Chapter 3

They came to me in a dream, and I could feel the flush of fever in my skin, as vividly as I could if I’d been awake. Perhaps I’d been trying too keenly to hold the images at bay during my waking life, or perhaps I was too desperate to avoid the stresses of my family life. Whatever it was, they came to me in sleep, together, and I opened for them like a lotus blossom, giving myself over to them completely, and without any hesitation.

And they were themselves in the dream, not some vague facsimile or an anonymous face my psyche understands to be a known individual, but them: Lucas, lithe and sinewy, inked with tattoos but otherwise unblemished; Oliver, broad and large, finely sculpted in olive tones with dark, dark hair.

I don’t recall how it began—there wasn’t any sort of contrived beginning, any way my mind had twisted things to get them in the same room and on the same team—but there they were. They came to me naked, with purpose, and stripped me of my clothes with precise delicacy And we were in a sort of no-man’s land, a generic room, that was somehow shapeless and formless, the edges of which were lost in shadow. Everything was soft and dim, and I felt their fingertips brushing lightly over my skin.

They didn’t speak to me, but laid me down on something soft and rich, like velvet. I could feel the warmth of their breath on my bared skin. Lucas kissed my mouth, and I felt the familiar softness of his early, tentative kisses. Oliver spread my thighs and put his lips to work lower, lower, lapping gently at sensitive flesh between my legs. Lucas placed a hand on my breast and kneaded it gently, then more firmly, pinching a nipple between a thumb and index finger. Then Oliver’s tongue hit the spot and I arched my back, breaking away from Lucas’ kiss with a sharp little moan. He trailed a series of kisses down along the line of my neck and up over the slope of my breast, setting to work his tongue against my nipple.

I reached down and my hand found Lucas’ hardness. I curled my fingers around him and stroked him even as Oliver slid his tongue completely into the opening of my sex. I was warm and ready, and I scooted down a little as Oliver lifted his head and Lucas pulled slightly away.

Oliver shifted, hovering over me, and I could feel the head of his cock pressing to gain entry. He slid himself into me, burying the entirety of his considerable length deep within me. Lucas trailed his fingertips over my jaw and along my lips, and I nipped at his fingers to make him pause. He did, and I sucked on his thumb, trying to indicate that he should fill my mouth with himself.

Oliver began to move his hips back and forth in one fluid, luxurious movement, stretching me to capacity as he worked me, in and out. I felt the soft, warm flesh of the head of Lucas’ cock at the corner of my mouth, and I turned my head, extending my tongue to taste the familiar salt taste of him. He pressed past the barrier of my teeth and took up the cavern of my mouth; I ran my tongue along the base of his shaft and reveled at the feeling of having them both inside of me.

I was overcome with my longing as their movements brought me closer and closer to the crux of my desire. Oliver’s thumb came to work the hard nucleus of my clitoris as he thrust in and out of my warm, wet sex; Lucas’ fingers worked the plush flesh of my breasts as I sucked down his shaft and teased the head of his manhood with a playful tongue. I wanted their completion, both of them, and my own. I wanted to feel them explode inside of me; I wanted to make the both of them mine.

Instead, I woke.

I woke in a sweaty tangle of bedsheets, as though I’d had some sort of fever dream. But the specters of my vision stayed with me, and I could almost still feel them inside me. I was frustrated, having been left so unsatisfied, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying in vain to hold onto the last vestiges of the dreamscape that had brought me so close to climax.

But it was no avail. Try as I may, I could not bring the sweet vision back. So I thought about the dream, replaying the images I had received over and over on the screen behind my eyes. I tried to remember precisely how it felt to feel the heat of the both of them on me, in me, and I trailed my fingers over the valley of my abdomen and underneath the elastic waist band of my pajama bottoms.

I found myself dripping with my lust, easily sliding two fingers inside of myself as I adjusted to get my other hand down my pants. That one I used to rub my clit, and I came quickly, fiercely, forcefully, the muscles of my sex clamping down around my thrusting fingers. I panted, sated, wanting to rejoin the reality of the dream instead of rise and participate in the reality of the waking world.

~ * ~

I showered, dressed, and went into my old room to fetch Jamie, who was sleeping later and longer than I had ever seen him sleep. Perhaps he had somehow internalized the atmosphere and had decided he simply wanted no part of it. I scooped him up into my arms and he made a few tiny noises of protest, but ultimately wrapped his small arms around my neck and clung to me as I brought him downstairs.

