If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel (19 page)

I gotta stay on track—I got shit to do.

It only takes me two shakes of a lamb's tail, but once I’ve grabbed the
doctored
beer and stepped back out onto the deck, I hand her the correct one after screwing the bottle top off in front of her.

“Actually, for some reason, I always assumed we were picking up her son.”

Rigid. She goes rigid still. And pale as a ghost.

“S-son.” Her voice breaks, and as soon as I see her eyes flood with tears for the second time tonight, glistening in the moonlight, my arms circle her waist. And I’m telling myself it’s for the right reasons, to keep her erect. When in fact, we’re all discussing the wrong erection, and I
fucking
know it. So do you.

After we’re facing the ocean, with her back to my front, I know she’s tense under my hands. I can
feel
her tensing. She’s ready to fucking run again. “No—there’s no son. Drink that. It’ll help—”

“I don’t drink.” She tries to hand me the ice cold bottle back, but I shake my head.

“No.” My finger tips the beer up when she brings it to her mouth for a swig, forcing her to take a guzzle. “I was a kid, remember? I was just a stupid kid, assuming. Your ma doesn’t have any long lost sons—not that I know of, anyway. Promise.” Once I note she’s drank well past the label of the bottle, I let my cards down from my vest. I set my intentions out next to the circumstance, and my heart, my dead heart—I feel it slowly creep open. As I open my mouth, I speak the truth to her. “I don’t know; I guess that’s why it didn’t click. Well that and you look nothing like neither your mom nor your sister.” I breathe in, deeply, sucking up some of the salt in the air with the lemon and apple scent from the few wisps of her hair that’s fallen out of the bun on top of her head.

And once I have my chin settled on her shoulder, and I feel her body relax next to mine, I get to the root of what the fuck I’m doing here.

This little vagabond’s trust is about as fickle as they come. I open my mouth, and for the first time tonight, I stop holding my tongue. “Had I known then what I know now I’d have ran like hell from you, little vagabond.” I do the same tip of the finger when she brings the bottle back to her lips, and I don’t allow her to stop drinking until she’s drained every last drop.

It hits her fast—as fuck. Much faster than I anticipated. She’s
way
past tipsy before she can even set the bottle on the deck railing between us and the deck. And I can tell, because even though I’m standing behind her, holding her erect, she still tips forward and stumbles. And I have to catch her. And this time when she chuckles...it isn’t dark and hollow. It doesn’t almost hurt to hear the sound of it. And it isn’t the saddest little laugh, coming from the saddest little girl in the whole wide world. No, it’s a giggle. A full-hearted, healthy fucking giggle.

“And why exactly is that, Mr. Jacques Cain?” Her words slur. “Because if you had any idea how much I wish I could've run. And I should've run. I should have run like hell that day, too. I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, Jacques Cain. I really wish I would've just kept my mouth shut sitting up in that tree. Why do you wish you did?”

“Why do I wish I did? What?” I ask, barely following her.
Her eyes are damn near crossed when they land on mine. “Shit,” I mutter, before scooping her up. “Because of who the
fuck
your pops is kid, that’s fucking why.” And as soon as her weight hits my arms, it’s dead. She’s fucking out like a light.

I shuffle her into my left arm and dig my iPhone from my back pocket. “God fucking dammit, Vagabond. Fuck!” I curse, dialing Dreads. “Hey, man. Dude—how fucking much Versed did you put in that thing? I told you she was a lightweight! She’s fucking out, man.” I glance down at her in my arms and when she smiles, still completely
out
, that dead fucking chunk of meat in the middle of my chest twitches for the second or third time tonight. And my hand, on its own volition, sweeps the hair that’s fallen loose from her bun and away from around her face.

“Fuck it—change in plans. She’s not breathing. She’s coming with us, Dreads.” I slide my thumb across End on the screen of my phone, grab her pack of cigarettes and lighter, and sling her ass over my shoulder before standing up.

I look out over the sea with Eve Of’May O’Malley slung over my shoulder and sigh. After grabbing her smokes from the deck, I light one and head back across it, then through her bedroom doors, smoke billowing behind me as I carry her inside. After I flop her onto the bed and look over her from head to toe, I pull another strong drag off her cigarette and
briefly
wonder how she keeps her house smelling so fucking good when she smokes...

And before you even start—before you even fucking ask, yes, she’s breathing. And no, I have no idea why the fuck I just lied to the one guy that’s always had my back. Over nothing.

My eyes scan every square inch of flesh from her head to her little painted pink toes, gobbling up every minute revealed detail.

“Because besides being ‘King’ O’Malley’s kid, she really is no one,” I repeat to myself for the hundredth time since finding out that tidbit of information downtown earlier.

And this time, if it’s you who's assuming, then the fault is yours.

But know this, I keep fucking dibs on my shit—unlike
Ben.
And when I found out Ilsa’s other kid wasn’t a son, I pulled Dreads into the loop and we talked it out.
Keeping Ben out of it
. At least until I can get all this shit figured out.

