Page 7
Lynette
P ie is just pie, but I can’t eat apple pie without thinking about my mom. Every fall, she’d wait for the bulk apples that were fresh from the orchards to come into the stores. There’s nothing more delicious than an apple right off the tree, but since we lived in the middle of the city and my mom worked three jobs, there was never time to drive to an orchard for something so small.
I didn’t feel robbed of the experience because we were poor. We made our own experiences, and even if that was baking a pie in the tiny kitchen in the rundown apartment with water stains overhead and cracked ceilings, trying to coax the aged stove into displaying some last signs of life, it was still special because we did it together.
That’s how I find myself blinking away unexpected tears in the club’s kitchen. It’s not like I haven’t made apple pie since my mom died. I’ve made plenty of them because they’re Willa’s favorite as well. I don’t know what it is about this small square kitchen with the industrial throwback to the factory that this place clearly used to be that brings tears to my eyes—tears I’m worried I can’t just blink or gulp away.
Hamish looks so out of place, stalking around the kitchen in his leather jacket and the jeans with the big chain hanging off the back pocket and wrapping around to the front. His massive form makes the huge mixing bowl he grabs seem almost tiny. Every apple looks miniscule in his hands. I refuse to find the way he basically stumbles around the kitchen, awkward but determined to find the ingredients I keep listing off, charming.
“I think all we’re missing is lard,” I say after looking over everything that’s been assembled on the large strip of counter.
I should be worried about getting this eight-hundred-dollar blazer dirty, but I don’t peel it away. I can’t allow myself to be so exposed, not while I’m here, in the den of my… enemies? Adversaries?
Alright, so no one feels like an enemy. Tyrant, Raiden, and their wives were perfectly nice. Raiden’s wife even teaches at one of the colleges here. She’s tall and beautiful, a total blonde bombshell, rocking leather pants and her tight ripped up tank top like a badass biker babe. Lark was the opposite. Sweet and almost shy, she gives off boho princess vibes, but she seems totally at home here. Tyrant and Raiden are both young, probably only a few years older than me, if that. Not only were they well spoken, both of them burning with intelligence and kindness, I couldn’t deny their overt magnetism.
They weren’t at all what I was expecting.
The lanky, sandy-haired man with his leather and snarky attitude who’d been playing pool with Hamish when I walked in here—that’s more the attitude I figured I’d get. Leering looks, outright flippancy, devil may fucking care vibes. He walked out of here with a sauntering swagger that said he was hot shit and knew it.
Hamish stares down the espresso cabinets doubtfully. The kitchen is large and there are cabinets on three sides of the rectangular room that extend well into half of it. “What does lard look like, and would we be likely to have it?”
His face is almost comical. A little panicked. Like he’s a big tough biker and he can’t lose face over something as simple as this.
He might be assured of himself normally, but never full of himself. Just comfortable with who he is in a way that most people are not.
“It’s a type of fat. Maybe you have shortening?”
“I’m sure we have it because Lark and Ella are in here all the time, baking amazing things. Oh, and Tarynn lately too. You’ll probably meet her later tonight. She works at Patterson’s, though not for much longer.”
“That sounds ominous.”
He grins, and holy god, I don’t know why I can’t stop myself from being affected when he does that. Or breathes. Or exists.
Hormone check. Right now.
“Nah. She’s just quitting to go to hair school.”
I promised myself this would be about business only, but this man’s natural sexual energy that seems to radiate from him like a heater that just won’t shut off in the middle of a summer warm streak is going to test my resolve.
It’s far safer to be an ice queen, so that’s the front I give him, quickly realigning my defenses, checking to make sure there aren’t any holes in them.
“Anyway. Lard. Shortening. Let me take a look.” He rummages through the cabinets, first the tops and then the bottoms, and finally exclaims in triumph. He straightens, holding a blue tin in hand. “I believe I’ve found it, and I didn’t even have to get Lark. She’d have certainly told me that I was looking with my man eyes, and she would have been right. It was there, directly in front.”
My breath catches when he sets the tin down on the counter. He leans in too close, but not in that creepy, demanding way. I’m thankful for the extra layer of my blazer. The last thing I want is for my hard nipples to go peeking through my bra and blouse.
It doesn’t seem to matter when Hamish backs off, or when he walks to the matching fifties-style table and slides out one of the red vinyl chairs to the middle of the kitchen.
He sits down facing the opposite direction, with his arms resting on the chair’s back. His direct, unrelenting gaze skewers me. I guess I did this to myself, choosing to come here in the first place, and then this absurd suggestion of pie making.
