Leon's Way (9 page)

Before we left Smother, I exchanged phone numbers with Arriane and Ingela. Now, I text Arriane.

Watch my brother for me? Rough day at the hospital.

Her reply ticks in as I get comfortable in my aisle seat.
Is he okay?

Before I turn off the phone, readying myself for takeoff, I reply.

Not sure. Dad’s out of the coma.

It’s Sunday, the slowest night of the week at Smother. My shield is back up by the time I park the car and approach Jason at the entrance.

Besides Christian and Arriane, he’s the only one at the bar who’s seen me go rogue. He physically saved me from making fucking crazy decisions when Pandora left me for Dominic. I promptly fired him, but I missed his ass and offered him the job again a few days later.

“What about the severance package?” he’d asked in the gravelly voice that keeps the lunatics at bay in the club. “Was gonna buy a motorcycle.” I’d snorted and told him to keep the payout as long as he came back.

I shake Jason’s hand in greeting. “Hey, man. What are the stats so far?”

He checks the manual counter he swears by, Jason’s little hang-up. He’s loving that I ask. “Not too shabby for a Sunday, boss. We’ve got a hundred and thirteen heads.”

“Nice,” I say and slap his back like it’s his doing. By the way he tilts his head, beaming, he thinks so too.

“No problem, boss.”

I consider taking my unfinished rage upstairs to the Bag Room. With a hundred guests, they can handle business without me for a couple of hours. Got to check on Arriane, though.

My baby mama.

Jesus.

If I dwell on this fact too right now, my head will explode, so I don’t. All I need is to make sure she’s fine, then I’ll head upstairs.

As usual, I linger in the doorway to the main room. Behind the counter, Arriane sways her hips to the music. Ingela does too—in her jeans yet again. The two girls are polar opposites and a knockout together. Ingela shakes her short, natural blonde hair wildly, emphasizing some story she’s telling, and Arriane throws her long black mane back, giggling at her shenanigans.

I blow out a puff at the sight of them; for a second, all’s right with the world. As if Arriane senses my attention, she straightens and waves at me. She hasn’t done that in a while, not since last year. Lately, she’s teetered between staying out of my way—and giving in whenever I corner her.

Instead of waving back, I cross to the bar with a purpose. Arriane is handing over a Corona to a regular as I enter behind her. “Arriane—Ingela. All good?” I tip my head up, making sure they can read my lips. It’s what you do in rooms this loud.

“Yes, sir!” Ingela screams in her signature way. The girl mouths nothing.

I point at her jeans, and she nods fervently. “Oh! Sorry! I brought my work pants, though!”

Ingela is quite the character. Between the runway looks and her happy-go-lucky attitude, I understand why she’s got several “gays” coming in most nights, vying for her erratic attention.

Arriane shakes her head at me, a small smirk playing on lips I love to kiss. “She didn’t. I brought them.”

I break into an actual smile for the first time since the hospital visit. “Incorrigible.”

“Totally.”

I want to touch her. Rest my arm around her waist and cradle her stomach with my hand. Shield whatever could hurt her—him—with myself. I see the pulse at her neck. The shifting lights above don’t allow me to count the beats or decide if it’s rapid, slow, or just right. But if my lips were on it, I’d know.

I puff out a breath, almost wishing she’d get sick. I’d take her upstairs, then—tend to her. Fucking A. If I got to clean vomit, I might not need the Bag Room.

“What’s so funny?” she asks me.

“Oh, nothing,” I reply. She doesn’t want anyone to know that she’s slept with the boss, which I respect. I lean in, acting like we’re conducting club business. “He’s not making you sick tonight?” I ask.

She smiles up at me but keeps her thoughts hidden. “No, he’s being a good boy. Sleeping and letting me keep the crackers down.”

“Can you eat something else? You’re getting skinny.”

“Eggs. I loooove eggs.”

“I’m an egg-making champion,” I say into her ear even though I could start rumors by doing so. Thankfully, the only ones close by are Ingela, who’s with a customer, and Christian. His girl, Shannon, is here, keeping him busy.

A patron flags Arriane down, indicating some sort of mixed drink. He’s trying to order with gestures only, it seems.

“He wants a San Francisco!” Ingela shrieks to Arriane, and the guy bobs his head like she just won the lottery. She’s good. No idea how she did that.

San Francisco.

My mind’s back to my little sister. She’s safely on her plane, flying back to her real life. A better life. A fist clenches in my stomach as I stop myself from ruminating over the life she left here again. The evil wizard. Fuck.

“Arriane,” I say. “Gotta head upstairs for a minute. Walk straight in if you need the bathroom, all right?”

She’s at the blender, vermouth in one hand and sloe gin in the other, pouring. Her face is hidden, so I pull back her hair. Ingela snipes a glance our way, which reminds me to step down on the touching.