My mother had fetched up my old booster chair and set it at the kitchen table, so I plopped Jamie onto it, and he banged his little fists against the tabletop, ready to be fed. I poured some Cheerio’s into a bowl, sniffed the milk to ensure its quality, and—finding it lacking—placed the dry cereal in front of my son while I went about cutting up a banana. “Spoon?” Jamie demanded, and I obliged. A sippy cup of orange juice and a plate of sliced banana, and I was ready to focus my attention on the fundamentally necessary task of brewing a pot of coffee.

As the scent of coffee filled the air, I plucked the phone receiver out of its cradle, poised to dial my mother’s cell phone to ascertain the status of my stupid brother after his stupid beat down, but I heard the front door open and darted out into the foyer.

Brian, with Lucas in tow. Brian had stitches under his eye, which was purple and swollen, and a series of cuts on his lip. He walked stiffly, as though he were nursing sore ribs, but was otherwise upright and smiling. Lucas bore a similarly relieved expression to be delivering an almost-good-as-new Brian Harrington home to his worried sister.

“Where’s mom?” was my first question.

Brian shrugged. “Asleep, I imagine. We sent her home almost immediately after she arrived.” He eyed me sideways, “Which is why I wish you hadn’t called her at all. Unnecessary worry.”

“Unnecessary worry?” I shouted. “You’ve been missing for, like, a week, you insensitive fucking asshole.”

“Harper—” Lucas began to interject, but I turned on my heel and retreated into the kitchen, where Jamie was happily stuffing a piece of banana into his mouth.

“Is Daddy here?” He asked and started to wiggle off of the booster seat. I hooked both hands under his armpits and hoisted him up before placing his feet on the floor so he could scamper off to daddy and hug him with hands smeared with banana.

I heard Lucas shout, “Hey, buddy!” from the other room, and the general murmurings of Brian cooing over his handsome little nephew, but I simply stewed in silence over my mug of steaming black coffee.

After a stretch of silence, Brian and Lucas came into the kitchen, Jamie in Lucas’ arms. I was pleased to see that they were both looking rather contrite. “I’m sorry, Harper Grace,” Brian said. “I’m sorry I disappeared like that. I…”

“Where were you?” I demanded. “Seriously, Brian. Did you even know what was going on here? Do you have any idea how freaked out Mom has been?”

Brian glanced back at Lucas and bowed his head. Lucas cleared his throat and shifted Jamie from one hip to the other. “Look, Harper, I know you were worried, but—”

“But I wasn’t the only one to go on a bender, eh?” Brian arched his brows at me, and it became clear that Lucas had revealed some of my own irresponsibility.

“Yeah, but,” I stammered, “I was gone for like one night, not nearly a week, Brian.”

“I know,” he said, “and I’m sorry.”

“And you,” I turned my dagger-eyes on Lucas, “what business did you have putting him in the ring with Oliver? You knew he’d have his ass handed to him.”

“Hey—” Brian interjected.

“That’s club business,” Lucas said coolly, “and none of yours.” Jamie began to squirm in his arms, so Lucas put him on the floor, and he ran over to me to cling to my legs. I intuitively reached down to brush my fingertips over his soft, blond head.

“So basically, I’m never going to get a straight answer out of either of you.” I hated that I had brought my son back into this life of lies and violence, conceit and danger. I petted his head gently as he rolled my pajama pants between his little fingers.

“Look,” Brian offered, “I was angry after the attack. I was trying to track down the motherfucker who did this to our family, all right?” He paused and moved slowly toward the kitchen table, where he sat down next to Jamie’s spot, and helped himself to what remained of Jamie’s bandanna. “I didn’t tell anyone where I was going because, honestly, I was too caught up in it to stop to think that there were even other people in the world. I was blind with rage. And as for Lucas putting me in the ring—”

“Brian, don’t.”

“He put me in there because I asked him to.”

I blinked owlishly, glancing between the both of them. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“Lucky told me who that guy was, that Oliver guy,” Brian said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly going quite cold. “Who is he?”

Lucas came forward, reaching out like he might touch me, but never actually making contact. “He’s the son,” Brian said, “Oliver is. The son of the man who killed our father.”

There was a hard pulse in my chest, like in an instant my heart had burst in my chest and its charred remains had dropped down into the pit of my stomach. “I don’t understand…” I said lamely.

“Yes, you do,” Lucas quietly rejoined.

