He's shaking bad. Good. I can't fuck up again, threatening this asshole. I need him to believe every last thing I'm saying, make him fear for his life. Scaring his sorry ass straight's the only way to keep my girl safe for good.
And honestly, that's my only damned problem. Nothing else is. Not Bellingham, not my old man, not even Club Zing. Whatever happens to this stupid, sneaky little fuck isn't neither. I don't give a shit if he's traumatized and starts pissing his bed every night – that's for the shrinks to sort out.
“You can't do this, Sterner...you can't kill me...”
“I fucking can, asshole, and my boys will if you fuck up again. If you just simmer down and let go of my girl, live your life nice and quiet, I don't give a damn what you do. Bury my old man's company goddamned deep if he's really fucked up the environment like you claim he has. I don't care. This begins and ends with Claire. That's all this is about. And I hope for your sake you're smart enough to realize this is your last chance.”
“Oh my God, I am, Sterner. Thank you for this chance. I won't disappoint you, I won't screw up again. I won't –“
I knee him in the guts so he can't talk, then push him into a thick puddle of gas dripping off his soaked recliner. “Just shut the fuck up and get somebody in here to clean this shit up. Let's go, boys.”
We're gone. If I were a betting man, I'd say he'll never so much as think the name Claire Frost or Ty Sterner without smelling petrol.
The easy part's over. Now for the one that rips my fucking heart out.
One Year Later
Has it really been a whole goddamned year? Every last one of my boys had tears in their eyes when they dropped me at the harbor where the Alaska ferry docks. They hugged me like brothers, and I embraced them just the same, told them to take good care of my club, because it's theirs now.
A little legal wrangling helps make sure my old man will never get the place back in his name, and he'll never siphon much money away from it either.
Despite the warm sendoff by my crew, it's not them I'm thinking about when the ship pulls away from Washington's shores. It's not like it gets better when I land in Anchorage and start to settle in.
Their faces don't haunt me at night when I'm tossing and turning, or come to me during the day when I'm in the choppy Pacific, screaming at my new guys to reel in a catch before the old fucking net snaps.
I've tried to forget about Claire every way I know how. And it's all a miserable failure.
Every. Fucking. Way.
There are so many times when I just wanna pick up the phone and call her, assuming her old number still works. But fuck, she's gotta be heartbroken when she realizes I'm not locked up, and then shattered again when she finds out I'm gone. Weeks ago by without any contact, and soon that turns into months.
I never reach out. I fucking can't. And it guts me.
I can't be responsible for hurting her again. I'll kill myself before it happens.
Some nights, when I'm watching the snow fall down for what seems like forever, I get down on my hands and knees, praying her ma will just shake some fucking sense into her, help her scrub every waking memory of me outta her brain.
But I've read the headlines, and I've got a feeling the Congresswoman's got bigger worries, now that she'll have to work three times as hard to ever find a way into Washington again. Her politicking is just as fucked as Spree's profits.
My first winter here's the worst. It blows in lightning fast, not long after I find a place in the city to hunker into while I plan the rest of my life. I'm cooped up in a little place in Anchorage, drinking myself half-blind every night, working up the energy to drive and hit the slopes when Jack Frost stops trying to turn everybody's digits black.#p#分页标题#e#
Snowboarding helps me get used to the Alaska cold. Useful for handling the weather, yeah, but it doesn't do shit to help me forget.
Neither does bar hopping. A few times, I try to approach some chicks, and God knows it wouldn't take much work to haul 'em into bed.
I'm still Prince Charming. When you're built like I am and you know how to melt panties, you're set picking babes for life.
Alaska has tough guys aplenty, but the women have never seen a specimen like me. I can practically hear their panties splashing into a puddle at their feet as soon as I say “hello.”
It doesn't matter how drunk I am or how hot the girl seems. They all end up looking like ash by the time they're ready to pucker up and grab a ride to my place. I make up some bullshit about eating bad fish every fucking time, and I bail with my tail between my legs.
Maybe it's partly true. My poor guts are twisted up so bad I think my stomach's trying to hang itself. I'm sick – completely fucking ill – suffering withdrawals from losing Claire way worse than any junkie misses smack.