Page 3 of Rockland

Rockland Bachman.

Charming little name. It almost rhymes. Only I don’t find him to be charming, at all.

We’ll see if he’s changed at all since his last visit. When was that? Three years ago? He must be thirty by now, a few years older than me. Maybe he finally grew up.

My husband was over a decade older than me and I liked it that way. Accuse me of having daddy issues—I’ll tell you you’re right. I like my men like I like my whiskey; aged to perfection. And so, when Brett proposed to me, I didn’t even bat an eye at the age difference between us. That day was the best of my life.

Our wedding was a real Cinderella story. The poor trailer park girl weds a billionaire. And we had the event to match our tale. I rode into the affair in a crystal-encrusted pale blue carriage, glass slippers on my feet. It was the Bachman event of the year. Everyone was enamored by us, our love, our ceremony. Save for one cloudy face in the crowd.

Rockland’s.

A few hours after Brett and I wed, Rockland took off. Disappearing to a remote island off the coast of Greece. Charged with beginning a new offshore branch of the Bachman family to extend our reach and give us somewhere more desolate to conduct a few of our businesses.

Rockland was gone less than twelve hours after Brett and I said I do. He couldn’t handle that Brett had taken me—in Rockland’s eyes a bratty little redheaded scrap of trailer trash—for his wife.

Fuck him.

Now I stand in my foyer. Shaking. Preparing myself to see him again. This day is hard enough without having Rockland sneer down his perfectly formed nose at me. I take a deep breath, wrap my fingers around the doorknob with certainty that I can handle this reunion, and swing the door open.

And there he is. Hasn’t changed a bit. Save for his flawless skin, which is now a deep, golden tan.

He stands sizing me up—glaring at me, I assume—behind his dark sunglasses. Leaning against his sleek ride. Arms crossed over his chest. Biceps bulging beneath his white suit jacket. He’s still rocking the bad boy look—even today, the day we bury his brother. His dark beard is short, meeting his buzzed black hair. A few buttons of his crisp white shirt are undone beneath his suit jacket, showing a piece of the swirling black tattoo that I know marks him from his chest, up his right shoulder, and down his arm.

His skin is golden brown, a product of days worshiping the sun on whatever godforsaken island he’s taken over. His muscular build has grown since I last saw him. Perhaps due to having to hunt and catch his own food with the natives?

The man is huge. Fierce.

He lifts his shades from his face; his gaze, now free of the lenses, locks on mine. His hazel eyes catch the light as he looks me over. I can see his chiseled jawline tensing beneath his short beard—angered just by the sight of me. He gives me a nod, then moves from his place in front of the passenger door, opening it and gesturing for me to get in.

Without a word.

No manners, this one. I guess living so far from civilization, he’s forgotten how to greet someone.

I tilt my chin in the air and brush past him.

He shuts my door and moments later he slides into the driver’s seat beside me, dark shades back in place so I can’t see his eyes. I can feel his cool indifference penetrating the air around me.

We head to the meadow, the silence hanging between us like a thick blanket. A scratchy wool one. The kind your great aunt keeps and you avoid using unless you’re freezing to death.

He’s waiting for me to speak first, and I refuse.

I haven’t seen him in years. Since being stationed outside the Village, his visits have been rare. And always brief. He can’t seem to wait to get out of here and back to whatever cave he’s living in. I sneak a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He hasn’t aged a day. If anything, he looks more handsome, healthy. I guess it’s all that fresh sea air and sunshine.

But being good looking is only a plus if your exterior is the wrappings of a decent human being on the inside. Which Rockland is not. At least, not to me. Even though Rockland’s only a few years older than me, he’s always treated me as one would an errant child.

One they disdain. He looks at me like someone would a spoiled, sticky-faced brat ruining their anniversary dinner in the poshest restaurant in the city. Brett always said it was my imagination—that Rockland loved me as a sister.

But I know what Rockland says about me. I’ve heard the rumors.

Brett needs to get a hold of her. She needs more discipline than he gives her.

Tess rules the roost. Brett lets her. That’s not the Bachman way.

She’s just an itty-bitty little thing. Easy to tame. You just have to know how.

Hadn’t he seen me, hands behind my back, red ass on display in the window, for all the Village to see? How dare he question my husband’s judgment. Bachman women are submissive, the men dominant. We get a little out of line and our husbands spank us right back into place. Keeping that delicate balance in perfect harmony. And, yes, I was a bit spoiled by my dear Brett, but our relationship was no exception to the Bachman way.

Rockland never seemed to accept that.