“But…he never said anything…”

“Well, and why would he?” Brian asked. “You were givin’ it away for free, why would he say anything.” So I see that Lucas had shared more with my brother than was strictly necessary. I shot a nasty glance at both of them.

“Did he have anything to do with the attack?” I asked. Brian shrugged, and Lucas pointedly averted my gaze. “Did he?” I pressed.

Lucas sighed, finally lifting his eyes to meet mine. I saw him hesitate but couldn’t read the cause of that hesitation. I looked him up and down, this man with whom I was most intimately familiar, who was at the same time a mysterious stranger to me. How odd that he could be both. “No,” he said at last, on the wings of a sigh. “No, I don’t believe he had anything to do with the attack.”

“Ok,” I said, swallowing down a bit of my trepidation. “Ok.”

“It seemed, from the conversations I had with him, that he had no real love for his father, that he wasn’t tied up with the IRA the way Tommy Flynn was. And anyway, his father must have known that we would take the debt out on his son, but he fled anyway. That speaks volumes of the type of relationship those two shared.”

I nodded slowly. “So, that’s why he’s being made to fight,” I murmured, finally piecing it all together. “He’s being made to fight because his father murdered mine.” The words were cold like old coins on my tongue, and just as bitter.

“Not exactly,” Lucas said, heaving a sigh. I knew he hated to tell me the truth about the goings-on of the Iron Banshees Motorcycle Club, but I was too deeply entrenched this time, too much a part of everything. This was no longer business, not even for Lucas. This was about family, and vengeance. “Tommy Flynn—that’s Oliver’s father—lost upwards of three hundred thousand dollars gambling on our fights,” he explained. “No small chunk of change.”

I balked. “How on earth did you let it get up that high?” I asked.

“He had been a bookie for us for a while,” Lucas continued. “He built up a long line of credit. We trusted him; we knew him. We’d worked with him for years. So, we figured he was good for whatever he owed, either in hard cash or in new business. But something happened, and he panicked. It was easy for him to get close, for his guys to get close, so he could attack your father.”

“He would’ve never seen it coming,” Brian muttered, hanging his head.

“No,” Lucas confirmed. “None of us did.”

I nodded slowly, feeling the chill of numbness set in. “I need to shower,” I muttered, “and get Jamie ready for the memorial.”

“I’ll take care of Jamie,” Lucas said.

“He doesn't have a suit. I didn’t bring one.” I hadn’t thought to—I was certain my father would pull through. We were all certain he’d pull through. But he hadn’t. And today we were going to memorialize him, and cremate him, and tomorrow we were going to scatter his ashes.

“I’ll get him one,” Lucas said. “What do you say, buddy? Do you want to go shopping with Daddy?”

“Yeah!” Jamie shouted and bounced over to his father, hopping about in happy little circles. I smiled in spite of myself. He would have responded the same way even if Lucas had said something like, What do you, say, Buddy? Do you want to have a root canal with daddy?

I nodded, kissed my fingertips and pressed the kiss to the top of my son’s small head. “Thanks,” I said. Then, to Brian: “Go check on Mom, would you? Let her know you’re ok, and that you’re going to help with everything. Our job today is to let her drink as much as she wants.”

“Roger that,” Brian said, giving me a limp salute, and excused himself to make his stiff, uneasy way up the staircase. I turned to follow close on his heels, when Lucas’ voice stopped me:

“Harper.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m just…I’m sorry about how all of this has been going. I really am. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m sorry, too.”

~ * ~

No part of me believed that the memorial was stipulated in any kind of pre-need my father may have filled out prior to his untimely death. It was too sterile, too clean, too organized. It was too much like other people’s memorial services. The Chenoweth Funeral Home was sleek, modern, minimalist. There were rows of side chairs in fake black leather, and small leather ottomans—square, with sharp corners and silver accents—that bore bouquets of white calla lilies in tall, thin vases.

The dozens of burly biker types, in their typical uniform of tee shirts or flannels, jeans, combat boots and leather kuttes, looked distinctly out of place, particularly interspersed as they were with friends of my mother. Her friends and acquaintances were all in black suits and dresses, and some of the women made quite a show of clutching their pearls, both proverbially and literally, at the sight of the bikers. I found it hard to believe that my mother’s social circles didn’t know who and what my father was. But if they didn’t before, they did now.