I start peeling apples, already going through a recipe I know by heart. I’m slow and methodical, trying to allow myself to get completely absorbed in the task. It doesn’t work. As soon as I’m done peeling and slicing the apples, Hamish drops a question.
“What would you change if you could? What would make you feel better about taking this job?”
I measure out dry ingredients, trying to be blasé, which I know most people take as aloofness. “We’re not going there already, are we? I thought this conversation would at least be softened by some alcohol.”
I angle my back to the beast of a man making that chair look like doll’s furniture, but I can basically hear the smile in his response. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate trying to be plied with drink.”
“I don’t, but I thought it would at least be on offer.”
“Would you like me to get you one?”
“No.” I nearly upend the whole bag of flour trying to fill a single measuring cup. “I’m driving out of here after. I booked a motel room.”
“Stubborn to the last.”
He’s right. I’ll never give it up. I’ve had to fend for myself for too long, struggling and fighting upstream. “I thought this pie was supposed to be a distraction.”
“From what?”
“Or a warm-up. To the merits of debating right and wrong, morality and immorality, black and white, and how far I could be convinced to make it stretch in my mind and continue to make it stretch in the future. You’re not just interviewing me. I’m here to do the same.”
“I never implied that.”
The flour hits the large metal bowl with a soft whoosh. “All the same…”
“Well, if you won’t let me get you a drink, or help you with the pie, I have no choice but to sit here and hear your thoughts.”
It’s the way he says it that wraps around me like warm honey trickling down a sore throat. It’s been a very long time since anyone truly wanted to hear my thoughts about anything. Willa certainly doesn’t. I’ve purposely kept most of my truth from her in order to protect her from the harsh realities of life before she was ready to face them.
When I still had a job, it’s not like I discussed personal stuff with my colleagues.
I have almost no friends.
Hamish’s face is nothing but open and curious, and despite my better judgment, I find myself pouring out the stuff in my brain. My hands keep working, measuring dry ingredients before I’ll start on the wet.
“I realize that most clubs, gangs, and organized crime all deal in the same thing. Women, guns, and drugs.”
He tries to protest, opening his mouth, but I forge ahead so he knows I’m not going straight into issues of morality again. He doesn’t have to defend his club against me yet.
“They funnel illegal money through legit businesses. If you don’t do women or hard drugs, that leaves you with really just one option.” I give him a dramatic stare down. “How long is it before you’re going to get nailed for a weapons charge in a big way, especially with an enemy like Harold?”
There is no proper response to that because anyone’s hopes would be never, but realistically, it’s probably a short timeframe.
“My suggestion is stopping the illegal shit. If you’re dealing in marijuana, then that’s not really out of the realm of possibilities because it’s legal in so many places. I know it’s not entirely profitable, not to the level a club would need, but there are plenty of other enterprises. Real estate. Stocks. Crypto.”
I see how he struggles not to laugh at my suggestions. “I don’t know that investments are the right level for us.”
“Real estate is a big deal. Commercial landlords make a lot of money. There are also condos and apartment rentals or you could buy the land and act as the developer. If that’s too much, casinos, clubs, the usual, not just here in Hart, but elsewhere.”
“It’s the underground aspect of those businesses that make all the money.”
I don’t have to respond. My answer is there in the silence.
I finish everything for the pie crust, form the dough into a large ball, and slip it into the stainless-steel fridge.
The apples are easier and much more fragrant. It’s the cinnamon, of course, but the aroma of the lemon juice that keeps them from browning and adds that extra little bit of unexpected tartness to offset the sweetness always makes my mouth water.
“Real estate is more than legit and can turn some huge profits both in sales, buildings, and rentals,” I say. “The money could be invested in other markets. They’re risky, but everyone knows they can pay out.”
I’m done with the apples by the time I finally get a cautious response. “It’s an interesting idea.”
Cautious? I should probably say polite. I don’t have to look up from what I’m mixing to know his face is probably arranged the same impenetrable way mine usually is.
“You have to fight fire with fire. Or in this case, take away any knowledge Harold thinks he has and reduce his advantage.” I give my closing line as I take the ball of dough out of the fridge, ready to roll it out.
Other people are probably fussy about refrigeration time, but my mom could never wait, and it’s her recipe that I’m following. Some people don’t even refrigerate at all. They just roll the dough straight from the bowl after cutting all the ingredients together with a fork, which I actually did.
Hamish clears his throat so roughly that my head jerks up. He looks like he’s just been chained down on top of an ant colony, naked, smeared in honey.
