Betrayal of Cupids (2 page)

Ryan

I threw open the door to my apartment.  I thought I had said my final goodbye to that shithole, but there I was, back for more.  I paced forward and back, trying to talk myself out of the nonsense running through my head. 

“Fuck!”

I tore the posters off the walls.  Glass shattered on the floor.  It wasn’t enough.  I dug my boot into the brokenness, begging to hear the sharp screech of the cracked glass.  It made my fingers tingle, but it was oddly fulfilling. 

I shuffled through the shattered pieces, kicking my way across the carpet.  I flung my hands up against the wall, bouncing my forehead against the painted sheetrock.  My foot shot forward.  I didn’t mean to kick a hole in the wall, but maybe I did.  I wanted it to hurt.  I wanted it to hurt more than the emotional fuckery spinning through my body. 

I hated Sean.  I hated Sean for everything, for my entire life.  Had the gang not pulled me out of that mess, I would’ve gone after him.  That bastard didn’t even have the balls to face us after what he did.  He just disappeared.  He killed my Pops and then walked away.  And sure, maybe in the strongest sense of the word, it was an accident, but he didn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt.  He dug his grave with me a long time ago, and if it was the last thing I ever did on this earth, I would be the one to put him into it.

But then there was Grace.  I couldn’t shake the image, the memory of her as we were torn apart.  She looked lost, empty.  Because of me, her world was shaken.  I wondered what she was doing at that moment.  Was she hurting the way I was hurting?  Did we share the same pain?  I cursed the guys for pulling us away from each other.  She needed me.  Fuck it; I needed her.

I let my body fall back, crashing onto my bed.  I closed my eyes.  Maybe I could just sleep through this part, I thought.  Maybe I’d be able to wake up and not feel this way anymore, but as my eyelids dropped, I was brought back to the torture of the night before.

“It’s the police!”

“We have to get out of here!”

“Everyone meet at Rocket’s pad!”

It was all happening in slow motion.  I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that Pops was not getting up.  Why was he still lying there?  Why was I being dragged away from him?  And what about Grace?  No, I needed her there with me.  I didn’t want to have anything to do with this.  But she was gone.  They took her.  They took my Grace.  The sound of the bikes roared around me.  Why was I in a car?

“Why the cage?  Where’s my bike?”

“Dude.”  It was a familiar voice, but I couldn’t place it.  Everything around me was spinning.  “We have to get you sewed up before you can ride.”

Sewed up?  I looked down at my shirt.  Blood.  There was blood everywhere.  Why did I still feel nothing?

We all pulled up to Rocket’s townhouse, just a few blocks away from the one where I grew up.  The roar of the engines died, and I was escorted up the stairs.  No one trusted me to handle my own body.  Or maybe in that state, I physically couldn’t handle my own body?  Nevertheless, it was a good call.  I had no idea what was happening around me.

Everyone crowded in to the living room, Rocket directing the club members to the kitchen and bathroom as he made space for everyone to sit.  He held on to me.  He sat me down.  He was a good guy. 

“Rocket, everything all right?” I heard a sweet voice say from behind me.

“Go back to bed, baby.  I’ll tell you about it in the morning.”

Rocket’s ol’ lady nodded knowingly and made her way upstairs.  She was beautiful.  Her jet-black hair framed her long, mysterious face, highlighted her pale blue eyes.  Her pouty lips drew you in as she formed every syllable of every word.  If that weren’t enough, her voice purred.  I had obviously fantasized about her in the past, but the fantasy currently spinning through my confused head was of Grace.  This woman who had been the reason for my first wet dream was nothing compared to the woman who was pulled from me that night: my innocent Grace.  With her I saw my future.  I saw past the bullshit of my youth and the nonsense of my life of crime.  With her, I could have a real life.

But Grace was taken from me, and I had no idea when I would see her again.  I felt the fire of envy burning in the pit of my stomach.  As I watched Rocket’s ol’ lady climb the stairs, my jealousy consumed me.  Rocket had someone to confide in.  He had a partner with whom he could share the pains of the day, of his life. 

I was alone.  I would go home alone.  I would wake up alone.

“Ryan… Ryan?”

I heard my name being called, but I couldn’t respond.  I lifted my eyes to the voice.

“Stay with us.  This is going to hurt.”

What was going to hurt?  I heard the crunch of the scissors.  They were cutting my shirt.  Rocket was standing above me holding a cheap bottle of vodka.  He pulled the pour spout off with his teeth, and I felt the searing sting as soon as the liquid splashed on my chest.

“Fuck me!”  Even through the cloud, the pain was not dulled.

“I know buddy.  You’re just going to have to suck it up a little longer.”

That’s when I felt something piercing through my skin.  I tried to move, but they were holding me down.  The stillness only made the pain more real. 

“Ryan… Ryan…” It was Rocket.  I knew it was Rocket.  “I just gotta sew this up.  You’re going to be okay.”

