Mine: Black Sparks MC (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Liana recoiled at the sound of heavy boots outside the bedroom door. Her mind was still playing and replaying the sight of so many people gathered in the living room; she may have been a performer, but she had never felt more exposed. She felt judged, condemned, cursed. It harkened back to the days when her mother and Noel would send her upstairs to her room, then stand in the kitchen arguing about her while she eavesdropped. She could hear her mother's shrill voice defending her. "She's on the straight and narrow, Noel. I can't help who her father was."

"You couldn't help? You couldn't help it? Of course you could help it, Larissa. You didn't have to marry that thug, or have a kid with him. You'll fuck anything in leather, and so will she. Mark my words. It's only a matter of time before her true nature shows. If it hadn't been for me keeping her on such a tight leash, she already would have been knocked up in the back of a biker bar."

“Noel, she's an honor student. She's homecoming queen. She does her chores. She's done every single thing you've asked of her, and more."

Noel had laughed derisively; she could always picture him ensconced in his armchair, scotch in hand, like some sadistic Old King Cole. "You can take the teeth out of a rattlesnake, but the venom's still there."

She clenched her fingers, curling into an agonized ball in the wicker balcony chair. She wasn't a pawn. She wasn't a football. She was more than an object to be coveted. And the one person she'd longed to prove that to did not believe her. She knew Helena would probably kick her out soon, and Tryg thought she was a rat. Kirrily wouldn't be able to say anything against him--what would she do, wave a crystal over him to change his aura color, and expect everything to be all right?

Opening up the door to the veranda a crack, Liana leaped an inch into the air and let out a little shriek. "Shhh," said an unfamiliar male voice from the hallway. "It's me. Tom."

"Oh," she said, climbing back up on the Adirondack chair and folding her legs up underneath her, looking away. She held a cup of green tea with lemon that Helena had made her, wearing something else she had borrowed from the owner of the house--a long silken nightgown under a fuzzy blue Fair Isle sweater, perfect for the drop in temperature that she knew always tended to hit right around this time of night. She didn't know much about the short, heavily built redhead in the leather jacket, except that he and Nick seemed to be good friends. For that reason alone, she was both curious and wary. "If you're here to plead Nick's case, you can forget it," she snapped. "It's over."

"Tryg wants you to stay away from him, doesn’t he?" he asked.

"How do you know?"

"Because I know Tryg, and I know Nick. Tryg and my dad were good friends; I grew up around him until we moved to Cleveland. I only came back a few years ago." He settled himself in the chair, placing a glass of Scotch he was drinking on the end table.

Liana eyed the glass. "Boy, this ended up being a cushy gig for the Black Sparks, didn't it?"

Tom smiled. "We don't serve Lagavulin back at the club, that's for sure. And what's even more amazing, Helena doesn't seem to give a damn that we're drinking her out of house and home. She's a peach, that one." He didn't seem too perturbed, in any case, but something about the older woman still nagged at Liana.

"Why is Helena letting me stay here? What's her game in all this? How did Nick meet her, anyway?" She dropped her tone of voice; who knew what kind of acoustics were out here, or which one of the windows below here could be Helena's. "She doesn't seem like the type that would hang around the biker bar shooting pool, waiting to hitch a ride on the back whichever Harley happens to be open."

"You mean, are they involved?"

"Well, I'm just curious," she insisted, trying to sound casual, though she’d already shown her hand. "Seems like a pretty cozy relationship for two people who haven't known each other that long. You saw her in the living room when we came in, how she was trying to feel him up. And someone who can afford to live in a house like this could do a lot for Nick. I wouldn't blame him for taking advantage of the opportunity."

Tomahawk snorted. "If you’re waiting for me to jump in to defend Nick, I’m not. He can do that on his own."

Liana snorted back. "He’s doing a pretty shitty job of it so far.

Tomahawk picked up his glass. “I can't claim to know everything about Nicholas Stone. The dude's a tough nut to crack. In more ways than one. And I know he's not immune to using people."

"Women people?"

"Sometimes,” he said softly. “There was some woman across town; she was the widow of the ex-mayor or something. He lived with her like six months, but, to be honest, I think he was mostly there because she had a personal chef that made pork tenderloin to die for. But the whole time, he was dead-eyed, just going through the motions. It was like he was in prison all over again. He hated it, and I hated seeing him like that. There was no passion there. He told me he was miserable having to spend time with her and, after awhile, he ended it."

"Why are you telling me this? Is it supposed to make me feel better?" she demanded.

"No. The point is, he knows how to date women for what they can offer him. If he wanted to do the same thing with Helena, he would."

“Oh, right. As if Helena has nothing to offer besides her money. Have you
seen
the woman? She's like Gwyneth Paltrow meets Fleur Delacour."

"And yet still he's managed to stay away from her."

"You didn't see her clawing at him in the living room?"

"Look, Liana, do I have to come right out and say it? The guy is fucking crazy about you.”

Liana picked at the hem of her nightgown, heart pounding; why, she didn’t dare to guess. “Did he
say
that?”

“No, of course not. He’s an outlaw. He doesn't talk about that stuff. But sometimes your name would come up around town and, like anybody, I got curious. I wasn't around back then when--when you guys first knew each other. I knew some bad stuff went down, though, and when I'd try to ask him about it, he'd shut me down. I knew it was painful for him. He wouldn't tell me anything, but his eyes--they would change. And it wasn’t a bad change. It wasn’t anger; it wasn’t sadness, although there was some of that. It was just--I can’t explain it.” He paused. “That kid's been through so much, Liana. You can't even imagine."