“Funny you should mention fire,” he chokes out.
“There’s that word again. Funny. What did he burn down?”
“My gun range. The only one in Hart.”
“What?” Thank goodness the dough is safely on the counter. If I’d been holding it, I would have dropped it. I’ve lost all interest in the pie. My lawyer senses are already tingling, and my brain is whirring hard. That’s what he meant on the phone when he said that things had escalated. “If you have proof that it was him, why hasn’t he been arrested?”
“There’s no proof. He’s not that careless or stupid. He hired someone, no doubt.”
No doubt. I should know how these things work. “Is there any footage? Do you know what they looked like?”
“There’s footage before the cameras cooked, since the feeds come back here live, but they’re dressed entirely in black right down to the masks they wore. All we have is their height, but from the camera angles, it would really just be a guess. The range was at the edge of town, and they walked up. Probably parked miles away just in case, and I’m sure they’ve already dumped and torched the car.”
I prop my hip against the counter, using it for support. “This is serious.”
“Yes, it is.” He rises slowly, like a massive predator unfolding. I’ve never felt like I’ve been the prey until this very second. It’s the way he pins me with unblinking, intense focus that makes me feel like a small animal in his sights. “I’m serious about you working here. I’m serious about you having the means to work independently so that you can represent me. I doubt anyone else would be willing to take on this fight.”
That seems rather selfish, even though I know that’s not truly how it’s meant to be taken. He’s just being honest.
“What if I’m not willing? What if I want to bail?”
He doesn’t seem surprised, but at the same time, he doesn’t take a threatening pose with me, or get that hard look on his face that demands I do something I don’t want to. He manages to sound encouraging. “You’ve already come this far.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to put myself or my sister at risk. I’ve already lost my job. I don’t even want to think how much more I could lose.” That’s not a question any sane person can ask themselves. Plus, his range was burned down. How much more personal could that get?
“You could both move here. We could make sure you’re safe.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. It’s all starting to trickle down, just how much this could cost me. “As kind as the offer is, that would be a hard no. If I open up anything, I’ll be a target. Am I a target in more ways than just career suicide?”
“I don’t want to think like that, but now that we’re going there, I do think it’s best if you and Willa moved here, just for the time being. You could rent out your house or we could pay your mortgage.”
I shake my head stubbornly, annoyed that I feel like the one who’s refusing to see reason. This isn’t a done deal. “That’s not an option. Willa is going to college.”
“We have colleges here. Smaller community colleges, but they’re good, from what I’ve heard.”
“I don’t want her around this.” I don’t have to elaborate. He knows I mean the club, and he doesn’t take offense the way I was afraid he would the second those words came tumbling out.
“She doesn’t have to be. We’ll find you a place here and have men driving by or keeping watch over it constantly.”
“I don’t want to be a prisoner! I had a good life. I had a great life. One I was perfectly happy with.”
Liar.
It’s not very often that I let that small, internal voice ridicule me, but when it does, it really bites deep.
“You’ve already taken the first few steps. There isn’t any going back.”
Now that sounds ominous.
I grab the dough too forcefully, slapping it down on the countertop without flouring it first. I attack it with the rolling pin. At least the damn pie is one thing I can pretend I have some semblance of control over. “This doesn’t have to be the only way forward. I can pick up and move. Take Willa with me. I can leave this state and all of this behind and—”
“What if I asked you not to do that?”
His voice, like slow rolling thunder, booms through me, even though the words were softly uttered.
My mother used to say that one day I’d find the one. It wouldn’t just be him who was a balm to my wounds, but I’d be shelter for his weary heart. A perfect match, a friend, a lover, someone to grow old with. She made it sound so romantic. So storybook.
All I saw was the reality of every single time she’d thought she’d found the man she was searching for. The bruises and the abuse that became the signatures of her hopes and dreams.
It’s the way Hamish asked the question that brings all of that crashing through the hard bars of my mind. His words cause goosebumps to break out on my skin.
I don’t like it.
I don’t like the way he steps towards me either, slowly caging me in against the counter with his huge form. The energy in the room crackles between us, hot enough to bake that pie, no oven needed.
He leaves me enough room to slip by. He’s not threatening. I don’t feel attacked. This man might be rough around the edges, he might be a biker, he might have been a soldier, and he might be far too enthusiastic for being on the other side of the law, but he’s nothing like those men my mother dated.
He’s not really like anyone I’ve ever met before. The problem is, he doesn’t need to physically crowd me to push me out of my comfort zone and take my brain to a strange place of hyperfocus.
