Cleo came closer, wrapping an arm around my waist. “The end of an era.”
I smiled; her words couldn’t have been more perfect. “The end of war.”
With the breeze in my hair and my woman in my arms, I was finally able to let go and just be.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Cleo
I’d always hoped life would pay me back for the pain it’d caused.
Every day with no memory, I’d begged life to be gentle.
Every month with no recollection, I’d pleaded for salvation.
And every year with no epiphany, I’d prayed to be worthy.
My hope had finally paid off. I was whole again. I’d found him again. And life was now complete. —Cleo, last week
Two things happened a fortnight after Mo’s funeral.
Both proved that life moved swiftly and all I could do was hold on, be by Arthur’s side, and never let go.
The first was a newspaper article.
I didn’t normally read newspapers, but while waiting in the hospital foyer while Arthur had his cast removed, I picked it up out of boredom.
Flicking through the black and white pages, I yawned and glazed over. But then a photo wrenched me to a halt.
There we were.
Arthur and me at the cocktail party at Samson’s house.
Beneath the image—taken without my knowledge—was a short but poignant article.
Local motorcycle club president Arthur Killian has recently moved up the ranks from fringes of society to corruption-exposing businessman. This isn’t the first time we’ve seen him in the media, but it is the first he’s been spotted with a woman. Taken at Senator Samson’s house, it’s been reported that both Killian and Samson are behind the recent commercial and radio bulletins with leaks about the latest spying incident from our government. They both claim that the world is falling into anarchy with the men and women in charge unable to rule such a vastly changed economy. They state that the laws being created aren’t to our benefit, and it’s up to us, the people who chose this governing power, to take action and fight for truth and justice.
“Ah, you’ve seen it then.”
My eyes wrenched up, locking onto Arthur. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans. The cast that’d been scribbled over by Pure Corruption had gone and the shaved patch on his skull was no longer white against the shaggy length of dark hair—growing back with short bristles, hiding the injury that could’ve killed him.
“You knew about this?”
He smiled, perching beside me on another chair. “It’s not like I’m hiding them from you, Buttercup. The campaign has been going on for weeks now.” He chuckled. “I can’t help it if you don’t watch television or read the paper.”
My heart raced. After I’d learned his long-term goals with Samson, we hadn’t discussed it in great detail. After all, he’d gone to war, come back injured, and our life turned toward healing and supporting our Club rather than discussing world revolutions.
But now it was all I could think about.
“What does this mean?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “It means Wallstreet gets out tomorrow and the moment he does, our life will be very different.”
I don’t want it to be different.
I liked our life. I loved the quiet nights together. I adored the family I’d found in Pure Corruption. I even enjoyed the afternoons I spent with Molly and Melanie learning the books and diving deeper into the empire that the Pures ran.
My lips pursed as I rebelled against the thought of our life becoming public property. Of being shoved into the limelight and fighting a battle so big, it would take years to see results.
“Can’t you take a step back?” I scrunched up the paper, obscuring our printed faces. “Can’t Wallstreet take over now he’s free?”
Arthur leaned forward, his green eyes diving into mine. “You know the answer to that, Buttercup. I have to do this. And I need you by my side.”
I looked away. The thought of sharing him, of sharing myself with the world scared me to death.
He captured my chin. “Please, Cleo. I can’t do this without you.”
Despite my fear and hesitation, my heart melted. I had no choice. I wore his jacket. I shared his responsibilities. There was no other way, and I didn’t want there to be. “I’ll be beside you, Arthur. Every step of the way.”
The second thing happened that afternoon.
I received two calls—one I’d been looking forward to and another I’d been dreading.
The first was rather comical and to any other person wouldn’t have made sense. “Congratulations, Ms. Price. You’ve come back from the dead.”
I smiled, clutching the phone. “The paperwork is done?”