The framed photo of my father at the front of the room was a truly excellent one. It depicted him as he really was: handsome, a prominent jaw and strong brow, with warm eyes and a broad, dimpled smile, a fine full head of white hair, and broad shoulders, perpetually clad in the leather vest of his MC.

I stood frozen in the aisle as everyone filed in and took their seats, staring at that picture of my father. I didn’t really know him, if I was totally honest. At least, not very well. My memories of him growing up are fond, but few: he traipsed in and out of our lives at his leisure, always stopping to press a kiss to our foreheads on his way in or out. I know he loved us—he told us every change he got. He just wasn’t around all that much.

And I never really understood why until I married Lucas. For the men of the Iron Banshees, the club came first, before friends, before lovers, even before blood. Add that to the ever-growing list of reasons why I left.

“Harper,” Lucas said, holding a freshly washed and suited Jamie. He looked so handsome in his little suit, and he was smiling, blissfully unaware of the solemnity of the day’s event.

“Thanks,” I whispered, not entirely sure as to why I was whispering. “He looks great.”

“Doesn’t he? I’ll go take him to your mom. People are starting to take their seats.”

I nodded my thanks and watched them move down the aisle together, before he set Jamie down in a chair next to my mother and brother’s at the front of the room. I took in a deep breath and was about to join them when I felt a hand on my shoulder and whirled around.

Oliver.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, incredulous. He looked good—unlike Brian and Lucas, who were in their jeans and vests, Oliver had freshened up and put on a suit. His was black and pin striped, with a grey shirt and a black, grey and gold striped tie.

“Came to pay my respects,” he said, quietly. There was a shadow of subtle confusion across his eyes, and I realized that he had maybe only just put this all together. “Harper, I didn’t know,” he said. “I swear.”

“Didn’t know what, exactly?” I asked, crossing my arms in front of me. He was the enemy. Wasn’t he?

“Any of it.” He reached out and gripped my elbow, giving it a gentle squeeze. “First and foremost, I wasn’t a part of my dad’s…dealings. Any of them. I’ve not much love for him, see. And furthermore, after I found out what happened…” he withdrew his hand and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “I didn’t know who you were. Not until yesterday, when I saw you leave with Brian. I didn’t know you were Old Pete’s daughter.” He paused, and swallowed hard, casting his gaze to the floor. “I didn’t know you were Lucas Whalen’s wife.”

“Ex-wife,” I said quickly. “Or, soon-to-be-ex-wife.”

“So you are still married, then?”

“Only technically.”

The room was beginning to quiet, and I glanced toward my family at the front of the room. I moved to join them when I felt a tug on my arm. I turned back to face Oliver.

“I want to see you again,” he said quietly.

“Oliver…”

“Please. Just…tell me you’ll let me see you.”

“What’s the point?” I shrugged out of his grip and peered up at him. His eyes were full of pleading.

“There’s just something about you…” His lips remained parted as though he was going to say more, but he couldn’t find the words. Which was fine—I had words enough for the both of us.

“Save it,” I shot back, “you don’t even know me.”

I turned on my heel and marched down the aisle, sliding into a seat between my son and my mother.

Throughout the first few moments of the service, I couldn’t shake the look on Oliver’s face. But then my brother got up to speak, still waking stiffly from his injuries, and I found myself riveted by the look of unadulterated pain on his face.

He had had a much different relationship with Old Pete than the one I’d had. It was the club that had brought them together. That, and the very special bond a father seems to have with a son that adores him and wants to be just like him. I think that was why Brian and Lucas so often had a tumultuous relationship: Lucas was more the kind of son my father had always wanted, and Brian deeply resented that.

But Brian loved my father, and he gripped the podium before he began to speak, his eyes ringed red with the tears he hadn’t shed. He cleared his throat and sucked in a big gulp of air.

“Most of you know me, but ah…for those of you who don’t, my name is Brian Harrington, and I’m Old Pete’s son. I’m kind of known as the family fuck up—sorry, Ma—but it’s true. My sister, Harper Grace, was always the golden child, always the one who was going places. And my dad loved her for that, knew that no matter what happened to anyone else, she would always be fine, because she was sharp and resourceful. He could step back and watch her fly out of the nest, confident that she’d make it. Me, he had to keep close. Make sure I didn’t get into too much trouble. And that meant I got to have a closeness with him, as part of his club, a club he helped build.