I felt my consciousness slipping.  The people in front of me blurred until they disappeared.  But I could still feel… at least for a little longer.

“He’s waking up.”

My heavy eyes blinked open.  I must have passed out from the pain.  The pain… I still felt the pain.  I was handed two large pills and a glass of water.  I didn’t ask questions.  Rocket lifted my head.  Everyone was gathered around.  Why was everyone around?  Oh right.  Pops… Pops was gone.  They were looking to me for guidance, and, I’m sure, to see how long it would take for me to crack.  I figured I should probably address the hoard of people around me, let them know I hadn’t already succumbed to the latter.

“Rocket, I want to say something to everyone.”

“Really?  Are you sure?”

I wasn’t.  My first choice would’ve been to sit in silence.  Unfortunately, that was not an option.  No, I would have to face this.  I would have to stand up.  I would eventually have to address my club.  Why wait any longer?

I tried to stand.

“No, buddy, you’re going to stay there.”

I didn’t argue with Rocket, simply nodded and prepared to continue.  I looked around the room, ready to speak.  The group was silent.  I inhaled shallowly, as my body would not allow any more breath to enter.

“I’m shocked.  I think that’s the best word to describe it.  Yes.  Shocked.  Sean betrayed his family tonight and left us without our president.  And while I may have been his only biological son, tonight we all lost our father.”  I wasn’t sure where I was finding the words, I hated speaking in front of people, but I wasn’t about to question my sudden affinity for speech.  I let it flow.  “James Cassidy was a good man.  Hell, he was a great man.  I can’t imagine the work it’s going to take to live up to his expectations, his hopes for us as a group, but I promise you this:  I will spend every minute of the rest of my life making him proud.”

A few slow claps followed my final words and were soon joined by the rest of the group.  They were clapping for me.  They were clapping because I made a promise to them and to Pops.

Rocket’s voice bellowed over the crowd.

“To our new president.”

The crowd mirrored his call.  “To our new president.” 

New President?  President? 

Shit.

Grace

Goodbye, but only for now, Ryan.  Know that I love you, today, tomorrow, and past the light.

~Your Grace

Pitiful: completely pitiful.  I wanted to crumple it up and throw it away, but I knew if I didn’t send this one, I would never send another.  If I didn’t send this letter, Ryan might be waiting forever, not knowing I was doing the same.

The idea of a pen and paper letter seemed ridiculously humiliating, but with everything that had happened, with my father being killed only two days earlier, the club was sure to be on lockdown.  We had been through this before.  All Internet and phone use would be monitored.  I wouldn’t even be able to look up a recipe without being questioned about it later.  So there I was, pretending I had grown up in an age where people had pen pals.  I was writing a letter to the man I loved, the man I would always love, hoping that my family wouldn’t intercept it.  It was completely pitiful.

I pushed back from my desk and grabbed an envelope.  I scribbled down the address of Ryan’s clubhouse, where I had found myself both the night I was shot and the night I was tortured.  My hand shook as I penned his zip code.  What was wrong with me?  Why couldn’t I be stronger?  Why wouldn’t my nightmares let me forget a single detail?

After allowing myself a second to breath, I found my balance and stood up.  My plain black dress fell below my knees.  I took a quick peek in the mirror, preparing myself to leave the room.  The neckline of my dress was high on my chest.  It was a deliberate move.  Any lower and the bright white of the butterfly stitches holding my torn skin together would be visible to everyone.  I didn’t want questions.  I didn’t want to talk to anyone.  Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option.  I was about to go to my father’s funeral.  There would be plenty of people who would be lining up to talk to me.

I threw the letter into a little clutch purse and slowly turned the knob to my bedroom door, pulling it open.  No one.  Was I really alone?  I was sure someone had been posted outside my door the entire previous day.  Did they give up on me?  Maybe I could sneak out of the house unnoticed.  I turned the corner and prepared to step down the stairs, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I screamed.  It was instinct really: one of my daytime nightmares.  My body just did not want to be touched.

“Grace, Grace, it’s just me.”

Standing a least a foot taller than me was a monster of a man.  His shoulders were that of a behemoth, and his tanned skin was that of someone who could only have lived in Florida.  While his bare arms were littered with tattoos, a brightly colored leopard on his bicep stood out from the rest.  You could practically see every single one of his muscles through his shirt—even when he wore sweaters.  That was why Aunt Kathryn and I had jokingly called him ‘Mr. Muscles’.  It wasn’t his road name; it was just something we had made up.  Come to think of it, I didn’t actually know his road name.  I didn’t know his real name, either.  Sometimes I really was a bitch, but at this point, after knowing him for just over four years, it was a little too late to ask.  I felt bad that it was he was the one tasked with watching over me—a little.  Mostly, I didn’t care.

“I’m sorry, you scared me.”

“Where are you going?”

“A funeral, remember?”  I was not happy.

“Oh right.”  His eyes grew big.  “I’m sorry.  I’m… I’m… so sorry.”

