Madeline Sheehan - Unbeloved

“I screwed up,” she said, shaking her head. “I was scared and I made the wrong choice. I’ll never forget the way you looked at me that night . . . like I’d betrayed you.”

“I screwed up,” he snapped, growing angry in the face of her infamous self-loathing, the one thing about her that he didn’t miss. “Me, Dorothy, get that through your thick head. I took somethin’ that wasn’t mine to take and expected . . . aw, fuck!”

He clenched his fists and his breathing grew heavy. “I don’t know what I expected,” he gritted out. “But none of that shit matters anymore. You said you loved me, you know I love you, so I’m not seein’ what the problem is and why you’re not gettin’ your ass over here so I can fuckin’ touch you.”

More tears, goddamn her never-ending tears, filled her eyes and overflowed.

“You still love me?” she whispered.

Jesus Christ, this woman, this silly fucking woman . . .

“Dorothy,” he said. “Yeah, I fuckin’ love you. Didn’t think I needed to say it. Figured you already knew.”

Once again she averted her eyes, and he knew she was doing what she did best. The wheels were spinning, she was overthinking every fucking thing, talking herself out of anything that could potentially serve to make her happy.

“It’s been so long,” she said with a shaky sigh. “We don’t even really know each other anymore.”

He wanted to laugh at her, maybe smack her a few times, or grab her by her foot and hang her upside down and shake all that fucking self-doubt straight out of her. Instead, he schooled his expression, maintaining the facade of calm that Dorothy had always needed from him when she was emotionally flailing.

“What’s there to know,” he said with a carefree shrug that caused every inch of the ravaged skin and injured muscle in his arms and chest to flare with pain. “My name is James Alexander Young. I was born and raised in New York. I was—”

He stopped talking the moment she started smiling.

“But that’s not who you are,” she said softly. “Not really.”

“Come here,” he said, crooking his finger and for once, surprising the shit out of him, she actually listened. Leaning down, using her hand to steady herself, she bent over the side of the bed. Still she was too far away, forcing him lean to the side, which caused him ungodly amounts of pain. And yet he persisted, keeping his struggle silent as he strained his body in her direction. When their heads nearly touched, he reached up and slid his hand over the smooth skin of her cheek and into her hair.

“Luca Polachev died a long fuckin’ time ago,” he said. “I am James Young, a member of the Hell’s Horsemen, one of Deuce’s boys, and the proud father of Christopher Kelley. That is who I am now, and those are the only parts that matter.”

Pressing her cheek into his hand, she gave him one of her sweet smiles, the same smile that had drawn her to him in the first place. It had made him want to take all that innocence, that inherent goodness that was Dorothy, and make it his own.

“You need a bath,” she whispered, wrinkling her nose.

“Yeah,” he whispered back. He needed a bath, a haircut, and a shave, as well as a couple dozen rounds with a toothbrush. He could probably use a new leg while he was at it, but most of all he needed to take a fucking piss.

But before any of that would happen, before she could say another goddamn word, he leaned as far as he possibly could without screaming out in pain, and laid waste to the remaining inch between them.

“You know what I always regretted?” he whispered. “Never puttin’ you on the back of my bike. Just me and you, out in the sun. No more fuckin’ hidin’.”

Dorothy had just enough time to suck in a small, surprised breath.

Then Hawk, despite feeling like anything he said or did could potentially break the tenuous connection between them, decided, Fuck it, and kissed her. Because when it came to Dorothy, he figured he didn’t have anything left to lose.

For the first time in almost eight long years, he kissed his woman.

She was shaking, her lips quivering, but she didn’t turn away or try to stop him. And he didn’t waste any time, he wasn’t going to waste any more time, not in a world where there were no guarantees.

They both fumbled a little at first, unused to each other. Then something clicked between them, and their eagerness for each other began to supersede any awkwardness. Her body instantly softened and she leaned forward, into his body and melting against him. One hand found his chest, her other reaching up into his hair, running through it before cupping the back of his neck.

