Steel My Heart (Motorcycle Club Romance) (Sons of Steel Motorcycle Club Book 1) (5 page)

Chapter 7

Emmy

"How are you today, Miss Hawthorne?"

I was hurrying to get to our elevator, but I couldn't bring myself to ignore Officer Wilkens.  The retired officer sat behind a glass walled booth at the entrance to our building and his sharp eyes didn't miss a thing. 

"Hey there Joey, did you see Robert come in yet?"

"No Miss, I haven't seen him yet."  Joey Wilkens still had an old-fashioned formality about him that I liked, even if I still found it strange to accept. 

"Thank you," I breathed, hoping the relief in my voice wasn't audible. 

Robert wasn't home yet.  That would give me time to collect myself before he arrived.  Sammie had rattled me deeper than I cared to admit. 
He doesn't have to hit you to leave a mark.

I smiled at the older man, hoping to get him going on one of his old stories to distract me.  "How late are you here tonight, Joe?"

"I just started an hour ago, Miss." 

I felt a rush of panic flood my mouth with its metallic taste.  Robert could have come home before Joey's shift started.  He could be up there waiting for me right now, wondering what was taking me so long at lunch.  He would be angry at me for not being there for him.  He always needed me to be there when he got home from work.  I was his refuge.  He had told me that a million times. How long was it going to take me to remember?

"Oh, well I hope it goes quickly!" I sang out as I hurried to our elevator.  Mentally I began to prepare my lies.  I had left the CD of my work at home and had to double back, so lunch hadn't started until later than I said it would.  That would work.  Robert always believed stories that involved me making mistakes.

When the doors whooshed open, I held my breath waiting for him to call, "And where have you been?"  But I was greeted with silence.

"Hello?  I stepped off the elevator into our massive living room.  I looked into the front closet.  Robert's bag was not hanging in its usual spot.

I exhaled slowly in relief.

I kicked off my shoes and set them tidily in the closet.  Then I flopped on our white sectional, daring to drape my legs over the arm, and stared at the ceiling. I lay with my arms flung out and watched the fan in the vaulted ceiling high above me.  It rotated slowly, and I focused on watching one blade at a time.  It was always on, day and night, winter and summer.  Robert insisted on what he called "airflow," and had a precise way he programmed it.  Something about counter-rotation pushing the warm air down out of the ceiling.  If I so much as dared to change the speed or direction of the fan, Robert would notice.  Even if it seemed to me like I had exactly replicated Robert's methods, he would still notice. 

I let my gaze flit from blade to blade, concentrating hard on keeping my thoughts at bay.  But my anger at Sammie crowded everything else out of my head.  How dare she?  She was supposed to be my best friend and yet she couldn't even be happy for me that I had found someone so wonderful.  Someone who cared enough about me to try to make me better.  To raise me up from my white-trash upbringing and introduce me to the finer things in life.  Sure Robert had his own way of doing things, and sure he expected me to follow them.  But that was because his way was the right way.  It wasn't his fault I kept screwing things up.  I was trying hard to be worthy of him, and it was mean and childish of her to try to undermine that. 

Abuse.  I scoffed at the word.  I knew abuse.  Abuse was when my father trapped my mother in the corner, shouting at her until she wept and pleaded.  Abuse was when my mother locked the front door on Andy, forcing him to spend the night outdoors.  Abuse was when I had to throw myself on top of Andy to keep my father from beating him bloody.  What I had with Robert was nothing short of true love.

The doors swooshed open and I sat up with my heart in my throat.  "Hey babe, you're home!" I called, hurriedly twisting myself around so that I was seated on the couch properly.

He walked past where I sat and headed straight into the kitchen without a word. 

I paused.  I never knew if he wanted me to follow when he did this.  I waited a beat and then made my way behind him.

His broad back was towards me.  The dark blue of his crisply tailored dress shirt showed off the wide expanse of his shoulders perfectly.  I let my eyes wander down his arms and settle on his trim, narrow waist.  His suit jacket was folded over one strong arm and the other was lifted as he poured himself a tumbler of single malt Scotch.  I hesitated in the doorway, waiting until he had his liquor in him before I spoke.

"Why are you hovering?" he sighed, his back still turned to me.

