Married to the Bad Boy(62)

Her eyes pinch together as she reads the inscription, and I suddenly wonder why the hell I brought her here. What does it matter whether she knows me or not?

But she wants to know me—she asked. I never let anyone get close enough to ask me questions. I’d get naked with them before I’d let them ask me a single goddamn thing about myself, not that any of them cared.

All I know is that I just can’t keep this inside me anymore.

She takes a cautious step forward and touches my chest. “How did he die?”

“He was big time. A captain. He became a huge target during this war between several biker gangs in the city. The family backed Les Diables, which made all members targets of the Machine MC. One day, they just popped him. I was ten.”

The pain of that loss still smarts, but it’s duller now.

“I told myself I’d never join the life. I didn’t want to go the same way my father did, leaving behind a wife and kid.”

With a small push off the tombstone, I turn away from Elena and walk down the hill. Her footsteps trudge behind me and then her arm curls around mine. It’s as if the landscape brightens. I don’t feel as fucking bad when she’s around.

Christ, I’ve really changed.

Gradually, though, I’m shutting down. The closer and closer we get, my insides twist and bunch together. My skin freezes—I haven’t been to visit her in years.

Then finally I get there.

It’s a small, modest tombstone because her family didn’t have any money. I scraped together what I had and paid for her funeral and burial. Elena stands stock-still in front of the stone, her lips moving silently.

MARIA ELIZABETH DESBIENS

(1985 - 2002)

“She was my girlfriend. And she was the reason I joined.”

Elena’s mouth widens, and I don’t blame her. I’ve such a shitty reputation for sticking my dick into anything that moves, it’s hard to believe that I had a girlfriend. That I was once in love. That we were going to—fuck. It doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters.

“She was killed. I went to the boss at the time and asked him for vengeance. He would only give it to me if I joined their ranks. So I did.”

And I’ve regretted it ever since.

I think she can see it in my eyes. Fuck it, I don’t care about holding back. I don’t want to do this anymore. The killing, the violence, the pain I inflict every day numbed me to every feeling, good and bad. Following my father’s footsteps was never something that I wanted. I joined because I was young and stupid, and it’s a mistake I have to live with for the rest of my life.

Maybe if I turned off everything, I’d be fine.

But I can’t become yet another one of the dead-eyed assholes I work with. I just don’t have it in me. Part of me is ashamed to admit that.

“So you never wanted this life?”

“Don’t tell nobody.”

She smiles weakly, her eyes shining with pity. I don’t need that—I don’t want it. It’s my fault. The decision to join was mine. I’m just having a hard time living with it. Pussy and booze just doesn’t cut it anymore.

“How old are you?”

“I’m 33. I like to drink Irish whiskey. I love French onion soup and I can’t stand Tim Hortons. My favorite color is blue. Christmas is my favorite holiday, and I love skiing in the winter.”

“What about—”

I grasp her shoulders and that seems to silence her. “None of that shit tells you who I am, Elena. Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter. You’ll find out who I am.”

I release a long breath, feeling the tension exhale out of my lungs. “So what about you? I told you my big secret.”

Elena shrugs, looking at the ground. “I’m 27. I don’t have anyone and I don’t really know what to do with my life. I hate raw tomatoes—”

“What?”

“I hate tomatoes.”

My jaw drops. “You’re Italian.”

“I know.” She narrows her eyes at me.

“You hate tomatoes? Seriously? That’s like saying, ‘I hate onions.’ What the hell kind of—”

“You don’t think I’ve gotten shit from my parents my whole life because of that? I hate the texture, but I don’t mind when they’re cooked in stuff. Anyway, my favorite color is pink and I have two siblings that I don’t get along with. When Dad was boss, it was like having a big family. That’s all gone now.”

I’m still reeling over the shock of a full-blooded Italian hating tomatoes.

“Who cares?” I rasp finally. “They whacked your dad. You don’t want anything to do with them anyway.”

“I know, but they were all I had.”