I slowly sat up and ran my eyes along the pictures, thinking back to the life I wanted.
There was a picture of a headless man in a suit. A pristine suit. A clean-cut suit, with strong hands and broad shoulders. There was a picture of a Tudor-style home in the heart of Ann Arbor. Just a stone’s throw away from downtown and all of the scenic and beautiful things it had to offer. Like the boutique stores and the holiday parades. The food specials and the friendly get-togethers. I had cut out pictures of beautiful cars. Rich green Jeeps and pearl white Mazda Miatas. Even a cherry red sports car I might surprise my husband with one day as a Christmas gift. Complete with a big bow on top.
One that still had side airbags, though. To keep our three children safe in case they wanted to take a ride with their daddy over to the lake.
I stood to my feet, walked over to the vision board and ran my fingertips over all the pictures. I fingered the headless man in a suit and couldn't stop thinking about how his hands were big, like Max’s. I ran my fingertips over the cherry red sports car and couldn't stop thinking about how nice Max might look on a cherry red bike. I stared at the Tudor home, imagining living in it with its peaked rooftops, beautiful brown wooden exterior, cream-colored shutters and bright door to signal to everyone that they were welcome in our home.
And just beyond the door, I imagined Max and myself standing there. Dancing in the foyer underneath a chandelier while a pot of coffee percolated just for us in the kitchen.
How in the world could I possibly want a man that was so cruel to me?
18
Max
I paced the floor of my father’s study waiting for him to finally show up while John nagged me about how it was never good to barge in on him like this. I didn’t give a shit, though. I’d been trying to contact my father for weeks about this job. About payment for services rendered. Ever since Mr. Dean finally left town, I hadn’t heard a damn peep out of my father. Not a meeting. Not a payment in our accounts. Nothing.
Shit had finally hit the fan.
My temper boiled over. This entire ordeal had been a shitshow from start to finish. The job had been completed for weeks. Why the hell had we not been paid? My men and I had spent an entire week shadowing that fucker, making sure he got from place to place as safely as possible. Getting shot at. Almost losing men to this idio
cy. Not to mention the other complicated scenarios in which we had bailed out Mr. Dean.
Though there hadn't been anything as bad as that first night.
My brother sighed. “Keep a level head, man. You’ve been busted up enough already over this. Your shoulder just closed up nice. Don’t give him an excuse to rough you up even more.”
I glared at my brother. “Three weeks. It’s been three fucking weeks since this asshat left town. Three weeks, and not a word from him. We don’t do a week’s worth of anything without getting paid. Especially with the kind of shit we stared down!”
“Lower your voice. You know he hears you.”
“Then let him hear!”
My voice echoed off the corners of the wall as I balled up my fists.
“Let them all hear. My father knew something about how dangerous this was. We weren’t nearly prepared for the onslaught of that night. We needed devices we didn’t have. Gear we didn’t have the money for. All of us could’ve died. And you think I’m supposed to let that lie?”
“You nearly cost my client his life, you know.”
Our father’s voice rang out in the study as the door closed with a thud. I whipped around, glaring at my father as he stared daggers back at me. His lips were downturned in regret and his eyes narrowed to slits. With his hands clasped behind his back, he walked toward his desk. Easing himself down into the buttery leather chair as if he had a right to chastise me for the bullshit he put us in the middle of.
I felt myself bristle. “Yeah. And you nearly cost me and my club ours. Works both ways, Father.”
I felt my brother stiffen as I challenged the man that single-handedly made our childhoods a living nightmare.
“And how do you figure?” Dad asked.
“How do I figure what?”
“How do you figure I put your club’s lives at risk?”
I licked my teeth. “By withholding from us exactly how dangerous this was supposed to be.”
“Did I not tell you to put your eight best men on this job?”
“I should’ve refused the job the second you didn’t do a risk assessment!”
John butted in. “Wait, you didn’t do what?”