Dauntless (Sons of Templar MC) (6 page)

It wasn’t what it did to me but what it did to Lily that had me determined to stop leaning on her and take care of myself. The light that had only just come back to her pretty face was dimmed, and her dark circles rivaled mine. I didn’t miss that her hunky biker hadn’t been around. That could have been because I’d sworn her to secrecy, but I suspected she had further descended into martyrdom by sending him away. Sacrificing her happiness once more in order to take care of someone else.

So not good enough.

She had to work and I was planning on calling Asher and demanding he get his tight biker ass down there. I’d even lay my broken troubles at his feet if he needed convincing, which I was sure he didn’t. He loved Lily; any idiot could see that. The fucker had waited for her for three years. Because he loved her, I was almost certain he’d try and get rid of me once he saw just how much I’d tainted his girl.

Rightly so.

I’d tarnished her but was too selfish to send myself away because that would mean I would be alone. Truly alone. What I had been before I’d met Lily, before I dropped out of medical school. I’d be that damaged little girl who’d had her innocence ripped from her, and the whole world would swallow me back up.

But Asher was already putting up with enough. I’d brought Dylan into Lily’s life and he’d hurt her. That was on me. Now I’d introduced her to more demons.

My own.

“Lils, I’m going to be fine,” I tried to reassure her. “I’m not going to run off for a fix the second you leave. You need to go to work, I know you do. I’ll be okay, seriously.” I was determined not to relapse, but I didn’t trust myself. Not really.

And that scared the fucking shit out of me. I had an enemy, one hell-bent on my destruction. And that enemy was me.

Lily chewed her lip, furrowing her brows together. Then her face cleared. “How about you don’t worry about me and try and get some sleep?” she said softly.

I frowned at her. “I’ll sleep when you sleep.”

I was exhausted. Was there another word beyond exhausted? Because if there was, I was that. My body was going through hell being deprived of the poison it had been surviving on. I was literally rejecting being clean. And I couldn’t sleep. The moment I tried to escape the sickness and welcome oblivion, they crept back in, those taunting voices that urged me to give up.

Just one last hit.

You’re never going to last.

You’ll never be clean.

It took every single inch of willpower I possessed to ignore them.

Lily smiled at me, and even with bags under her eyes and wearing ratty leggings she looked like a fucking Victoria’s Secret model. I was reasonably sure I looked like exactly what I was, a fucking train wreck. My hair was greasy, as I could barely stand long enough to shower, let alone wash my hair. Because I couldn’t keep food down, weight was melting off me; I could see the bones in my wrists protruding. I was wearing an oversized Metallica tee and fluffy socks. It was all the weight I could take on my body. Any more was cement on my back.

“Okay, how about we both take a cat nap?” she decided. “You always feel better after a nap.

I yanked the throw up to my chin. “Or you wake up wondering what year it is,” I muttered.

Lily laughed, a horrible, forced sound that fractured another piece of me.

“Sleep, Bex,” she whispered, her face wiped of that terrible fake cheer. The sad, defeated look was almost as bad, but at least it was real. She squeezed my hand. “You’ll get through this.”

I gave her a fake smile of my own. “Sure I will,” I lied. She went to pull away but I kept my grip on her hand. “Thanks, Lils,” I choked out. “For everything.”

She smiled again. “That’s what friends are for. Now sleep.”

She let me go and I resigned myself to fighting against cravings instead of welcoming oblivion. I got a delightful surprise when sleep came the second I closed my eyes.

The surprise was short-lived, however, because with sleep came nightmares.

“
W
hen you’re going
through Hell, keep going.”

-Winston Churchill

“
A
re
you sure you don’t mind staying?” a voice whispered.

“Of course I don’t mind. You’re actually doing me a favor. This guy seemed to find my address and he seems to think we have a date tonight. I’m happy to be anywhere but in the vicinity of my place,” a different voice answered.

“Okay, just call me if anything happens and if she….” Lily’s voice trailed off and she cleared her throat. “If she gets
sick
, just call me.”

I tried to shake off sleep but it was too tempting to stay in the realm of half wakefulness, so the hurt in Lily’s voice didn’t hit me fully.

“She’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. I’ve got Pop-Tarts and
Magic Mike
. Nothing bad can happen when they’re around. Now go.” The woman’s voice was familiar, from somewhere.

“Okay. Thanks so much for doing this, seriously.”

“Yes, you’re welcome. I’m amazing and we both know it. You can thank me by calling that idiot biker and restoring my faith in love and happiness.”

There was a pause. “Okay, bye.”

“Toodles.”

I heard footfalls across our floor, then the door opened and closed.

Then there was silence and I was alone with the anonymous woman.

I creaked one eye open, then another. As soon as I welcomed reality back in, the craving hit me like a sack of potatoes covered in barbed wire. I sucked in a breath, a clean breath. It felt wrong, the air. I was too fucking lucid and there was nothing I could do about it.

Well, there
was
something I could do. One big, tempting, alluring something.

But I wasn’t going to.