"I
can
imagine. I've had nothing to do for the past six years but imagine. And grieve. And kick myself and want to bury my head in a pillow and never take it out, because of what I did to him. And nothing I have done has ever been good enough for him. Why wouldn't he sell me out to Jack? Why wouldn't he be with Helena? I have no claim on him. I destroyed him. If he--" she drew in a sharp breath. "If he hurts me. Like that. If he twists in the knife. I don't have a leg to stand on. I deserve it. I deserve every single twist of that knife."

"But don’t you see? He wouldn't get involved with Helena. Not if he thought it would hurt you. And the last thing in the world he would do was try to cut a deal with the guy who threatened you."

Liana thought back to that time in the shed, his copper hair filtering the forest light, dappling his face, how she'd caught a glimpse of that genuine smile; how he'd told her the secret, of the pain and how he'd gotten over it. That place where went when he was alone--he'd let her in, peeled back the curtain, given her a glimpse. So was it all false? Had he been trying to make her complacent, to let down her guard, while he moved in for the kill? No. There had to be another explanation. Tomahawk was here, sitting across from her, telling her there was.

"But does that mean--" she asked.

"I don't know what it means. All I can tell you is what I know. And I know that there’s a better explanation than the one you got.

"I’ve got to go," she said, setting down her cup. "I've got to find out."

"Wait," said Tomahawk, grabbing her arm. "You can't go out there. What about Jack--?"

Liana paused in the doorframe, crumpling to her knees. She knew Tomahawk was right. The idea that she had any freedom here was an illusion; the only time she’d felt free since she’d arrived was when Nick was holding her, in complete honesty. And they were trying to close him off from her for good.  "I hate this," she cried. "I came back from New York to be free of Jack, and I'm still a prisoner."

Tomahawk nodded, and there was something in his eyes that knew. She didn't dare ask what it was, until she realized. "It's just that--what you said. Nick. 

He told you the same thing. About not feeling free, no matter what he does."

"I shouldn't have said anything."

"No. I need to know."

Tomahawk turned, resting his hands on the wrought-iron railing, sighed and prepared himself to turn back to the woman who waited behind him. "A couple times. He doesn't talk much about himself. None of us really do; I guess nobody wants to make himself vulnerable. That's the safe thing to do, in this life.  But you hang out in a dark, dusty bar enough with somebody, and you get to know him pretty well."

She nodded. “Whether in this house, or Kirrily's, or my apartment--I'm always under somebody's thumb. Nothing I have is really mine. I'm sorry, " she said. "That must sound so spoiled, Tom. I had everything growing up, and I fucked it all up, and now I'm can’t do anything but whine and say,
poor me
. Meanwhile, Nick had nothing, and he's risked losing what little he does have--the respect and trust of you and Tryg and the Sparks--to save
me.
What did I ever do to deserve
that?"

Tomahawk didn't say anything but his eyes revealed more than she expected.
Only Nick can answer that.

Nick had been trying to protect her and, in doing so, he had risked the wrath of his brothers and Tryg. And she'd blown up at him, treated him like a liar, like a thief, like a criminal, the same way she'd treated him all those years ago – as if nothing had changed, as if
he
hadn't changed, as if
she
hadn't changed.

But she had. More than anything else, she wanted to believe she'd grown from that, that she'd broken free of the chains her stepfather had used to control her, to force her to lie about her true feelings, to bear false witness, to offend against nature. To claim she hadn't wanted the touch that, in reality, she wanted more than anything else she had ever wanted. She couldn't do that to him again. She couldn't let him think that she did not want him. She knew there was a chance that he would no longer want her. But she had to try.

"I'll take you," said Tomahawk suddenly.

She looked up from the floor, peeling her eyes off the toe of the young man's scuffed motorcycle boot. "Are you sure? Will Tryg--" She saw Tomahawk swallow under his bushy red beard. "He told me to stay here, and what's more, he's really pissed at Nick. It's obvious. If he finds out--"

"He won't," said Tomahawk, going to the railing and testing the weight of the oak branch that sagged under its full leaves. In a second, he had hoisted himself up on the balcony railing, while Liana watched, mouth open, from below.

"You--you've got to be kidding. Do I look like Tom Sawyer to you?"

"Relax," he said with a grin. "We did it all the time in Cleveland."

She crept to the edge and peered down through the gloom. Some tiny solar lights lit the pathway that led away from the house and into the woods, into whatever lay beyond, away from this safe house, this walled garden that she'd found herself imprisoned in again, in order to shut out the world, if that were even possible. As if all she had to do to elude what threatened her was to spoil and cosset herself, apart from the world, to surround herself with people who would coo at her and pet her and tell her what she wanted to hear, while secretly planning their own plans, spinning their own schemes.

Well, she thought, as she grabbed her own freshly-laundered jeans and sweater from the drawer and shimmied them over her nightgown, that was what Noel had always wanted for her. He’d wanted to cultivate that fear of the real world and everybody in it, of what they could do to her. But the real danger, she knew, was staying and growing complacent, a stone growing over with moss, afraid to move, afraid to dare. That period of her life was over; it was time to move. It was time to leave and start planning a few schemes of her own. She closed her eyes and swung herself over the rail.