"I'm not, I just..." I ran over my options in my head.  He didn't look like he wanted a bubbly greeting.  Maybe a shoulder rub?  I stepped towards him.  "Bad day?"

He snorted and knocked back a long swallow of the Scotch. 

"Anything I can do?" I stepped backward and pressed my back to the wall, taking up as little space as I could.

He scoffed again.  "Do what you always do.  Nothing."

My stomach dropped.  There were two ways I could approach this.  I could leave and give him his space, hoping he would come to me later.  That was the riskier option.  I could very easily earn the silent treatment that way, and have to beg his forgiveness for being cold and abandoning him when he needed me.  But the other option was risky too.  Stay and try to wheedle him out of his bad mood. If I did that, I risked being relentless ball and chain who never gave him space.  I would then have to apologize for being up his ass the minute he walked in the door. 

I studied the tenseness in his shoulders and the vein at his temple, hoping for some kind of sign. 

"Here," I tried. "Let me at least take your bag."

When he didn't protest, I decided to go for the second option.  I took his bag from the counter and trotted to the front closet and hung it on its designated hook.  Then I hurried back to where he still stood in the center of our gleaming gourmet kitchen.  Carefully, I placed my hands on his shoulders, barely letting him feel my presence.

He didn't say anything, but he didn't swat me away.  I began to knead the tense muscles, digging my fingers into the rock-hard muscles of his back.  I stroked my hands up his neck to the base of his skull and threaded my fingers through his chestnut waves, scratching my nails across his scalp like he liked.  The slight floral scent hit my nose, spicy yet sweet. 

"Don't mess up my hair," he barked. "I might have to go back in."

I snatched my hands away and moved them down to the small of his back.  I wasn't going to think about the perfume.  That would be a bad idea. I smoothed my palms over the small rise of his buttocks, and let out a small sigh.  His warm, unyielding bulk felt good under my hands.  I untucked his shirt from his waistband and let my fingers wander under his T-shirt to find the smooth, tanned skin underneath.  "You feel nice," I whispered into his back, pressing my lips to his spine.

He sighed and lowered his shoulders, allowing me to dig my thumbs into the rigid muscles.  When I reached his shoulders, I slid my palms back down each arm and snaked them around to his front.  Hugging him around the waist, I stood on my tiptoes and murmured into his ear. 

"Come upstairs, babe."

"You're done already?" he muttered.

"Oh! Sorry."  I quickly moved back to massaging his shoulders. 

He leaned against the refrigerator, bracing himself so that I could dig deeply.  I sank into a lunging position, putting my full body weight into pressing and kneading up and down the whole broad expanse of his back.

He hadn't yet turned around to say hello.

"This would be easier if you were lying on the bed," I coaxed.

"Really Emilia?"  He drew up, pulling himself away from my touch.  "I had a shit day and that's what you're after?  Can't you just give for once and not ask for something in return?  Christ."  He stalked out of the kitchen. 

"With all I do for you..." he muttered darkly and strode upstairs, leaving me standing with my arms still reaching for him. 

Chapter 8

Emmy

Robert had gone upstairs, taken a shower, changed his clothes and left.  All without saying a word to me. 

I spent the rest of the day in a blank daze.  I moved from distraction to distraction: my email, Facebook, gossip websites, but nothing was able to fully hold my attention.  No matter how loudly I played my music, or cranked the volume on the TV, I couldn't get the scent of perfume out of my nose, or drown out Sammie's voice in my head.

He doesn't have to hit you to leave a mark.

There was a place, right above my navel.  A hollow, hurting place.  It twisted and churned like a knife in my guts.  It hurt so badly sometimes that it took my breath away.

I popped some Tums, but the hollow place was untouched.  I nibbled some takeout, but the hollow place refused to be filled.  The food roiled in my belly and I swallowed back hot bile that tasted like tears.  The hollow place only grew larger.  It felt like it had swallowed the whole of me. 

I hugged a throw pillow tightly to my chest as I stared at the television, unseeing.  Twisting the silk fabric in my fingers, I debated my options.  Should I wait for Robert and apologize?  Should I stay out of his way? What should I do to make things right? 

