It hurts. It hurts more than it reasonably should, and I fight the urge to wrap my arms around my chest to protect my heart. How has he wormed his way in, getting me to care about him? Pressure builds behind my eyes, and I lock my entire body down, breathing hard to avoid crying yet again. My tears are precious, and he's already had enough of them, for God's sake.
"That's bullshit," I mutter. "And we both know it."
"Think that if you want, but it's just a fuck. That's all I ever give."
"It wasn't just a fuck with Trinity, was it?" I counter.
He rocks back a step like I just sucker-punched him. Those pale, pale eyes are unguarded, and something intriguingly vulnerable flashes across his face. And something shocking occurs to me. I've always thought Calamity Gardel clawed his way out of the gutter, a mean bastard with something to prove to the world and nothing but contempt for the people he crushed along the way.
But I was wrong. This man that I've hated my whole life is just a front. Because the man before me looks different from the hardened leader of the Kings. He's still monstrously tall and has more muscle than the average bodybuilder, but his eyes are kinder, his posture relaxed. Intelligence glitters in his eyes, and if one swapped the riding letters for a sweater vest, he'd look like a professor.
"Don't say her name," he says in a quiet, deadly voice. "None of you fucking deserve to say her name."
Then he turns on his heel and marches back the way he'd come, sequestering himself in the room. I know without being told that I'm not welcome. I give up the battle with my exhaustion and pull one of the heavy blackout curtains from its rod before trooping outside. It's too cold to be sleeping outside in my flimsy skater dress, armed only with a curtain to ward off the cold. But frankly? I don't give a shit.
I find one of the chairs pressed against the sidewall and curl up like a cat, resting my head on the armrest. The blackout curtain keeps off the worst of the chill. I clutch my arms tight to my chest, trying to smother the feelings of betrayal. I screw my eyes shut and repeat the lie like a mantra.
He doesn't matter, he doesn't matter, he doesn't matter...
And I intend to keep saying it until it sounds true. But sleep comes before my traitorous heart believes it.
10
Calamity
Damn her straight to hell, right along with her father.
She's managed to sucker punch me twice in one night. First, with her tears and now with the mention of Trinity's name. I was a fucking idiot to let that slip. What happened to Trinity is public record, but no one cares to look. Who cares about the truth when there's a handy scapegoat around? Cruz Sr. was happy to sweep the whole sordid mess under the rug and pretend it never happened. And he'd died with everyone believing him the martyr.
I spit. The hatred for him is a choking thing, made all the worse because I can do nothing about it any longer. He's gone, and I'll never know if it was my bullet or someone else's that ended his miserable life. It was a more merciful end than he deserved. This was supposed to be my chance to wreak a little vengeance on him posthumously.
I'm not supposed to give a shit about her. I'm supposed to dangle her like bait for her moronic brothers, who I still can't believe are absent. The fact they aren't showing up for her somehow makes me absurdly protective of her. Which is moronic of me, really. Penelope doesn't need help protecting anything, except perhaps her heart. Because if she's letting a bastard like me in, then she's in for a world of hurt.
I pull a small stone from my jacket pocket, studying it with bleak amusement. Of all the things I expected to find in Penelope's jacket, this hadn't been it. A worry stone worn so smooth she must have had her hands on it constantly. I brush my thumb across the worn space, following the path that her fingers must have taken. What did my little captive worry about before she came to me? And how is she faring without this to help? And why do I give a shit how she copes?
All my well-thought-out games are coming to a crashing halt. It's no longer fun to taunt and torment the girl. There is a reason I only fuck whores and never spend more than a day or two with each. I never want to get attached. The iron core of certainty I've held onto for so long will waver, and I'll question everything that's brought me to this point.
But I can't help myself. Any time I'm in proximity to her, I'm hard. There's something about her that's so compelling that I act against my better judgment. It's been hell to resist her this long. And it isn't just because she looks like Trinity. She's just as compassionate beneath the tough exterior. But unlike Trinity, she's been tough enough to protect herself against the thuggish life of an MC member. Trinity had counted on me to be the shield between her and whatever was coming.
And I'd failed her.
I make my mind up after an hour of stewing. She has to go. I can't let this farce go on for any longer. I can't afford a weak spot with all the turmoil going on at the moment. I can't let that weak spot be Penelope Cruz. If I encourage this, it will end in disaster. I have to grudgingly admit that I like her. And if circumstances were different, I might have even allowed myself to thaw and give it a chance. That's impossible now. Too many barriers. Her family is the least of them.
I snort. Thanksgivings and Christmases will go over well, I'm sure. Nothing starts dinner conversation better than, "Sorry, I killed your father and attempted to murder both your brothers."
What a fucking joke. I can't have Penelope, even if I want her.
I retrieve Penelope's clothing from where Kylie stowed it beneath the floorboards. I am sure the stubborn girl scoured the whole room looking for her clothing before finally giving up. She'll be pissed to learn it was beneath her feet the whole time. I shove her things into a bag and hoist it over my shoulder. There's only one thing to do. I will make sure she's not my problem any longer.
If Cruz wants to get off his ass and play the hero, I'll let him play the hero. Because Penelope is dangerously close to learning the truth, and I don't want her anywhere near my past with that perceptive gaze and kind heart. Better to let her free than cling still more firmly to me. Better for everyone involved that way.
It's half-past nine when I finally step out of the room and resolve to find her. I'm expecting to find her in one of the upper rooms since I've been monopolizing the one she ordinarily sleeps in. My heart kicks up a little when I realize that she's not in the house. Surely, she didn't leave? She's wearing next to nothing, and I would have heard it if she'd managed to hot wire one of our bikes to make an escape.
My heart settles into a slightly easier rhythm when I step out onto the wrap-around porch and find her curled up in one of the chairs outside. She's wrapped in one of the blackout curtains and has to be freezing. Stupid, stubborn girl. She had only to ask for one of the rooms upstairs.
I deposit the bag by the chair.
With a sigh, I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. It's no quilt, but it'll have to do until after I'm through making my phone call. After a second of thought, I take her hand and gently pry open her fingers, placing the worry stone in her palm before closing them around it. Her lips twitch in her sleep but don't quite form a smile.