So I’ve known where the hell she’s been. I’ve known who the hell she’s lived with, associated with. I have people. I keep fucking dibs.

Right, I just didn’t make the goddamn connection between Blakeney and O’Malley. Missed that whole fucking flashing neon sign, didn’t I?

I know these two things instantly when I come to the first time. One, I’m strapped, as literally as I can tell you, I am
strapped
to another human being. And two, that human being is going north of a hundred miles per hour, on a motorcycle, down the longest highway I’ve ever seen.

And then...night night, mothafucka. The lights went out.

***

I know this one thing, and it’s so very briefly before I pass back out the second time I stir awake, God knows how many hours later. I just know my entire fucking body
aches.

***

The sun cutting through the dishrag-colored curtains stirs me awake before pulling me from my dreams, and immediately I sit up, bitching. “Why? Holy shit, where am I at? And why?” I don’t even register how groggy I am. I’m still not that awake yet, I guess, as I try to rub the sleep from my eyes and miss because my muscles won’t heed the demands my brain is screaming. “Ty?” I squint through the room, and I swear to Christ, if I weren’t sitting on a king size mattress in some roadside hotel, I would have fallen off it when my blurry vision lands on him across the room, leaning back in a chair.

Jacques fucking Cain. My last few lucid memories filter in with the morning light just as he drapes his left foot over his worn denim-covered right knee. Then his hands settle in what looks like prayer, with his pointer fingers slightly tapping his full bottom lip.

My vision is pretty much clear. Actually, it’s completely clear as I take stock of him. And somehow becoming clearer, despite the glare of sun in my face.

I hate him.
I try to talk myself into the thought, then decide fuck all when it doesn’t stick, and then I side with anger. I’m past trying to figure this asshole out. “What have you done, you stupid, asshole? Ty is going to fucking kill you!” I shriek at him, trying my damnedest to get that last point across.

And when his eyes smile, they flick down to my lips before looking back up and settling on mine. “I’ve asked myself that exact question, Pipsqueak. A thousand fucking times.” He holds his hands palms forward before letting them fall back together. “No idea. What about you? Do you know why you’re here?”

“Ty’s going to fucking kill you. Like search parties, authorities, the whole nine.” I go to stand up, and before I can even make it to the edge of the bed, my slow moving legs are worrying me. So when I do go to stand up, and they buckle, of course he’s right fucking there.
Again!
  Shit, he’s going to think this keeps happening on purpose!

“Okay, if you keep falling I’m going to get a complex. Shit, girl—you have vertigo or something?”

I snatch, and yes—snatch—my balance back from him before my spine goes rigid. “I’m fine.” I tug down a t-shirt over the hem of some blue jeans of mine that I don’t remember sliding up. “Where are we at? No, fuck that—” I step forward, stabbing his chest with my pointer finger as things begin
finally
clicking into place. “Who the hell do you think you are?” I step around him and head towards the standard window that tells me we’re in a hotel. And when I’m close enough, I reach for the blind pull and tug, tearing the blinds open. “Taking me from my fucking
home?
” My voice is past just being raised. I’m actually pretty sure the term shrieking isn’t even efficient enough to describe the new heights my voice climbs as I look between him and outside. “Ty’s gonna kill you,” I whisper, as my heart falls apart.
When, tonight? After you’re supposedly off? And you’re late to his house after? That’s when? Oh, good. He’ll be here at two am, then. Good.

“Shit.” This time when the tears well, I don’t quickly blink them away. I don’t sniffle. I don’t try to slowly breathe. I just let them fall. Stream straight down my face before falling away. Right in front of him. “Okay, well. Maybe not today. Ty won’t kill you today. He won’t even know I’m gone—” I hiccup before the gates open and the flood happens.

And I mean, I ugly
fucking
cry. Hard. Snot. Tears. And I can’t even promise you there isn’t some drool somewhere in the mess that’s happening on my face. But I do know this: My vision isn’t clear anymore. It’s gone right back to blurry.

He’s so silent, and he moves so quickly and even more quietly, that one minute he’s not there and then the very next, he is. And ever so slowly, with his tall, huge presence swollen around me, his hand reaches up before sinking into my hair. He tugs at my ponytail slightly before ripping it from my bun. When the dark locks cascade down my shoulders, I blink up at him, trying to clear away the tears, but it’s useless.

“Shh…” His huge hands push my hair over my shoulders before cupping my face. “Breathe, Pipsqueak. Breathe. Hey—” I close my eyes again, squeezing them as tight as I can, then blink them back open.

Now I can see him. Now I can make out the black and deep navy against the dark blue of his irises. Now I can trace his long lashes around his big beautiful blue eyes with mine.

“We’re just here to talk. I didn’t hear Ty’s end of that conversation. Just bits and pieces of yours.” Wait—What?
He must see the confusion on my face because he quickly continues. “At your house. I didn’t know if he was headed over or not. And I wasn’t finished talking to you.” He shrugs his left shoulder before smirking. And I feel it then, I feel it and for the first time recognize it for what it is. I weaken. Towards him, I weaken.