“Thank you, boss,” Arriane replies, and I’m not so sure I like my job title on her lips anymore. Fucking efficient way of creating distance.

I change immediately, even bind my hands. At the moment, gloves defeat the purpose for me, but a little tape never hurts. I’ve got my system. I know what works. Besides having kinky-ass sex, this and my bike are the only things that calm me down. Bare-chested and in my black gi pants, I rage into the heavy bag.

The music from the club thunders through the floor, but I need more, so I shove in a CD before I continue. The collision between the tunes downstairs and my own death metal make me want to break into a crazy laugh.

I don’t, though, because I’m spending my energy on this. For every punch, I visualize my father’s face when I took him down at sixteen. The shock, the bruises, the blood I left him with. The fucking cracked collarbone.

Something surges in me at the thought—I force everything else away. There’s no room for Katsu’s broken expression on his lap before I ripped her off him.

I tear into the medium bag. Tear at it, tear at it—killing the damn thing like I wish I’d done to
him
. The mirror tosses back my glistening shape.

What evil god let him survive the stroke?

I snarl out my disappointment, joining the chorus of ugly roars from the stereo, and I don’t stop, don’t stop killing
him
until a hand touches my shoulder. I freeze, because not even here, in my sanctuary, am I less than one step from control.

My chest rasps with the need for oxygen. I realize I have none left, and my lungs can’t pull it in fast enough. In the mirror, I see her, small, scared, watching me gulp down air. She’s smothered in this music that’s straight from hell, the opposite of anything
she
represents, and the baby—

Shit, the baby can’t be hearing this!

I bound to the stereo and power it off. From below, a ballad slinks into our bubble, and I stare at her, wordless.

Enormous eyes flicker with compassion. With slow, tentative steps, she narrows in cautiously, like I’m the frightened one. I cover my face with my hands. Shut her out. Move back into the corner I’m in.

“Sweetie,” she whispers.

I see the two of us from outside myself.

This man. His shoulders uncurl, straightening his body into the imposing, don’t-you-fuck-with-me posture I know. Emerging from widespread fingers, his face lifts, stills—reveals irises lustrous with agony when they trap mine.

I move, keep moving toward him.

This man. He’s a wild creature, a cornered animal that wants to flee, but he’s Leon too, the one I don’t stop loving, and he needs—needs…

“Stay the fuck away right now, Arriane. Go.
Leave!
”

No. Katsu’s text message breached my resistance. I’m here because he’s suffering, and I want to alleviate this pain. I’ll never jeopardize the baby’s happiness for Leon’s, but before he’s born, I’ll be here for his father. For now, the only one who will hurt if I comfort Leon, is me.

“Sweetie,” I mouth again. With the instincts of a jungle cat, Leon shakes his head, perceiving my intent. I inhale for courage and take the final step into him.

Sweat, musk, teary cologne. Distress drips from muscles taut and ready for attack. “Arriane, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. You don’t want this—how I’d be with you. You! Are not made for this.”

He shouts the last part, and I blink, absorbing and rejecting his warning; I experienced him going nuts on New Year’s Eve and survived. I won’t let that intimidate me again. All I want is for him to be—

“You done being a victim, Arria?” Leon’s tone has changed. Suddenly, it slinks low, caressing me with each syllable. “You’ve got five seconds to scurry off. Go be safe somewhere. Go home, okay? All the way back to that fuzzy, pink little place you probably have.”

How can so much tension, such menace, vibrate in such a quiet voice? He barely breathes out his threats, and yet my pulse rattles in every limb.

“Bet your bed smells like you.” He drags a hand over his face. “Ah! Arria. Let me finish this. Please leave.”

“I can’t,” I say, and suddenly I realize it’s what I always tell him. Lately, no matter what he asks for, I can’t. This time, it’s to his benefit, though, and he catches the difference too.

“I’m a monster,” he hisses, takes my hair in a hard fist, and jerks my head back.

“No, you aren’t,” I manage, because it’s true. He’s heartbroken.

“Don’t trust me like this, Arriane!” He doesn’t wait for an answer. My five seconds are up, and his mouth crushes down on mine. It parts my lips and robs my kisses.

“Why,” he mutters, rough fingers closing around my waist and yanking me into him, “do you not listen? Ten goddamn minutes, and I’d have been fine.” For a nanosecond, steely eyes roam the room and land on a black gym mat. He hoists me up and takes me there.

The adrenaline courses through me. Still, my body is wired to react, and now it’s readying itself for unpredictable passion.

I tumble to the mat. Leon falls after me and immediately finds my throat, sucking, biting. He rips my shirt open, buttons flying. He tears my bra off as if he can’t be bothered with hindrances that require concentration.

My clothes are ruined, but practicalities mean nothing. On a primal level, I’m tuned in, I’m ready, and all that matters is surviving his love attack. To lessen the fight, I reach between us and unzip my pants. I think I’m doing him a favor, and yet he growls for me to stop.