I nodded, hoping to stop the stuttering.  It didn’t matter to me that this situation might be awkward for him.  I just kept moving.

“I’ll drive you.”

“No, thank you.”  I didn’t even look back at him.

“No, I don’t think you understand.  I have to drive you.” 

He was cautious and stern, but my words were snarky and sarcastic.  “You actually don’t.”  I might have been a bit mean, but I did not take lightly to being told what to do.

I was halfway down the stairs before he caught my wrist in his calloused hand.

“Let me go!”

“No.”  This time his voice was strong, unwavering.  I couldn’t respond; I was too taken aback.  No one ever spoke to me with such a tone; no one, at least, who was employed by my father.

I inhaled through my nose and spoke very slowly.  I wanted him to understand what I was saying.  “You do not ever raise your voice to me.”

“Do as you’re told, and I won’t have to.”  He lifted his eyebrow as he finished his sentence. 

The nerve!  Who did he think he was?  Telling me what to do?  And on this day, of all days?

I pulled my hand free and continued down the stairs.

“I’ll be in the car.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head.  I could tell he felt sorry for me, but pity was not what I wanted.  I wanted freedom. 

I’d play his way, but it would not become a habit.  I refused to be followed around like a child for more than a day.  If someone were really going to come after me, as the club obviously feared, a bodyguard wouldn’t save me.

Mr. Muscles quickly threw on a jacket and followed me outside.  He opened the passenger side door for me, and I crawled into the car.  He found his way to the driver’s seat, but instead of starting the engine, he turned to me.

“We don’t know each other that well,” he said.

“And I’m fine keeping it that way.”  I didn’t want to talk.

“Well, I’m not.  If I’m going to be watching over you, I want you to know you can trust me.”

This made me turn to him.  “Do you actually think trusting you is at the top of my list of priorities right now?  Getting through each day is taking enough effort.  I don’t need a bodyguard.  I need to be alone.”

He took a second to breathe in my reply, but then fired back, “Grace, I don’t care what you need.  I need to protect you.”

“Don’t you have better things to do?”

“No.  There is nothing more important to me than making sure you’re safe.  Nothing.”

I stopped pitying myself for a second and looked at him.  He was serious.  “Why?”

Mr. Muscles sat back in his seat.  “Do you remember your first year of college?  I was the sad little prospect tasked with following you around campus.”

“Believe me, I remember that.”  I glared at him.

“I know that might have been annoying for you, but it meant a lot to me.  For your father to trust me enough to protect you… it was…” he choked on his words, “for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged somewhere.  And when you spend every day following someone from afar, you learn a good deal about them.  Grace, you might not know me, but I know you.  And when we showed up the other night and your shirt was torn and there was blood everywhere, the only person I blamed was myself.”

He now had me hanging on his every word, but I couldn’t have him feeling responsible for that night.  “That was not your fault.”

“Maybe not, but I still feel a responsibility to you, to your father, to keep you safe.  Please let me do that.  To honor his memory.”

What was I supposed to say to that?  While I understood and appreciated his commitment, I still couldn’t promise him that I would be okay with having him following me around indefinitely.  A person just can’t live like that.

But today was my father’s funeral.  It wouldn’t hurt either of us to have someone close by.

I nodded in response.  His right cheek lifted in a sort of muscled half-smile, and he brought the engine to life.  The engine.  The roaring sound still made every hair on my neck stiffen.  I sucked in a breath, pleading to find a way out of the moment.

Mr. Muscles sensed my apprehension and placed his hand on mine.  It should have been comforting, especially after our exchange, but I couldn’t stand to be touched.  Did I have to spell it out for everyone?

“No.” I scolded, as I pulled my hand away.

“I’m sorry, Grace, I just thought…”

“Well, don’t think.  You might think you know me from watching me at college for four years, but today I’m different.  From now on, I will always be different.”

I was stern, mean, but I was hurting.  If there were an excuse for behaving like this, my father’s funeral might be the only one.  Still, I felt bad.  This wasn’t me.  I wasn’t this hateful.  Or was I?  How much truth was in my rant?  Would I ever be the same after Sean’s attack, after witnessing the murder of my father?  I certainly didn’t feel the same.

“I’m sorry.  It’s just too much.”

“I know.  You don’t need to explain yourself.”

After my small outburst, the ride to the cemetery was quiet.  Mr. Muscles offered a few pleasantries, trying to break the silence, but I was reluctant to respond.  I didn’t need a friend or a confidante.  I needed this day to be over.  I needed to be back in bed. 

I rested my head against the window.  This was going to be my life for a while: being escorted and protected everywhere I went.  But it wasn’t a life.  It was a prison, and I was the prisoner.  There was nothing left.  I would be completely shackled to my little town, with its population of barely five hundred people.  I would be unable to finish my first semester of grad school.  Even in his grave, my father had made sure to tie me to the life that he had built, the life that he had wanted for me, the life that I would forever despise.