Once I’d fought off the craving to a manageable level, I looked up. A woman with chocolate curls wearing head-to-toe black and making me all too aware of how fucking wretched I looked banged away in the kitchen. I got up on shaky feet. She looked up, her kohl-rimmed eyes focused on me.

“Hey, you’re awake,” she observed. “I’m making Pop-Tarts.” She held up the box. “That’s my version of cooking. That and opening a bottle of wine, but from what Lily’s filled me in on, mind-altering substances might not be the best right now. So sugar and preservatives is our hardest drug right now.” She peered at the box. “And this particular flavor has seven vitamins and minerals in it. Score. Health.” She gazed up. “Wait, you like Pop-Tarts, right? I won’t be able to trust you if you say no, just FYI.”

I blinked at the woman in front of me. The knockout with expertly applied makeup, wearing a turtleneck and a leather skirt that molded to her small but curvy body, chattering about fucking Pop-Tarts. And talking with obvious knowledge of my addiction. Not tiptoeing around it but stepping her kick-ass heeled ankle boots right into it.

I liked her immediately.

“Anyone who doesn’t like them is most likely an employee of the Devil. Definitely not worth trusting,” I said, my voice slightly croaky.

She grinned. “Awesome. We can be friends, then.”

* * *

“
C
an you do that
?” Rosie pointed to the screen, where Channing Tatum was executing a pretty deliciously complicated dance move.

“In my current state? No,” I answered, swallowing my fourth Pop-Tart. The first food that had actually stayed down in three days. “But when I’m not recovering from a heroin addiction? Totally.”

Rosie grinned at me. “Well, the second you’re better, you’re totally teaching me how to do it.”

When I was better. She said it offhand, like it was actually a certainty rather than a very precarious future that relied on me not fucking up.

I grinned back. “Sure.”

Despite the obvious shit I was battling, I was actually having a good night with this chick. I still felt like some invisible asshole was using my psyche as a punching bag, and I wanted a fix more than I wanted backstage tickets to Smashing Pumpkins, but that small grin was about forty percent genuine. Rosie was refreshing in her authenticity. She didn’t dance around the topic of my addiction, despite the fact we’d only just met. She didn’t even fucking blink when I said I was a stripper, just nodded and said that pole dancing was a great workout.

She was giving me the smallest bit of hope, treating me like I was normal, not a colossal fuckup.

It was because I was starting to feel hopeful again that the pounding at the door came to remind me that I’d never be normal.

Rosie didn’t jump, but her eyes flickered to me. “You expecting anyone?”

I shook my head.

She pushed up off the sofa. “You stay put, drool at Channing. I got this,” she declared, dusting Pop-Tart crumbs from her skirt.

I didn’t watch the screen but the door as she made her way over to it, a sick feeling in my stomach.

That feeling was justified when she opened it.

From my vantage point on the sofa, I could see Tyson clearly, taking up the entire doorframe with someone else next to him.

Rosie leaned against the frame casually, blocking their view of me. “Can I help you?” she asked sweetly, like it was two Girl Scouts in front of her, not a couple of assholes who had lost their necks to steroids.

“We’re looking for Bex,” Tyson grunted.

“I’m looking for a cross between Jared Leto and Charlie Hunnam.” She looked them both up and down. “Nope, that’s not you.” She tried to close the door but a meaty arm stopped her.

“We ain’t fuckin’ around. She’s got a job to do and we’re gonna make sure the bitch earns Carlos some money. Serious money,” he growled.

Great. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been expecting some kind of reaction from me informing Carlos I was quitting and then hanging up the phone, but I didn’t expect such a swift and intrusive course of action.

I figured he’d be patient and cocky and wait for me to come crawling back. Which was not going to happen. Not if I stayed clean.

Rosie raised a brow. “Sorry, she’s not here. And even if she was, I don’t think she ordered steroid Barbie. How about you go and pump some iron or take selfies of each other shirtless and pretend you don’t want to bone each other?” she suggested.

I had to put my fist in my mouth to muffle my laugh.

Tyson’s ears reddened. “We aren’t fuckin’ amused, bitch. We know she’s here. You don’t let us in—”

“What, you’ll huff and puff and blow my house down?” Rosie interrupted. “Sorry, you don’t scare me, and you don’t call me names unless you want me to make sure you can’t procreate. Which, if you ask me, would be performing a public service. Run along now and accost someone your own size.” She slammed the door in their faces only because she caught them by surprise, pushing the lock home quickly as the door rattled against its hinges.

I expected her to look panicked when she turned but her face was light. She leisurely walked to her bag as if there weren’t two goons shouting threats at the door.

She rifled through her stuff, snatching her phone and putting it to her ear.

“Lucky?” she greeted, inspecting her nails. “I’m good, how are you? Oh cool, say hey to Jagger from me. Tell him if he needs a place to stay tonight, I’ve always got room.” There was a pause and she winked at me. “Well, you don’t actually have to tell my brother, you know? Grow a pair and stop being so fucking well behaved for an outlaw. Anyway, we’ll fight about that later. I’m thinking I might need a little backup. I’ve got some wannabe goon squad assaulting Bex’s door and interrupting my favorite scene in
Magic Mike.
I’d take care of it but I just got a manicure and—” She stopped talking and her eyes went wide. “Chill, dude she’s fine but—” Again she stopped talking and then put the phone down, turning to stare at me.

