Her arms came around my waist and she peered up at me. “I mean it.”
“I don’t know where to start.” My chest tightened uncomfortably, reminding me of my worries.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Then tell me what’s on your mind right now, what are you worried about?”
“Honestly?”
She nodded, giving me a squeeze. “Yes.”
“Fine. It might not make any sense, but for better or for worse, the number one thing on my mind right now isn’t Christine St. Claire, and it isn’t what to do about Duane. It’s whether or not you’re staying with me, or if you’re moving back to Chicago.”
Shelly’s eyes widened, and she looked at me like I’d just spoken Greek. “What?”
“You may not love me, but I love you—”
“Beau—”
“—and I need to know whether you’re staying or going. Whether we’re in this together, for the long haul, or if you’re planning to move back north, closer to your family. And if that’s the case, I want to go with you. I can’t think past losing you. I can’t focus on anything else. Where you are, that’s where I want to be.”
“Oh Beau. I promise you, where you are is where I must be.” Her eyes misted over again, and when she spoke, her voice was shaky. “You are absolutely vital to me. I want to be just as vital to you. I want to take care of you, let me take care of you. You are my first thought in the morning, and my last thought before I go to sleep. And I promise—”
I stopped her lips with mine, crushing her against me, needing to seal this moment, this promise, with something tangible. I took her promise. I would hold her to it. I was a priority, and I didn’t need any more words than that.
Shelly lifted to her tiptoes, holding me just as tight as I was holding her, and my worry—the fears I’d been harboring about her leaving—they lessened, eased until I could finally draw a full breath.
With reluctance, I dipped my chin, pressing our foreheads together and closed my eyes. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Wanting to stay with me.”
“Always.” Her hands came to my face and she cupped my jaw, her tone tender. Gentle fingers threaded through my beard. I opened my eyes and met hers, so grateful for this woman. For her honesty and strength.
Let me be the most loving.
I understood better what those words meant. They were a litany, a prayer.
Let her always need my love, as she does now, and let me always be capable of offering it this freely, unreservedly, and unconditionally.
Shelly considered me for few seconds, then lifted her chin and kissed me once more softly, whispering, “You’ve seen me at my worst and you love me anyway. Give me the same chance. Show me who you are, and trust me to stay even if there are dark parts. But also, trust me to stay because of them.”
* * *
My story was a long one.
I’d made it as far as my momma warning me to stay away from Christine St. Claire at club picnics, when Shelly pulled me into her room and we lay on the bed.
I told her about my father—in detail—and about all the ways he’d hurt us, literally and figuratively. How he’d locked Duane in the shed for two days, just for sitting in our daddy’s chair. When I found him, he was inconsolable and didn’t let me out of his sight for weeks. We slept together for a year after that.
“I can’t believe your mother didn’t leave him.”
“She did, eventually. Granted, it took Darrell putting Billy in the hospital for her to do it.”
“She should have left him earlier.” Shelly sounded angry.
“I honestly don’t blame her. She was on her own after her momma died, with all us kids. When she married Darrell, pregnant at sixteen, she was cut off from folks in town for a long time, she was an outcast. We all were. And the club was something she both feared and needed. They ain’t good people, but they take care of their own. She needed a sitter, she got sick, her car broke down—someone would come. I’m not saying she was right, I’m not saying she was wrong. I’m just saying, I understand.”
“I guess . . . that makes sense.”
“The thing about Darrell is, he’s a master at getting people to think he’s a good guy. I hate him, I do. But I see what he is and I understand why she stayed. He’s basically all of us. Fun-loving as Jethro. Handsome as Billy. Smart as Cletus. Soulful—or the appearance of it—as Ashley. Reckless as Duane. All with the pretense of being as well-meaning as Roscoe.”
“What about you?”
“Charming as me.” I peered down at her, giving her a self-deprecating smile.
“I haven’t met all your siblings, but he sounds lethal.”
I pulled my bottom lip through my teeth. “He is.”
Eventually, as the story continued, I had to divorce myself from the words, pretend we were discussing other people.
Yet, as I told my tale, I realized something. The parts that hurt the worst weren’t the memories about what Darrell had done to me. What hurt most was recalling all the ways he’d hurt our momma, my sister, and my brothers.
Every so often, I’d ask, “Are you sure you want to hear about this?”
Shelly would nod and say, “Keep going.”
I told her about what happened a year ago, how the Wraiths had wanted us to take over their chop shop. How Duane, Cletus, Jethro, and I had busted into the Iron Wraith’s club. How Razor had been about to mark up my twin and how Christine had done nothing to prevent it.
But Claire McClure had stopped her father by surprising him with a gun. She’d been the reason we’d escaped untouched. And now she was my sister.
“How well do you know her?”
“Not well.” I rubbed my temples, they were sore. “She and Jethro are good friends, though. So she’s always been around, I guess. In fact, she’ll be at the wedding this Saturday.”
“I’d like to meet her.”
“Does this mean you’re coming to the wedding?”
Her hand slid under the hem of my shirt. “Yes. I’ve decided I’ll come to the reception.”
I squeezed her shoulders. “Good. Save me a dance.”
“All my dances are yours.”
I liked the way that sounded.
“Oh, I don’t know. You should dance with Duane. He’s better at the faster stuff. I’m more of a slow dancer.”
Her fingertips trailed back and forth over my stomach. “Are you going to tell Duane?”
I shook my head, staring at the ceiling and gathering a deep breath. “I don’t know.”
Shelly said nothing, just kept touching me. Despite the subject matter we were discussing, her strong, capable hands were turning me on—likely because I knew what they were capable of—so I caught her wrist and brought her knuckles to my lips.
When she remained silent, I asked, “Aren’t you going to give me advice?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m here to listen and hold your tools.”
I hoped that last bit was an innuendo.
“Not that tool.”
Damn.
“What do you mean then? Hold my tools?”
“Bounce ideas off me, go through scenarios. What’s the worst-case scenario if you tell Duane the truth?”
“He’ll . . .”