His hand moves and I know I could step away. I still have time, but I’m frozen. His rough fingertips land on my chin, tilting my face up. I lock eyes with him and his are so intense, there’s no chance I can break away now, even though my heart is skittering and my pulse is racing.
“I thought you were stubborn when I first met you. Capable, cold, put together, driven, ambitious, vastly intelligent. And I mean all of that as a compliment.”
He could tell me I’m as warty as a toad in his eyes and still make it sound like fucking poetry. I want to shake his hold off and offer some kind of rebuttal, even to his compliments, but my mouth is too dry to say anything.
A small, insane part of me wants to lean into that touch, to welcome his proximity. I’m somehow drowning in lava, but I have goosebumps.
It’s probably the part of me that has zero love life and is wildly unsatisfied by seeing no more action in the past few years other than my vibrator and my fingers.
“I thought you saw things in black and white, but I realize what an error that was. You’ve defended far too many guilty clients to believe in morality the way some people do. I apologize for that comment about the stick up your—”
“Yes, well,” I snap, shaking myself loose from his delicate hold and dodging around him. My hand grazes his side accidentally, which causes an audible gasp that I’m immediately mortified over.
“You can represent yourself in the trial.” I head for the fridge, though I don’t need anything out of it.
No, that’s not true. Milk, eggs—the wash for the top of the pie.
It’s a relief to stick my head inside and feel that cold air. It would be more helpful if I could cram my whole body inside.
I shouldn’t have come here. I should never have gotten involved with this man.
“You’ll be fine on your own,” I say from the fridge, loud enough that I know he’ll hear me. “It’s not like it’s for anything other than assault, and the security footage will more than likely show that you did nothing. At the very worst, you’ll have to pay a fine, which the club will have covered. I was just being an asshole when I was telling you the worst-case scenario back at the jail. And if Harold comes for you, I’m sure you’ll find someone willing to stand up to him.”
He waits until I shut the fridge before pushing me back into that place of irritation. “Everyone has their price.” His words cause me to bristle, but it’s nowhere near as irritating as seeing his leather jacket strain over the muscles of his arms when he crosses them.
He’s actually not smug about it. I can see that he still thinks that we’re playing games here. That I came because there was no doubt that I was going to let myself be talked into this.
Honestly, I thought that maybe I was.
But hearing about Hamish’s range being burned to the ground, on top of my getting fired, has made me realize that we’re not just dealing with an aggrieved father. Harold is a whole different kind of unhinged than I ever could have known.
“Everyone has their price,” I agree, my head held high. I need to just leave. Why am I even still here? “I just can’t let my sister’s life and freedom be mine.”
I make to exit the kitchen, the pie half finished, this whole thing a mess, but Hamish steps into my path. His hand shoots out and closes around my wrist. I don’t have to jerk away. He releases me instantly, so that it was just a brush of fingertips against bare skin, and not a hold. Not a collar. No confinement.
“Please wait,” he implores me, all traces of anything playful long vanished. “If Harold is going to escalate, then you’re already in his crosshairs. You have to be careful. You have to let me make this right. Even if it doesn’t mean working for the club or being my lawyer. I owe you that.”
I want to glibly decline the offer, tell him I can take care of myself, stroll out of here, and never see him again, but I don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m frozen again, breathing too hard, every breath sucking up more and more of his fresh scent.
He’s different today than the last time I saw him. I don’t know how to explain what it is, except that he smells more man, more himself, raw and vital, rather than fresh air, cologne, or even leather.
Something fires down low in my belly. I swallow thickly against the rise of emotion. I vowed that I’d never need someone to take care of me, that I could do that for Willa and myself, but here I am, facing down a threat I never thought possible. I want to be too proud, but that would just be plain stupidity, and whatever I am, I’m not dumb.
My phone vibrates in my inner pocket, and I stumble back, nearly tripping over my own towering heels.
Hamish’s arm shoots out and braces me, his hand splayed over the small of my back, so huge that it spans all the way across it with ease.
“Willa?” I answer. “Are you okay?”
She knew I was coming here. I knew she was working late. I had to leave before she was done at nine, but then she had to count cash, clean, and do her other duties before she could lock up and leave. Even still, she should have been at home by now, or out with her friends, against my wishes, for one last hurrah at freedom.
It’s a sad and sorry truth, but she hardly ever calls me unless there’s a real problem. Texting? She’ll text me all sorts of random stuff, all day long, but that’s different.
“I think someone’s following me.”