“Okay, so you did not tell me Lucky and you have a thing.”

I blinked at her, but then my attention flickered to the vibrating door. “We don’t have a thing,” I said. “Do you think that lock will hold?” Asher had just installed two deadbolts because he was a man and had to take charge of such things. Our old locks would have given away the moment someone started banging. These were legit, but our door was crap. I didn’t think it’d be hard to kick down.

Rosie waved her hand. “It’s fine,” she dismissed. “Now you and Lucky. Spill.”

As if this was actually the time to have a chat about men.

“There’s nothing to ‘spill,’” I argued.

She raised a brow.

I sank back onto the sofa, my hand on my forehead. “I’m a stripper recovering from drug addiction. Do you think a relationship with a biker is what I need right now?”

Rosie folded her arms. “Maybe it’s exactly what you need.”

I gaped at her. “Lucky is, like, your family, right?” I clarified. I had learned Rosie was Cade, the president’s, sister, so I was pretty sure that made her biker royalty.

She nodded. “I’ve known him since he was fourteen and I was seven. He rolled into town with a stupid grin, running as fast as his gangly legs could take him. I would say he’s like a brother to me, but I tried it on with him when I was drunk two years ago, so that would be sick.” She gave me a look. “Don’t worry. He was quick to run away from me and my advances. And I mean
run
. All of those men are total pussies when it comes to me. They’re all too afraid of my brother to even have wet dreams about me. Talk about twat blocking.” She rolled her eyes.

I shook my head and grinned, despite the constant banging at the door jarring my shattered nerves. “Okay, so whatever he is to you, you’re close,” I surmised.

She nodded.

“So I’m assuming you care about him?”

She nodded again.

“Then you don’t want him with someone like me.”

She frowned. “Someone like you?” she repeated.

“Yep. We’ve already established my label as stripper and, very recently, ex-junkie.” I pointed to the door. “Plus I’m the object of that sort of drama. Which involves the goons from my place of ex-employment most likely coming to rough me up in order to persuade me into solicitation. Not someone you’d want to bring home to Mom, or even your outlaw biker family. I’m too much even for your family,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes. “Seriously?” she snapped. “
That’s
why? That’s why Lucky hasn’t touched any of his normal girls and isn’t joking like a twelve-year-old? Because you’ve got stupid shit like
that
stopping you from being with him? You think you’re not good enough for him?”

I gaped at her, at her anger. Then I stood, crossing my arms. “I don’t think it. I
know
it.”

She rolled her eyes. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not talking about a choirboy here. We’re talking about Lucky, member of a motorcycle club. He doesn’t just carry a gun as an accessory, you know? He’s used it. Many times. And not to do the deeds of the common people. And even if he was a fuckin’ lawyer, or cop”—her eyes flickered with something, but I didn’t have time to inspect it—“it wouldn’t make a difference. You’re good enough,” she said, her voice firm.

“You can’t say that,” I argued. “You don’t even know me. Trust me—my life, it hasn’t been good.”

Rosie cocked her hip. “Newsflash, honey: life is rarely good. In fact, most of the time it fuckin’ blows. But it’s usually the people who have the best upbringings turning out to being the most depraved of them all. A bad life doesn’t create a bad person, and usually the opposite is true. Lucky is a good fucking case study, as are most of the men in the club. Most of them came from the stuff of nightmares. They’ll never be good in the conventional sense, but I’d put my life in their hands in an instant.” She eyed me. “I don’t know you, but I know you’re not bad. I’ve seen that too, and you’re not it.”

I was going to argue with her further but there was an abrupt end to the banging, followed by sounds of a struggle.

Rosie’s eyes lit up. “Boys are here.” Her grin faltered. “I wish we had popcorn for this.”

Okay, this chick was insane.

I crossed the living room to open the door. Lucky had his gun out, as did Asher, pointing them at Tyson and Artie. Both of them were backing away with their hands up. Artie had a bleeding nose.

Lucky turned. “Oh hey, Becky. How’s life? You don’t have to go to such lengths to get me over, you know. Just a phone call or a text would suffice. But it was turning into a boring Saturday night and my trigger finger was getting rusty,” he said conversationally, like he wasn’t pointing a gun at two retreating assholes.

He held up his free hand. “One second.” He turned his head back. “You assholes come within one fucking mile of Becky again and I’ll come and scalp you while you’re sleeping.” The change in his tone was chilling, and, because I was fucking deranged, fucking hot.

Tyson sneered. “You’re not gonna be around forever. We’ll get her where she belongs,” he spat.

I watched the side of Lucky’s jaw harden. He stepped forward, his gun level. “You’re not gonna be around forever, and I’m fuckin’ tempted to make your forever end now but I’m not too keen on spending date night cleaning up your brains. So how about you go back to the gutter where you belong and I’ll make sure Becky remains where she belongs, with me,” he growled.