Chapter 7

FOUR YEARS LATER

Setting the glass of bourbon and coke down on the smooth surface of the counter, I slid it toward the man sitting before me. Turning, I grabbed a bottle of tequila, Curacao, and lime juice. After pouring the mixture over ice in a salt-rimmed rocks glass, I grabbed a swizzle stick and poked it within the Margarita. Afterward, I placed a napkin and the drink down on the waiting tray and turned toward the man sitting on the other side of th counter from me.

"Mikel, you've asked me that same thing a dozen times. A dozen times, I've said the same thing, must I really make it a baker's dozen?" I questioned.

Jess Thompson, a former CIA Targeting Officer, and now my boss, snorted beside me, as twisting the top off three bottles of Corona, he poked three lime wedges within their mouths. Setting the beers on the same tray as the drink I'd just prepared, he pushed it toward the waiting server.

Mikel, having watched Jess’s smooth actions glanced back in my direction, stating "No, this time you can say yes," he replied.

"What would you do if I said yes?" I teased, my hands busy wiping the counter off.

"Run the fuck other direction and as fast as I could—that mean motherfucker of yours would slit my throat in a heartbeat," he muttered.

I didn't bother correcting him about calling Rook mine. Instead, putting away the cloth, I just laughed and murmured, "Nah, Rook's a giant teddy-bear! Speaking of Rook, I'm outta here."

Seconds later, I stepped out from behind the bar, and paused as the reflection in the wall mirror caught my attention. I gazed at the woman I saw in it. Her sable colored hair was long and sleek. Several strands on the right side supported dark blue streaks down their length, and her eyes, a deep blue in coloring, were slightly tipped at the sides as they gazed back at me.

The woman's eye makeup was a bit dramatic—smokey-eyed and heavily lined with black eyeliner and mascara—an addition, which enhanced lashes already thick and long without the artificial help. 

In her left eyebrow, she wore a small hoop, and a tiny diamond stud graced the crease of her left nostril. An additional grouping of small hoops took up residence on the side of her bottom lip. Her left ear supported a Daith piercing, and in her right, a Helix.

I shook my head as I inspected my reflection, wondering if I would ever get used to seeing myself look so different. My new image was far sultrier, far sexier, than the old me had ever been.

As I stepped outside, the deep-throated rumble of a bike reached my ears as it headed down the street in my direction. As the driver slowed the bike, he pulled it into a small, vacant space before me, coming to a standstill. The fit was tight, as it wasn't really a parking spot at all, rather, space between two parked vehicles.

With a shake of my head, a grin slid across my lips and I allowed my eyes to roam over the helmetless man sitting before me. The fact he was without the head covering didn't surprise me. Dangerous as hell—yes—but not surprising.

James Anderson, AKA, Rook, was one fine looking son of a bitch. His features were rugged, his hair, a deep, rich black, was cropped close to his head. His skin held a natural olive tint,  not unusual for someone with his hair coloring and his eyes were a startling, vibrant sky-blue, flecked with darker blue striations in their depths. The blue orbs were surrounded by dark lashes long enough to make any woman jealous.

As my eyes continued to roam over the sheer beauty of the man before me, Rook gazed back at me, arching an eyebrow. A slow, sexy grin slid across his lips, and he murmured, "Hey, gorgeous."

With a step over to the bike, I slid behind him onto the seat. "Hey, good-lookin'," I returned easily.

After I'd settled, Rook's cigarette-roughened voice floated over his shoulder. "Hope you don't have plans."

"No. What's up?" I questioned, moving my leg a little, as shifting his own, he used the toe of his boot to place the bike back into gear.

"I thought I'd take you to the clubhouse," he replied nonchalantly.

Shock rocketed through me, and I immediately thought, what the fuck? Rook and I had known each other almost four years now, and I'd once asked Rook about his club family, if I'd someday meet them. He'd shrugged, murmuring something about Satan, the MC's Vice-President, saying they had enough bitches hanging around the clubhouse, and didn't need any more. Of course, that hadn't set well, and I'd snarled, "He called me a bitch?"

Rook had only laughed in the face of my outrage, before soothing, "Settle down and don't take it so personally. That's just Satan, okay?"

Shaking myself out of my memory, I realized I should probably be concerned about the request, but I wasn't. No, I was still pissed off months after hearing I'd been called a bitch and I hoped I'd get the chance to come face-to-face with the V.P.—there were a few things I'd like to say to the asshole!

Settling my butt more firmly onto the seat, I wrapped my arms around Rook's trim waist, and questioned, "What are we waiting on?"

~~

A few minutes later, Rook was maneuvering the bike through the streets, and I couldn't help but let Mother Nature soothe me. The wind blew silken caresses against my skin, whispering its love song within the fragrances it carried upon its breath, and I allowed myself to relax a little for the first time in a long time. The last four years had been rough, and I'd missed the few members of my old family I'd become close with, and I missed Dillon. I'd had no alternative though, but to realize there was no going back. Marlowe Mills,  was—to all intents and purposes—dead. A circumstance, which still had me, reeling. Dillon, had kicked me out of the compound and told me to never come back. To this day, I still didn’t have an explanation as to why.

I'd finally come to some type of acceptance with my current situation, though. However, any acceptance over the loss of Torin? No—there still wasn't, and I didn't know if there ever would be.

How does one come to terms with the loss of part of their soul? Terms with knowing you would never see that person again, never hear their voice or feel their caress again? All of it was beyond what I'd thought I could handle, and for a while, I'd feared I wouldn't. I feared I was going to disappear into my own mind and broken heart. However, eventually I'd begun to heal. No, I wasn't over his loss and I never would be, but I'd learned to cope. I'd learned how to put one foot in front of the other again, to accept each day as it presented itself to me.

With time, I'd even begun to appreciate the sun again as it rose each morning and the moon's appearance each night.