I didn't want to fight with him.  I never wanted to fight.  Life in my father's house had taught me this.  Fighting only meant I got hurt.  It was better to take the blame for whatever I had done and move on.  I could absorb his anger.  I had done it before. 

But the more I told myself this, the more tired I became.

My eyes closed involuntarily and I snapped them open.  If I went to bed now, Robert may come home and find me sleeping in the afternoon.  That would only earn me more of his wrath.

But I was so tired all of a sudden.

I trudged slowly upstairs.  I would just lie down for a bit.  I would hear the elevator open if he came home. I would pretend I had been straightening up our bedroom if he asked why I was up here.  Or that I was working on my portfolio.  That would work.

I sank heavily into our king-sized bed.  The hollow place in my belly wouldn't let me stretch out.  Instead I curled into a ball on my side.  I was asleep immediately.

I don't know what it was that woke me.  It could have been a noise from the street.  It could have been the building settling.  Maybe it was the neighbors downstairs.  It could have been a number of different things, but I'm almost sure it was my heart.

I woke with a start, my heart racing in a panic, my mouth flooded with the bright coppery taste of fear.  The room was pitch dark.  I turned to look at the clock on my bedside table and saw that it was past eleven.   I had slept for eight hours without meaning to. I flung out my arm to Robert's side of the bed, reaching for his sleeping form to comfort myself.

There was no one there.  The sheets were cool, the pillow was undented.  Robert had never come to bed.

He had never come home.

I ran my hand along the sheet, up and down, up and down.  Robert's thousand thread count sheets.  I still couldn't feel the difference in softness.  I wondered if I ever would.  Maybe I just wasn't good enough to discern the finer things in life.  Maybe I should just accept what Robert said and stop trying second-guess him.  Maybe he was wrong, and there really wasn't a difference, he just wanted to feel superior to me. 

I swallowed and shoved that thought aside.

Thinking about the sheets was keeping the other thoughts out of my head.  That was deliberate.  If I thought about the sheets and wondered about the sheets, if I kept my focus on the sheets, then I didn't have to think about why Robert wasn't in bed next to me. 

I didn't have to think about where he was or who he was with. Or what perfume she was wearing.

As I thought about the sheets, I felt something tickle my cheek.  I brushed my finger across it and was startled to find that it came away wet.

It was only then that I realized I was crying.

I wanted to roll over to his side and bury my face in his pillow.  I would have loved to inhale his familiar scent, if I could find it.  But the sheets were clean and his smell had been washed away.  His side of the bed smelled antiseptic and impersonal.  He hadn't been home since we last slept together.

The tears came faster.

The hollow place in my belly suddenly twisted violently.  I ran headlong into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before my stomach rejected everything I had eaten today.  I hung my head over the toilet bowl, heaving and spitting.  The man I loved should be here, rubbing my back.  He should be here holding my hair so it didn't fall into the toilet.  He wouldn't, but he should. He should be here and he isn't and
where the fuck is he anyway
?

The hollow place exploded, flooding my whole body with the million little hurts and rejections of my life with Robert. 

I took a deep breath and screamed.

Every single word, every single facial expression, every single slight flashed through my head, treating me to a personal slideshow of Hell.  My body flooded with adrenaline and I balled my fists, swallowing the bile in the back of my throat.

I felt like I would suffocate.  The walls of our airy master suite threatened to close in on me.  I splashed water in my face and looked at myself in the mirror.

I needed to get out of here.

But there was something I needed to do first.

Rushing back into the bedroom, I dove headlong to the back of my closet.  Shoving past the skirts of the expensive ball gowns Robert had bought me, I unearthed the box of treasures I had rescued from the trash room.  My stuff.  The stuff that Robert had tried to throw away. 

I dug around inside, past the old, threadbare blankets and found what I was looking for.  I took out the old T-shirt and cradled it in my arms like a baby. 

It was one of my old concert tees.  The band had long since broken up, but I had kept it as a memory of the fun I used to have.  When I shook it out, I smiled through my tears at what a mess it was and remembered the wild night that Sammie and I had spent in our dorm room.  One of the fashion students had lent her a sewing machine, and we had gleefully spent the night drunkenly customizing our wardrobe.  I ran my hand over the spangles at the shoulder, laughing grimly as I remembered Robert's horrified reaction when he saw it.  I had cut holes in the side and woven strips of leather up like laces.  Sammie had sewn an asymmetrical ruffle along the hem.  The whole thing was a riot of color and bad taste. 