I never really thought about what it would be like to lose him. I just kind of always thought he would be around, this titan of a man, exerting his influence over all of us. And if it were him standing up here instead of me, he’d have something reassuring to say, where I can’t think of anything that sounds good, anything that might stem the flow of my mother’s tears or get that look of panic off my sister’s face. So, I’ll just use my Dad’s words, Old Pete’s words: We’re here for but a moment, he said to me once. Anything worth doing is worth doing to the blood. And I think he lived that way—to the blood. God knows he died that way.”

Brian cleared his throat again, staring down at the plain wood of the podium. “Anyway, I guess that’s all. Sorry, Ma. Sorry it wasn’t better.” He stepped away from the podium then and resumed his seat. I couldn’t decide, I thought then, whether I loved what he’d said, or hated it.

“Harper Grace?” Came my mother’s bird-like whisper. “Do you want to say anything?” But I didn’t. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know the man we were memorializing. But I was on my feet anyway, my black heels clicking down the marble floor all the way up to the podium.

I stood up there, brushing an errant lock of jet-black hair out of my line of vision, and scanned the crowd. I was impressed to see what a large turnout there was—even if I didn’t know Old Pete that well, he was clearly beloved.

“Good morning,” I said, leaning into the microphone. “My name is Harper Grace Harrington, and I was…am…Pete’s daughter.” I paused, my mouth going dry with the nerves that always accompanied public speaking. “I didn’t know my father. Not really. Not in the way that most of you knew him. But there is this one moment I’ll never forget…When I was eight, I was on the school soccer team, and we were trying to raise money for new uniforms. Um, my dad never really came to my games or anything. He wasn’t really involved like that, that was more my mom’s territory. But everyone in town knows who Pete Harrington is. Everyone knows the Banshees. So when he heard that we needed to raise money, he came to a game and personally went row by row through the bleachers at the soccer field, holding a hat out to all of those nervous parents, until they emptied their pocketbooks and wallets of all the cash they had on hand. He just showed up, wearing his vest, and he asked them for money, and they just gave it to him. And he raised everything we needed for the uniforms in that single afternoon.

I can’t pretend to agree with the life my father chose for himself, and for his family. And I won’t condone his business practices or make up some story about what a saint he was. But I will say this: he loved us, fiercely. And he made sure we never wanted for anything.”

I paused then, trying to think if that was good enough, if anything would be good enough. “I guess that’s all,” I said. “Thank you.”

The rest of the service went by in kind of a blur. I wanted to be strong for my mother, who had deflated into tears at my side, but in order to do that, I had to remain detached. I had to cut myself off from it, and not dwell on the fact that I would never have the opportunity to get to know the man, my father, everyone else here seemed to know so well.

I was holding my son’s hand and my mother’s: Jamie was squirming, uncomfortable in his tie, and wanting to get down and play with his toy trucks, not understanding why he had to stay put. And my mother was trembling, trying not to make a racket while everyone was speaking. I looked at her, her lip trembling with the force of her grief, and I wanted her to let out a wail, a cry that would help cleanse her. Instead, she sat there shaking, crying silently.

I moved Jamie’s car seat into the back of my mom’s car and tucked my keys into my purse. I needed a few minutes of silence, time just in my head, before I had to face the afternoon, an afternoon full of mourners expressing their grief over platters of lunch meats in my mom’s dining room. I pressed a kiss to Jamie’s head and told my mom I’d find my own way back to the house. I scanned the parking lot and spied Jamie as he swung his leg over his bike. I began to close the distance between us, spotting Oliver at the far side of the lot as I went. He paused, waiting to see if I would come speak to him, but I simply looked away.

“Can I get a ride?” I asked Lucas, and he peered up at me curiously. But finally he nodded, took the helmet off of his head and handed it to me. I put it on, clasping it under my chin, and climbed onto the back of the bike.

The arrangement was awkward in my black dress and heels, but I tucked my dress between my thighs and wrapped my arms around the sturdy center of Lucas’ waist. He kicked the engine to life, and we peeled out of the parking lot.

I had forgotten how much I loved the sensation of riding on the back of Lucas’ motorcycle, open to the air, my hair whipping around my face. I liked the necessity of our closeness, loved the sensation of our velocity as we cut through the afternoon sunlight. And, I had to admit, the danger appealed to me as well. I suppose that’s ultimately what made me my father’s daughter: I knew the risks involved, but never hesitated to climb on anyway.

