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“Chelsea, we need to talk.”
I stormed into the kitchen, throwing open a cupboard, finding a large glass and filling it with water. “I don’t have anything to say to you,” I told him as I down the whole glass in practically one gulp. “Is that why you’re here? You think I’ll tell you shit about the club just because you helped me out,” I scoffed.
He planted both hands on the table and leaned in. “Right now, I don’t give a flying fuck about the club. I give a shit about you and the fact that you need to be safe.”
I laughed. “This is a joke. Take me to the clubhouse. I’ll be safe there.”
“I’m glad you find this so funny. Hanging out with the same club that killed your parents.”
My heart stopped and the glass fell from my hand, clattering into the sink.
“What the hell did you just say?”
He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed deeply. “This is not the way I wanted to have this conversation.”
“This is not a conversation. This here is bullshit because you’re wrong,” I said pointing an angry, shaking finger at him.
He shook his head. “You know what, I wish I were. But evidence points to exactly that.”
I glared at him. Not believing it for a minute. My parents weren’t bad people and the club never went after anyone unless they were a threat to their family. “Who are you?”
“Sit down, Chelsea,” he murmured, his posture now completely beginning to sag as he hung his head.
“I don’t—”
His hand slammed on the table. I flinched and stepped back. Even though the kitchen table was between us. Deacon wasn’t the man I thought he was. I wasn’t sure what he was capable of.
“Sit down...please.” I swallowed and pulled one of the chairs out from the table and shuffled into it. He did the same, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. “Gav, head back outside will you.”
“Sure!” I heard the door open and close and the lock flick closed again
“Talk,” I said sternly, trying to muster up some sort of strength.
He clasped his hands together in front of him. “Do you remember much about your parents?”
I felt the familiar turning in my gut, dredging up old memories is not something I enjoyed doing. Sure there were a few things, little snippets of what my life had been like before they died, but never enough to really put anything together. “I remember some things. My mom in the kitchen cooking, them racing in the backyard, the night they were killed. Other than that, no not really.”
“I knew them.” He cleared his throat. “I knew you.”
I frowned. “That’s not even possible.”
“Our dad’s worked together. They were friends.” He rolled his shoulders like he was trying to release some sort of tension. “We met a couple of times, but my parents were separated so I was more with my mom than my dad.”
“Why are you telling me this, Deacon? I don’t understand where you are going with this crazy talk.” My legs jiggled underneath the table. Hearing him speak of my parents was strange. I’d never met anyone who knew them. My mom was an only child and both her parents had passed away. My dad’s family, from what I gathered, didn’t have a great relationship with him and didn’t want me.
He didn’t say anything until I looked up again and our eyes met. “Your dad was with the DEA. Just like mine was. Just like I am now.”
My mouth went completely dry. “He was...I don’t...I don’t remember.” Tears started to well in my eyes. Talking about my parents was hard enough, but having someone sit here and tell me things about them that I didn’t even know, was sending my mind into a tailspin.
Was this real? Was he telling the truth?
“Our dads were very much alike. They chose not to bring their work home. Their jobs were dangerous and they tried their best not to let it affect us.”
I wanted so desperately to remember. Just something, a tiny flash that told me that he was telling the truth. I gripped the edge of the table. “How do I know? How do I know you’re telling me the truth, and this isn’t just some ploy to take the club down?”
I saw anger flash in his face and his fists clench. “My dad had to live through one of his best friends being murdered. Your father and your mother died because of that fucking club.” He slammed his fist on the table. “The same club that you’ve been whoring yourself out to for the past few years!”
I pushed back from the table and stood sharply. “It’s not true! I know them! You have no idea who they are or what they stand for. They wouldn’t do that!”
He laughed, but it wasn't filled with amusement. It was dark. “You’re so fucking wrapped up in their president you can’t see past the fact that theyarecriminals—fucking murderers! How would your parents feel, knowing you’re sleeping with the men who took them away from you?”
“Shut up! Just shut up! You have no fucking right to speak for them,” I screamed.
“Whether you’re with me or not, the evidence doesn’t lie. I’ll fucking prove it and I’ll destroy them,” he sneered, his lip curled in disgust. “You’ll thank me when you know the truth.”
The rumble of motorcycles coming down the street filled the apartment. My body filled with relief and I didn’t care what he had to say. I gripped my hair in my hands.
I knew these men.
I knew this wasn’t them.
