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But then she’d leave. Can I stand that?
“I killed my father and brother.” It comes out clear. I watch her, waiting to see the horror in her eyes.
She frowns as if she’s confused, her hand leaving my heart to touch my lips as if that can coax the nightmares out of me.
“How?”
“I have dreams.” I tower over her, yet right now, I feel like a scared boy, wanting to hide, because my head hurts from my dad and brothers yelling at me.
“Christ.” I snort and shake my head. “You don’t want this.” I take another puff of my cigarette and turn to put it out, to get away, put some distance between us before I grab her and never let her go.
“You don’t get to tell me what I want or need, Ryder, unless I allow it.”
I turn and look at her.
Fierce.
Brave. Fuck, ten times braver than me.
“This feeling you have… this thing we have together, that pull?”
She nods.
“I dreamt of you.” Lowering myself into the chair, I smooth my hands over my face and drop them to my knees.
“I dreamt that my dad and brother were going to die in a car accident. I dreamt that Bear’s wife had cancer. It goes on and on.” I look at her, then the wall, as ghosts swirl around my brain, messing with me.
“My head is fucked up, babe.” I hit the side of it, causing her to jump and her eyes to fill with tears.
“Don’t you do that. I don’t want pity.” I sneer. “I’m a fucking lunatic who kills and dreams shit. I’m bad, as bad as they come.”
She shakes her head and covers her mouth with her hand.
“It’s true. My mother hated me. Thought I was possessed because I made the mistake of telling her. My own mother was scared of me. Why aren’t you?”
“Because no matter what you do or have done, I belong here.”
I shake my head—she doesn’t get it. All the dead bodies have a way of changing people.
“I warned my mom that my dad and brother shouldn’t leave, and she called me Diavolo and demanded that I let her whip the devil out of me.”
“Ryder.” She moves toward me, but I hold up my hand to stop her. “I’m only getting started, baby. This is fun, right?”
She shakes her head.
“When I was fifteen, she kicked me out. I had nowhere to go, so I lived outside in our backyard like a dog. Until the neighbors complained, so she got our priest involved.” I stand and move toward her, almost as if I’m willing her to take a step back.
She doesn’t, though. Instead, she stands, shoulders back, her breasts collecting tears from her silent weeping.
“Diavolo means devil in Italian.” I laugh. “Our priest agreed with her but insisted that she let me back in the house. Then I got caught shoplifting… this is when it gets good, Julianna.” I nod at her. “I was homeless, lived on the streets, slept under the freeway. You might have seen me when you were driving by in your fucking BMW.”
“Stop, just stop, Ryder.” She holds up her hand at me.
“Why? We’re sharing.” I sneer. “Had enough?” As my voice gets louder, she shakes her head.
“I never cried before I met you.” Her voice sounds accusatory.
“You’ll get used to it.” I snort. There’s a startled look in her eyes, but she’s still not scared.
“This is getting us nowhere. I have shit going on, Julianna.” I walk around her, heading for the door.
“Don’t wait up for me.” I slam the door behind me.
JULIANNA
Present
Disciples’ clubhouse
Burbank, CA
The slam of the door doesn’t surprise me. Maybe I’m numb, because none of this seems odd, yet it probably is.
My eyes drift over to his bookshelf. I guess the mystery’s solved on why he has so many medical books: he thinks he’s insane.
I almost laugh. If I don’t, I’ll cry for him. And he doesn’t want my pity. The thing is, I have nothing but pride and admiration for him. Given the same circumstances, I’m pretty certain I wouldn’t be doing as well.
Taking a deep breath, I try to digest his words, but all I can think of is a sweet little boy with dark hair and rosy cheeks, scared because he had a dream, and his mother beating him and calling him a devil.
Diavolo.
My stomach turns. What is wrong with people? She told him he was a monster, so he became one.
Or is he?
Not that it matters. I know what he is to me. Sitting down in his chair, I swear I can smell him: smoke, leather, and a touch of spice. I need a cigarette and alcohol. When was the last time I ate? I rub my forehead. It’s not like I could choke down food anyway. My stomach is in knots.
Walking over to his bar area, I grab a bottle of tequila and a pack of cigarettes, not even bothering to get dressed. Who cares? It’s not like anyone’s gonna see me.