In fact, I’d had my own bike when I was much younger, before Jamie was born. Lucas had built it for me—it was ugly, but sturdy, safe (all things considered), with a reliable engine. My father had helped him, and they had presented it to me one not so very special night in August when I turned eighteen. They’d taught me how to manage it, and we’d gone on mini joyrides through the neighborhood, my mother left looking nervously behind us.

I’d sold it, of course, when I found out I was pregnant. And if I’m honest with myself, I miss it every day.

I took in a deep breath of air as we rounded a corner at considerable speed and held one arm out, and then the other, to feel the wind over my skin. It felt like freedom, and a little like flying. We pulled into the driveway alongside a number of cars, and I climbed off, handing Lucas his helmet. He grinned up at me, and reached forward, smoothing my wind-disheveled hair away from my face.

“Are you going to come in for a while?” I asked, glancing at my mother’s car as it pulled into the garage.

“It’s just for family,” Lucas said with a shrug.

“Lucky, you are family.” Which he knew; I think he just wanted to hear me say it. He smiled and bobbed his head in a nod. I turned to go into the garage so I could fetch my son from his car seat. But Lucas grabbed my hand and tugged me toward him.

“Harper,” he began, looking intently down into my face, “I am so sorry about all this.”

I gave his hand a squeeze and nodded my head. “I know you are, Lucky.”

He and I spent the remainder of the afternoon setting out trays of food and making sure my mother was never to be found without a drink in her hand. And when, at around 6 o’clock, she went to lay down, and the guests began to file out, Brian and I began to do our drinking. Lucas sat with Jamie in his lap, and he seemed to be content to be held by his father. And Brian and I sat in silence, sipping whiskey, straight up.

That must have gone on for a considerable amount of time, because I don’t remember going upstairs, or getting into bed, or falling asleep. But I woke up in the night, still in my black mourning dress, curled up forehead to forehead with Lucas, who was asleep on top of the bedspread. He was holding my hand, and I felt such a swell of affection for him, I nearly burst into tears. Maybe this was what my family was supposed to be, this kind of quiet solidarity in moments of tragedy. I scooted closer to him and pressed my lips to the cool flesh of his forehead. He stirred, and his eyes fluttered open, and I was met with the full weight of those bright green gems. He was suddenly fully alert, and he reached out to me, gathered my face in his hands and pressed a kiss to my lips, full of promises and questions. I knew, in that moment, that regardless of the future choices I made, I would always love this troubled, troubling man. I kissed him with the full force of that love, and he tugged the blankets off of my body.

His hand slid up the length of my thigh, tugging my skirt up along with it. I was pulling awkwardly at his shirt, but he rolled me over onto my back and yanked off my panties. Climbing atop me, he undid the button of his jeans and freed his already turgid member from the confines of his pants. He plunged himself into me with one hard, forceful thrust, and I cried out, unprepared as I was to welcome him. But he was fucking me with an urgency I had never seen in him before, like he was trying to get back to some other time. He was rough, pounding into me with abandon. I cried out, and he tucked his arms underneath me and hugged me close, burying his face in my hair and pressing a kiss to my neck. I allowed my knees to fall open fully then and made room for him to press more deeply into me.

“Lucas,” I whispered, wanting him to slow his pace, but he was lost to me in that moment. So I clung to him, my face pressed to the leather of his vest, breathing in the sweet, familiar scent of him. His cock filled me utterly, and I was reduced to nothing more than the sensation between my legs. He lifted himself up then to put some distance between our torsos, though his rhythm never altered: he was moving at the pace of a racing heart.

“Touch yourself,” He whispered. “I want to feel you come.” I looked up at him and nodded, sliding my hand down in between us to put pressure on the most sensitive part of myself. I moaned, surprised by how quickly my culmination began to build.

He was constricted by the clothes that were still collected at his thighs, but he ignored them and fucked me with abandon. He let out a primal grunt and pressed the full length of himself into me, building to his release with a low moan. I felt the width of him pulse and throb as he came, that small, rhythmic sensation sending me over the edge. My orgasm broke like a wave over the rocks of my desire, and I cried out. Lucas bent his head and silenced me with a kiss.

After a few moments he collapsed on top of me, and I reached up to gently stroke his hair. “Come home,” he murmured into the flesh of my neck.

“Is that the only pillow talk you know?”

“Come home, baby.”

“Shhh. Let’s just go to sleep.” And we did sleep that way, still half in our clothes, clinging to one another as though we were holding on for dear life.

