Devil You Know(88)

“I owe him one,” I say.

“I think you can call it even after what he left lying around here.”

Fair call.

Malice pulls me in to his side again, and traces lines along my arms and side with his fingers. We sit in silence, enjoying the quiet, each other’s company, and the knowledge that there’s no pressure when we’re around each other.

We’re two broken halves, happy to be one mismatched whole.

“You know what?” I ask.

“What’s that, babe?”

“I love you too, Malice.”

His breath hitches, but he recovers quickly.

The night draws on, and in next to no time he’s asleep beside me. I lie with him as long as I can before my joints begin to protest. I should move him, but the guy looks positively drained. Instead, I pull free slowly, and search for something to cover him with.

I stand before him, the blanket in my hands, and watch him sleep. His eyes move ever so slightly as he dreams, and his dark lashes brush against his cheeks. His brow creases, then smooths. I wonder what he’s dreaming of. Is it bad? Is it his past? Or is it an entirely new nightmare?

He grumbles and rolls as I place the blanket over him, but doesn’t wake. Softly, I perch on the side of the sofa and rest my hand on his hip.

He’s full of troubles, but not many of them are ones he’ll share with those who love him. I’ve seen the concern in Ty’s eyes when he talks with Malice, and macho as Bronx likes to make out to be, I know he’s the same. Damn, even Tigger showed brief signs of concern for Malice the two times I met him.

What is he so afraid of?

Why won’t he still let me all the way in?





WE FOLLOW Ty back to our house after Tigger’s funeral for a private wake. Tigger’s mom invited everybody to the small gathering at her sister’s house, but we politely declined. The boys simply wanted to grieve in peace, and in a way I could understand why. They have things they need to talk about, memories to share, and information to sift through that isn’t public knowledge.

They want to talk about what they’ll do about the hit on Tigger.

Ty insisted that he arrive at the house first, and I’ve been wracking my brain the entire trip from the funeral parlor to think why. What’s so important that he has to get there before us? I know it’s his house and all, but the way he pushed the matter seemed a little over the top.

His white Audi crawls up the drive in front of us. My eye casts over the lush green grass sprouting after the rain. It’s poetic, how in nature the dark times can bring such beauty. I can only hope the guys will walk out the other side of what they’re going through at this moment with the same light.

Ty pulls up out front, and as we round the last bend to line up beside him, my eyes fall on a bike parked near the side gate. I glance to Malice, who looks at me and shrugs. Great.

“Do you think it’s someone you guys do work for?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “None of them own a Triumph, as far as I know.”

We step out from the car, curious. My guess is that Ty knew they’d be here, hence the need to arrive first. He damn near vaults the front of his car to reach us before we get clear access to the door.

“Whose is that?” Malice asks, pointing to the bike.

Ty raises his hands to placate Malice, but he’s cut short by a deep voice over his shoulder.

“Mine.”

Malice ducks his head to the side, and takes a step back. “Fuck off. Not today.”

“Look, man,” Ty starts.

“Nothing, okay?” Malice hollers. “I’ve got nothing to say to either of you.” He glares at Ty. “How could you?”

I stare in shock as Malice turns heel and storms down the driveway. Do I go after him? Or does he need to be alone? My eyes drift to the stranger standing on the far side of Ty’s car. He’s tall, tanned, and wearing the badass biker look like a pro. He turns, and heads toward Bronx, allowing me a clear line of sight to the cut he wears.

Fallen Saints.

“Is he one of the guys you work for?” I ask Ty.

He looks toward Malice’s shrinking figure, and sighs. “Nah, Jane. It’s Malice’s dad.”

Shit.

• • • • •

AN HOUR later, we finally manage to coax Malice into the same room as his dad. The two of them sit opposite each other at the small table, and carry on the best staring contest I’ve seen in a while.

The more I look at his dad, the more I can see the resemblance. Oddly enough, they have near on identical stress lines around their eyes, and the same weary looks on their faces. Like father, like son. Seems the past few years have been equally as harsh on both of them.

“Are you assholes going to talk any time soon?” Bronx asks.