And then, as if no time had passed, as if nothing had ever come between them, as if no tragedies had pushed them apart, she kissed him with fervor, touching him with sure hands, and he gripped her tightly, her mouth and body feeling again as natural to him as they once had.

**•

Gently, I pulled a blanket up over Hawk’s torso, tucking it under his chin. He stirred in his sleep, mumbled something incoherent, and then was quickly snoring again. Looking him over, I grimaced. He had a lot of healing left to do. He couldn’t go more than an hour or two without needing more pain medication, and he was still unable to use the bathroom on his own.

But he was home, he was safe, and he was mine.

Mine.

And this time I was determined not to screw it up.

Jase didn’t have a fucking clue how he’d ended up here.

Actually, that wasn’t exactly true. He knew exactly how he’d ended up here, he just wasn’t too clear on the why of it.

Or how much time had passed since he’d left the clubhouse, or even what day it was, for that matter.

Just that he was here in Wyoming, in his hometown, parked in front of his childhood home, trying to recall the last time he’d been here. Then it dawned on him… He hadn’t been back home since Chrissy had gone to trial, and he’d been too much of a mess to take care of the girls. After that they’d bounced between Chrissy’s parents and his own for a while, until eventually he got his shit together, at least for the most part.

But by then it was too late, and he’d failed them all.

Ashamed of himself, of the gossip that the shooting had brought down upon his parents in their own town, and not wanting to make it worse for them, he hadn’t been home since.

And now for some reason he was home, and completely at a loss for what to do next.

Did he go to the door? Announce himself? Yeah, that would go over really well.

Hi, Mom and Dad, how was your Christmas? Bet you’re glad to see the son who disappointed the fuck out of you, and ruined your grandchildren’s lives. Hope you don’t mind the stench of vomit and booze all over me.

Or did he drive away? Go back to Montana and leave well enough alone?

Go back to what exactly? The club that pitied him? The woman who had officially said her good-byes?

And goddamn, did that still hurt like a bitch.

Whatever. He needed a drink, a little something to clear his head, and then he’d sort out what the fuck he was going to do. Leaning down, he reached for the bottle of liquor that had fallen off the passenger seat and onto the floor, when a knock on the driver’s side window brought him flying back into an upright position.

Shit.

Walter Brady had aged about as well as everyone had expected. A cowboy through and through, his heavily muscled stature could be attributed to the prolific rodeo rider he once was, but the rotund belly he’d developed over the years was the result of blue-collar factory work after retiring from the rodeo, and his wife’s excellent cooking. The thinning gray hair on his head, the many lines on his face, and his drooping features gave the impression he hadn’t had an easy life, but anyone who knew him would know that while it might have been a struggle at times, it had been a fulfilling one. In his early twenties, at the peak of his career, Walter had married Doreen Davies—a young buckle bunny, a rodeo groupie who’d been smitten with him—and not because of an unplanned pregnancy, but because he’d loved her. After a back injury that ended his rodeo career, together they’d worked hard to make a new life for themselves, and a home they could be proud of.

They’d filled that home with three sons and two daughters, the scent of home-cooked meals, and the sound of laughter. And for the most part, their children had made them proud—they had all eked out an honest living, were all married and filling nearby homes with children of their own.

All but one. Him. Smack dab in the middle of the brood, Jase had failed his parents’ every expectation, and then made up a few of his own just so he could cross a couple more failures off his epic list.

Taking a deep breath, he rolled down the window. “Dad,” he said, nodding at the man.

His father’s frown stayed in place as he looked him over. “You make a habit of parking on people’s lawns?”

Surprised, Jase glanced out the windshield, then to the passenger side window, noticing for the first time that he had in fact missed the driveway entirely. Thankfully, in his hometown, your closest neighbor was at least a couple of miles down the road, and no one but his parents had seen him making a fool of himself. Not that anyone would be surprised by it.

Feeling like teenager caught with his pants down, he sheepishly turned back to face his father. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I, uh, I’m sorry. The snow kinda hid it. I didn’t . . . uh—”

“Scoot on over,” Walter said, interrupting him. “Don’t need you making a worse job of this.”