and my hands that are furiously fumbling with the cord. A gasp escapes her as I drop the sweats to my knees and turn my left leg outward. “See that?” She nods, eyes on the mass of scarred and reddened flesh—a reminder of times when I wasn’t quite so experienced. “That’s what happens when a .308 round takes hold of your leg. Skin grafts, physical therapy, months of shit to deal with.” Her tears spill over, her fingers to her lips as she backs away again. “And you know what?”
“What?” The word is barely a breathless whisper.
“That’s what happened when I got on the wrong side of men half the fuckin’ monster cunts like Carlos are. You want to know how sadistic and sick the fucker is? Go find Sawyer and ask him how his mother died. Go find Sawyer and ask him what his old man did to try and kill him.” Turning away from her, I jerk the sweats up, re-tying the drawstring.
She sobs openly now, and her mouth drops open with each loud hiccup. But fuck, I proved my point. I opened her shielded eyes to the world she’s toying in. She thinks that she’s learnt a lot about the underworld since she’s been running with this crew—she’s wrong. So fucking wrong. The bitch is a little girl playing with a box of matches she’s been given, and the damn things are yet to burn her.
“These men will literally gut you in your sleep if you cross them, Ryan. You can’t do this shit alone. You want information about your uncle? Fuckin’ look somewhere else than Eddie, because even if he dishes up the facts for you, what you think he’s going to do to your lying, scheming ass when he’s done? Huh? You wouldn’t get more than ten steps away from the sick fuck before he stuck a bullet through your skull.”
I twist around to take her in, her puffy eyes and shaking shoulders. She holds a hand up, her palm out when I try to approach. “No.”
“I’m sorry I made you cry, darlin’. I really am, but shit, woman, I want you so fuckin’ bad, and the thought you could get hurt because you’re too fuckin’ proud, stubborn, or both to accept help irritates the fuck outta me. Let me help you,” I plead.
Her arm slowly drops, leaving her hand hanging at her side, the other still covering her mouth. She sniffs hard, sucking in all the snot her crying’s caused. And yet she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve seen.
“Come here,” I say, opening my arms.
Ryan pushes off the spot, but instead of coming in for a hug, she runs away from me. I chase after her, dodging the end of the sofa to follow her up the hall. She’s not avoiding this. I won’t let her go all bat-shit crazy on my ass and barricade herself in the bathroom or the like.
She bolts into the bedroom we were in before, the one I assume she shares with Gunter, and tries to swing the door shut behind her. I deflect it with the heel of my hand, sending it careening the other way until it bounces off the wall. The noise is a distraction, making me turn my head for the briefest of seconds to make sure the fucking thing isn’t about to swing back at me.
It’s the split-second she needs.
Satisfied the door’s not about to knock me the fuck out, I look back at her and find the business end of a gun pointed at my head. “What the fuck?”
“I’m not going to ask you again. Get out.” Her hands shake, and I’m more worried she’s going to shoot me by accident than on purpose.
“Lower the gun and I’ll leave.”
“Leave, and I’ll lower the gun,” she counters.
“Fuck, woman. You’re goin’ to shoot me before I have a chance to get out the front door the way you’re shakin’.”
Ryan bends at the knees to scoop my blood-stained clothes in one hand, the other keeping the gun on me. “Isn’t that generally the idea when you point a gun at someone? You’re going to shoot them?” She tosses the clothes in my direction.
I catch them, bundling them in my arm. “Shit, Ryan,” I hiss under my breath, backing away. “I’m going. I’m gone.”
I walk backwards until my spine finds the doorframe, and then sidestep to carry on up the hallway. Ain’t no way I’m giving a distressed woman my back when she’s pointing a handgun at me. I reach the living room and lift my free hand in surrender. “Are you sure?”
“Yes!” she hollers. “Get the fuck out before I’ve got a mess to explain to Gunter.”
“Fine,” I snap, shaking my head. “I’m out, Ryan. I tried to help, even when it meant fuckin’ up my own reason for being here, but you threw that shit in my face. So I’m out. Completely out.”
Her chin quivers, visible from even this distance before she starts crying all over again. I take a step sideways and then finally turn around to head out the front door and leave her to her crazy self. She’s most likely watching me from a fucking window while I put my helmet on, feeling proud that she managed to stand up to me. Shit, she might be hurt that I actually did it—I left. But as much as I told her I’m out, she doesn’t know that much about me still, and one fact she’d know if she bothered to get close is that I never quit. And I most certainly never walk away from a person in need.
I might have told her I’m through with this, but that was only to try and make sure she didn’t follow. If I’m going to take what I know and rip this crew to shreds to find the answers for her as well as deliver to King and the Saints, I need Ryan out of the way. I need her safe—well, as safe as she can be. And as much as it makes me sick to think it, right now, the safest place is with Gunter.
ECHOES
Ryan
He closes the door so damn softly behind him I have to strain my ears to make out the sound. Somehow, I manage to get the safety back on the gun, dropping the Desert Eagle to the ground where I stand. I look down at the quivering hands that hang loosely by my sides. I threatened to kill him. What the fuck was I thinking? I have no qualms about threatening somebody’s life like that, but his? What are you doing, Ryan?
Why do I care so much if he lives or dies? The asshole lied to me about who he was, and why he was here. He’s using us, getting close for some fucking scheme to take over Eddie’s crew, and I couldn’t give a single shit about it.
Because you don’t give a shit that he lied.
I don’t. As much as I delve inside and try to dredge up some semblance of anger toward him, there’s none. I didn’t kick him out because he used me, or because he lied . . . I kicked him out because I’m hurt and confused.