Iron & Bone (Lock & Key #3) (34 page)

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

She pressed her lips together.

“Say it, Jill. It ain’t gonna be nothing I haven’t heard before.”

Her wet eyes met mine. “He threatened your life if I didn’t do what he wanted. He said he’d get to you any way he could. Would start out small, like he did today, and then—”

“He ain’t going to touch me or have anyone else do it. Finger was not happy with him either. You should’ve told me. Your life and safety do not get threatened, and me and the club don’t know about it. You hear me? No matter what kind of hold he has over you.”

“He doesn’t have a hold over me.”

I tilted my head at her, my hand smoothing across her jaw. Her gaze was steady, emotional but steady. I rubbed a thumb across her cheek.

My woman.

I had to protect her with everything I had, for as long as we had.

“Are you going to the cellar now?” she asked. “Do your judge-and-jury thing?”

“No, I don’t want to see that bitch. That’s for Jump to deal with, his mess to clean up and save face if he can. I did what had to get done. Now, I want time with my old lady. You got to get back to Rae’s?”

“Actually, Grace and Tania are having a girls’ sleepover with Becca and Rae at the house. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“I could think of a few other choice words for it.”

She let out a soft laugh and pressed her face into my chest.

BACK AT RAE’S
, I quickly packed an overnight bag, chatted with Tania and Rae, and gave my daughter a big hug and kiss where I got my hair covered in homemade play dough.

I followed Boner back to his house. He parked his bike at the end of the long driveway and immediately grabbed my bag from the car.

“We got a whole night, huh?”

I smoothed my hair back, checking for more dough bits. “A whole night.”

I glanced up at the massive stone chimney rising over the cedar siding–paneled house, which was nestled on a green hilly slope, the hill joining the low mountains farther in the distance. A deep porch wrapped around the front, and that incredible bay window was prominent in the center.

Boner unlocked the thick wooden door and pushed it open. He took my hand and brought me inside where he punched a series of numbers into a security-alarm panel on the side of the door.

“I need to get in the shower. I’ll take your bag up. You relax. Be back down in a few.”

“Okay.”

He planted a kiss on my mouth, his fingers lingering at the side of my jaw. “So good to have you here all to myself. Finally,” he said quietly.

He toed off his boots and climbed the stairs, my bag in his hand, his dusty leathers creaking as he moved, the wood steps groaning in his wake.

I stepped into the living room. Spare and uncluttered, except for the stone fireplace with a slab of dark wood for a mantel and the wood trim along the edges of the ceiling. Matching dark wood shutter blinds lined the great bay window, and the thick navy blue cushions dressing the window seat were inviting. A single burgundy-colored sofa faced the hearth.

Did he ever have the guys over to watch a game on the TV and have a few beers?

My gaze skipped around the stark room. He didn’t have a television.

He had a turntable, receiver and speakers though, and lots of music albums. Actual vinyl albums lined the built-in shelves on one side of the fireplace. I shuffled through the records. The Allman Brothers, Jimi Hendrix, Velvet Underground. Early Rolling Stones, late Beatles. Grateful Dead, Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton, even Cream, the collected works of Johnny Cash. The classics, baby.

A number of books filled the set of shelves on the other side of the fireplace. I ran my fingers over the worn spines of the paperbacks. Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski, Dostoyevsky, Joseph Conrad.

Pablo Neruda
. Oh, I’d enjoyed his poems years ago, and I hadn’t seen a book of his since the one I’d discovered in the library at college my freshman year.

I pulled out the slim volume and flipped open the pages. A piece of scrap paper fluttered out at me—a palm-sized square with ripped edges, as if the original piece of paper had been torn into quarters for scrap paper. I unfolded it. Two lines were scribbled in blue pen.

I reached out for you

And destroyed you instead

I blinked. It was Boner’s handwriting. I recognized it from notes he’d left for Grace on her desk. I leafed through the Neruda. Another paper had been tucked in the last quarter of the book. I opened it, my heart thumping.

I want to remember the sound of your breath

When I said no

No to the smoky secrets

No to the thick lies

But I couldn’t say no to the mystery inside

You laughed

And pulled me closer

And I kissed you

I kissed you

And it was like fire

A fire of absolutes

A fire in the dark

A fire in my heart

A fire that left only ashes behind

Ashes

Ashes

We all fall down

Same handwriting. These were little poems. Clips of heart-heavy emotions. Passion.

Boner wrote these.
Who were they about?

I put the two poems back where I’d found them and went through more books, pulling out volumes, checking the insides. Nothing. I took in a small breath. I needed to stop. His poems were an exciting discovery, but it was as if I’d stumbled onto his journal, and I was reading it. Bad, very bad.

I wanted more.

Last book
, I promised myself.

Selected Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke
. I opened the tall paperback, and there it was—another paper. I unfolded it.