~ * ~

It was the full daylight of morning when we woke up, still tangled up in one another. I was bleary for my first few moments of wakefulness, and for an instant, I thought I was back in my former life. When Lucas and I lived together, we always slept with our limbs in a knot, never really pulling away from each other.

“Lucky,” I murmured, gently shaking his shoulder to rouse him. But he was already awake.

“Do you remember, right before Jamie was born, when we drove out to that old farm for a picnic?”

“Mmhm.” I felt him trailing a finger lightly over the exposed flesh of my shoulder.

“And you were just like, so huge, so pregnant, but I drove you out there and it’s hot as balls, and I get you on the blanket and I’m trying to feed you grapes or whatever and you’re just so miserable…”

I chuckled lightly. “Yeah. I remember.”

He paused, then spoke very quietly: “I don’t know why I made you do that. Why I made you go out there with me.”

“What?”

“You didn’t want to go. You were tired and hot and uncomfortable. You wanted to eat ice cream in the air conditioning, but I made you go…” He sounded so sad, so very, deeply sad.

“You just wanted to do something nice for me, Lucas,” I whispered. “You wanted for us to do something special, just the two of us, one last time. You know, before the baby.”

“But I didn’t listen to you. I never fucking listened to you.” He untangled his body from mine, and I saw that he was wide away, and I wondered how long he just let me sleep there, cradled in his arms.

“No,” I agreed, “not often.” He stood up and zipped up his pants, buckled his belt. “But I loved you anyway.”

He sniffed, canting his head to the side so a few flaxen locks of hair fell into his eyes. “Loved?” He asked.

“Love.” I said.

And it was true, no matter what I might have privately told myself. I loved him, in many ways more than I ever had. He was the silent pillar holding my family up, making it possible for us to go on under the worst of circumstances.

I climbed out of bed and asked Lucky to take me back to the funeral home, where I’d left my truck the day before. I changed into jeans and a tee shirt, peeked in on Jamie, and grabbed my purse.

In no time, we were back on his bike, and I was back with my arms around his waist again. We sped down the highway, picking up speed, and the bright, morning sun beat down on us.

I didn’t notice the cars following us at first. I was focused on the air on my skin and the sun on my back. I was focused on my arms around Lucas’ waist, and the smell of the warm pavement. But then I noticed that Lucas cut quickly across all four lanes of traffic to take an exit I knew we didn’t need to take, and I turned to look behind us to see that three black SUVs were in tow behind us and picking up speed.

Lucas was adept at handling his bike, even with my extra weight on the back, and he was weaving in and out of cars taking up spots on the road after we exited the freeway. The SUVs were bulky and didn’t move with the same quickness and agility as Lucas’ bike.

“Who are they?” I shouted over the roar of the wind. But he didn’t respond, he focused intently on the road. We sped past the funeral home, and I could see that we were headed toward the bar, where I was sure he’d be able to find a number of his fellow Iron Banshees for back up. I gripped the leather of his vest in my hands and held on tight.

We were a matter of blocks from the bar when a fourth SUV pulled into our way in an intersection. I believe that if Lucas had been by himself on his bike, he would’ve pulled some sort of crazy maneuver to get away. But being that I had him in a death grip, he slowed the bike to a stop and began to slowly back it up. But by the time he turned around, the other SUVs were there, circling around us like giant, shining black vultures.

“Fuck,” Lucas said, pushing out the kick stand and climbing off. I climbed off after and he put his arm out, wedging me between his body and his motorcycle.

“Lucas, what is going on?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” he said, glancing from one identical SUV to the next. Eventually all of the engines shut off, and men began to climb out, two from each SUV. I glanced around: we were fresh off the freeway, an abandoned gas station to one side of us, and a small field of overgrown weeds on the other. I reached into my purse to pull out my cell phone.

“Holy shit,” Lucas said, and I could almost hear a smile in his voice. “Tommy motherfucking Flynn.”

I followed Lucas’ line of vision to a tall man, lithe but sinewy, who shared Oliver’s fine chiseled jaw and strong nose. He had a full head of salt and pepper hair, and the same eyes as Oliver’s, like a crystal glass full of bourbon. He had his hands in his pockets; he looked almost contrite.

“Afternoon, Lucky,” he said, with a much stronger brogue than I would have imagined for someone who had spent the last thirty-some years in the United States. “How’ve you been, son?”

“Don’t call me that,” he shot back. “The only father figure I ever had is dead because of you.”