I slipped it over my head.  I wondered if it would still fit in spite of my weight loss.  But my old friend seemed to remember my body.  As if it had never wanted to let me go in the first place.  I smoothed my hand over the worn fabric fondly.

Pulling on a pair of jeans, I grabbed my lipstick.  Then I ran for the door, leaving the box wide open on the floor.  Daring to show that I still had it. 

Officer Wilkens was still on duty when I reached the lobby.  I blew past him with a wave.  I pushed the lobby door open and burst out onto the pavement at a dead run.  I sprinted blindly, twisting and turning across the square and through the narrow streets and alleyways of Center City.  Adrenaline carried me far and fast.  It felt good to run, so I ran further.  The ruffle on my shirt fluttered at my waist and my fine hair streamed out behind me, frizzing up in the sudden humidity that marked the start of the Philadelphia summer. 

My feet slowed and I leaned against a shop wall, letting the still warm bricks bake my arm.  Looking around, I slowly got my bearings.  Crowds of people pushed past me. The whole block seemed to be one big party. I had run all the way to South Street.

The realization made me smile, and then laugh out loud.  When I had first moved to Philadelphia, it was the gritty exuberance of South Street that had fascinated me the most about my new home.  Sammie and I had spent whole days wandering in and out of the shops, marveling at how the seedy bars butted up against the trendy stores, the tattoo parlors coexisted with the ice cream shops.  We had bought our art supplies and pooled out meager funds to buy dinner at one of the fancy restaurants that lined the side streets. 

I hadn't been here in months. Six months to be exact.

It was the first really warm night of the year, and the crowd was in the mood to party.  I could hear music spilling out from the concert hall down the road.  I let myself be carried along with the throng, just grateful to be out of the penthouse and among other people.  I scanned the crowds, hopeful I might see someone I knew.  Maybe they would recognize me, since I looked more like myself than I had in months.

But no one knew me and I was jostled and buffeted.  A pair of heavy boots came down on my toe.  "Ow!" I yelled.  I hurled myself towards the buildings to get out of the way of the crowds. 

"I.D.?"  The bouncer at the door looked at me expectantly.

I looked up at the bar, confused.  Then I smiled.  "Okay!"

I hadn't been out for a drink in a bar since I turned twenty-one.  The night of my birthday, Robert had bought me a bottle of wine that he ended up drinking most of himself, along with several tumblers of Scotch.  It had been enough to loosen him up, and  he pounced on me as soon as the bottle was drained. I accepted his desire with surprise and delight.

But my efforts to accommodate him were in vain.  He kept going soft.  And when I tried to help him, he yelled at me for being a disgusting whore. 

He ended up falling asleep with his back to me as I stared at the ceiling, wondering what I had done wrong.  His snores kept me up all night.

I think that was the last time we had had sex.

The bouncer was staring at my I.D. quizzically. 

"I know, I look really young," I explained.

He only grunted and gestured to another man standing just inside the doorway. 

I looked away nervously.  Suddenly I wasn't so sure this was what I wanted anymore.  There were several motorcycles parked along the street just outside the door. 

A stocky biker with a shaved head was leaning against one of the bikes, his leg extended out straight in front of him as if it was painful.  He saw me staring at the patch-covered black leather he wore despite the heat and raised a slow hand in greeting.  I couldn't see his eyes, but I could feel them all over my body.

"Okay you're in," the bouncer barked at me, startling me out of my reverie. 

I took my I.D. back and meekly headed into the door.  I would have one quick drink and leave.  I didn't want the bouncer thinking I was scared.

The interior of the bar was dark and cool, less crowded than I had expected.  I wondered if the bikes outside had anything to do with that.

A cluster of men in leather were laughing in the corner.  I seated myself at the farthest edge of the bar away from them, and looked at my hands.  They were shaking.

Robert may have come home by now.  He would have seen my box in the middle of the floor, and learned I had defied him by keeping it.  What had I done?  What had I done?

The fear was enough to propel me from my seat and turn me to the door. 

"Hey blondie, you just got here, leaving so soon?"