You raised my hopes

When I wasn’t looking

I wasn’t sure before

And now I’m the one who wants more

But you’re missing

I can touch you, I can kiss you

You can hold me in your arms

But you won’t let me see you

You’re missing

You bolted tight your doors

Jammed your windows

Locked your drawers

I can’t remain in the cold anymore

You want me, but you push me away

You fill me up and drain me away

You seek me out and then leave me in doubt

You hold me tight and then let go

You let go

You’re slipping away

Making a mess

Separated by your sadness

A sadness that has no name

A sadness you can’t explain

You won’t tell me

You’re missing

Remember when the laughter came easy

And sweet words and kisses had meaning?

You’re bound in a box

And I can’t cut the strings

You’re missing

You want me, but push me away

You fill me up and drain me away

You seek me out yet leave me in doubt

You hold me tight

And then you let go

You’re missing

My body swayed. I gripped the book tightly.
Beautiful. So sad. So…

I gnawed on my lip and took in a breath. No, no.
I’m eavesdropping on his heart. How would I feel if he’d cracked open one of my crazy-ass journals?
I wouldn’t like it. I’d be mortified, embarrassed. My journals were my safe place, my refuge. I needed to write in them to make sense of my world and my emotions that were usually waging a battle inside my head.

The battle to stay sane.

Maybe this was Boner’s way of staying sane.

I tucked the poem back into the Rilke and slid the book into its gaping slot on the bookshelf.

I’d wanted answers, but I only got more questions.

The need to hold him and make it better overtook me. But this was no scraped knee that a kiss on the skin and some antibiotic cream would make all better.

I hiked up the stairs, my fingertips skimming along the smooth polished dark wood banister. The doors to two rooms were open, and one was closed. I peeked into the first open room, which had a simple pine double bed in it and a pine dresser with a small brass lamp on it. A framed crisp black-and-white poster of a mountain range was hanging on the wall.

I passed the closed door and went on to the next room. Boner’s bedroom. The queen-size bed was made with a royal-blue-and-black-trimmed quilt. Matching curtains hung across the long bank of windows. I drew them open, and my breath caught. The view was pretty damn spectacular.

The Black Hills stretched out beyond, pink-and-dusky-blue-sky rolled overhead, as the sun began its descent, touching the tree-furrowed low-lying mountains. It was quite unlike the country suburbia of Meager where Rae lived. Here, on the outskirts of town, was a magical hush, a quiet grandeur.

My gaze swept over his bedroom again. Orderly and simple.

A large round mirror sat on top of the dresser, and an unmarked dark purple glass bottle stood sentry before it. I picked up the small bottle and sniffed. That unique blaze of warmth that Boner’s scent inspired in me every time flared through my veins. I took in another whiff. Wood, black pepper, amber, maybe a hint of chocolate, too.

Glorious.
Boner had custom-made cologne? Man of hipster mystery.

I would have expected a no-frills guy like Boner to just grab whatever man products he saw by the cash register at Walgreens—
if
it occurred to him that he should have them—whenever he popped in to pick up a new pack of cigarettes or gum or condoms. But no, here was something handmade-to-order just for him. My fingers lingered on the glass bottle’s decorative grooves.

I touched a tiny knob on one of the small cube-like drawers at the wooden base of the vintage-style vanity mirror.
What would he put in these? Cuff links? Not likely. A watch maybe? His rings? Extra condoms?

I tugged the drawer open. Two rolled up balls of paper tumbled forward in the drawer. A third was open and very wrinkled. I spread it out on top of the dresser.

If I could be with you where rules didn’t apply

I’d live for the moment

Without asking why

If I could be with you

I unrolled the next paper.

Embraces that mean a thousand things

Glances that hang on strings

I let go of your hand

Is it forever?

And years from now

Will you even remember?

I want to remember

I want to remember it all

My pulse pounded in my neck, blocking my air. I unraveled the other balled up paper.

Who did I cut myself into pieces for?

The man in the moon

Or the ghost in my living room?

I’m nothing but cold inside

Am I supposed to tremble at your threats, at your dark visions?

I don’t have many tears left

Let me slash the rope gouging my throat

I’m to blame

Yet I don’t get the rules of this game

I hate you

And you hate me

I don’t get the rules of this game

When did it become a game?

When did we become nothing but pain?

The water in the shower stopped running, and fumbling sounds came from the master bathroom. I stuffed all the papers back into the small drawer, shutting it with a loud
thunk
, and I stood there, staring at that tiny drawer.

He wrote. He wrote poems. Boner wrote. And not in a notebook but on slips of scrap paper bundled and hidden probably all over this house.

Why not have a notebook? Where would I find more? Under the bathroom sink? With the forks and knives?

He had surrounded himself with these jagged pieces of heartbreak tucked away all over his organized, simple house.

How old were these poems anyway?
I planted my hands on the edge of the dresser, and my stomach clenched.
Were they all about the same woman?

He’d told me he never had an old lady. Grace had said he’d barely ever had a serious relationship before, just very short-term serial monogamy or he played the biker field. He’d tended to keep things with women casual and light.