“Now, that’s just what I’ve come here to talk to you about.” He approached slowly, and I could feel the rest of his goons closing in on us. All of them hand their hands in a pocket or on the inside of their jackets. I felt my heart rate start to climb; they were all prepared to pull out their guns, I was sure of it.

“If you want to talk about Old Pete’s murder, you should have come to me at the clubhouse where we could have dealt with you properly,” Lucas said.

“I thought this would be a little more…personal.”

“You’re a piece of shit.” Lucas’ entire body was tense, ready to spring into action if he had to. I knew he wanted to provoke Tommy Flynn into a fight, but he didn’t want to leave me without any means of defense. And unfortunately for the both of us, I was not very useful in a fight.

“I’m a criminal,” Tommy amended, “just like you.”

“Look. Just let my friend here go, and we can talk, you and me, all right?” He glanced around the circle of goons, then back to Tommy. “Deal?”

“Your ‘friend’?” Tommy chuckled and crossed his arms across his chest, in a gesture that I instantly recognized as one Oliver had inherited. “That there is your wife, and Old Pete’s lovely daughter.” He looked past Lucky and right at me. “Hello, dear,” he said, “I’m so sorry about your father.”

“How can you say that?” I hissed, before thinking the better of it. “How dare you say that, when it’s because of you that he’s dead?”

“Nothing personal, lovey,” he said. “Just business.”

“You’re a monster,” I said, and something in his expression darkened.

“Harper, please, just…stop talking.”

“No, son,” Tommy said, “She’s right. What I done, that’s wrong. And I’ve a penance to pay for the taking of that life. But that there’s between me and God, aye. So, we’ll be movin’ on to the discussion of the business part of the matter.”

“Business? Even if you tripled the amount you owed us, we would never work with you again. And if you think otherwise, you are out of your goddamned mind.”

“That’s unfortunate, son,” he said. “I was afraid you’d say that.” Two of his goons came up from behind me and curled their fists around my arms. I jerked free, stumbling into Lucas, but the lot of them were descending on us, not trying to hurt us, just trying to keep us still, restrain us, maybe take us.

“Get your hands off of me!” I shouted.

“Let her go, Flynn. She’s off limits.” There was a desperation in his voice that I had never heard before, and when I looked at him, his wide eyes were full of pleading. “She’s not a part of this. Please. She has a son.”

“Aye. Your son,” Tommy said. “I know. I’ve done my homework.”

“What’s your game plan here, man? To piss me off further? To ensure that not only do I never do business with you or your organization again, but that I want to fucking kill you?”

“You wanted to kill me before, son,” Tommy said, evenly. “This move here is to ensure you give up that idea.”

His goons began to tug me toward the SUV. “No, let me go.” I struggled to break free, and Lucas struggled to get to me.

“Put her in the back of the car,” Tommy directed.

“Oh, hell no,” I said, and kicked my legs out, dropping myself to the pavement so that I was dead weight. The held me up but it slowed their pace. The other men were all focused on keeping Lucas from getting to me.

“You son of a bitch, I swear to God—”

“Here is the deal, Mister Whelan,” Tommy Flynn said, his hands clasped in front of him. “We’re going to hold on to the lovely lady until you’ve had a chance to calm down. Until you’ve had a chance to talk to your club and talk some sense into everyone. That way, they know that I can come back to town, resurface, and continue on with business as usual. That not only is my monetary debt wiped clean, but so is the blood debt.”

“You’re fucking insane, Flynn,” Lucas spat, full of vitriol.

“Well, son, you see, I think that’s true,” he said. “Because here’s what we’re going to do to ensure your cooperation. You see we’re going to give you six hours, and every hour, we’re going to cut off a part of your pretty little wife and we’re going to send it to you. That’s motivational, isn’t it?”

My heart thrummed in my chest as I was overtaken by fear, as my fight or flight response kicked in. Flight, it was very much flight. I looked at Lucas, who also looked stricken and pale, and I knew I could not let them take me. I didn’t want to know what they would do to me, but more than that, I didn’t want to know how their possession of me would impact Lucas. I tensed my muscles and stomped down on the toes of one of the men that held me. It startled him more than anything else, and he let go enough for me to kick the other guy in the crotch and make a run for it.

I darted off as fast as my legs could carry me, past the abandoned gas station and down a long and empty road. I didn’t look back over my shoulder, I just ran, ran until my lungs burnt, ran until my legs ached.

Ran until something hit the back of my head and everything went black.