Ash to Steele (40 page)

   “No wonder you hate religion,” I muse softly as we lie wrapped in each other’s arms.   I think of my father flying somewhere close to where we are.  I think of me and what I believe, the faith I turned away from.  I’ve gotten myself so lost in all of this just like Breck’s gotten lost in the mess of his life.  He’s right, but deep down, I already knew that, we’ve been living it; there is a consequence for every choice you make.  Finding my way back won’t be easy, especially after everything we’ve already been through, already done, but even though I turned away from faith, it never turned its back on me.  I think of Dad and everyone back home.  There will be some who try to tear us down, but the majority will be there for us.  Part of what Justin said was right; I compromised myself out of fear when who I was before all of this is who Breck fell in love with in the first place.

   Breck is silent for a few seconds.  Rolling on his side, he props his head on his hand as he holds himself up by his elbow.  He traces his fingers down my cheek and my neck, before circling them on top of the angel wing, “I don’t hate God, Emma.  It’s important you know that.”

   “I know,” I answer honestly, “and He doesn’t hate you either.”

   “I know that now,” he whispers.

   “You do?” I ask, surprised, happy, but a little taken aback.

   “Yeah.  He gave me you.”

   Breck tells me everything.  He gives me all of him, every fear, every dream, every painful memory, and every beautifully exalted moment that hasn’t happened yet.  I am undeniably his just like he is undeniably mine, and I’m ready to spend the rest of my life with him.  Forever.

Chapter Nineteen

 
Handful

Breck

  Nine days.   Emma will be my wife in nine days.  A grin spreads across my face as I bound up the stairs to her apartment.  Before her, I never wanted anyone.  I never needed anyone.  Emma changed everything.  She never flinched or doubted who I am when I told her the rest of my sordid past that night, of how my father didn’t even show at the hearing when the judge decided to make an example out of me with the adolescent killings being on a rise.  I gave her the whole story of when I was twelve years old when I was sentenced to the juvenile detention center until my eighteenth birthday.  Not two hours into my first day, I was jumped by eight older kids.  I fought back, having decent skills from growing up in the drug ridden slums, but I was grossly outnumbered, and the harder I fought, the more they attacked at once, beating the living shit out of me.  I woke up in the hospital four days later.  I had survived the initiation. 

  Instead of recoiling from my touch, Emma held me when I told her that the day I got put back into that hell hole, I went after the leader, a seventeen-year-old badass who controlled the kids in the facility by inflicting sheer terror.  I went at him hard, holding nothing back, as I beat him mercilessly.  That was my first rage.  He was in the hospital twice as long as I was.  No one was stupid enough to fuck with me alone after that.  What I did both saved and condemned me.  Every new asshole who had heard of me and wanted to make a name for himself when he was sent to the facility from somewhere else took the time to herd enough of the mindless kids into believing they could take me.  They were wrong.  I proved that time after time.  The warden grew tired of my fighting and moved me to a high security detention center.  That’s where I met Gavin. 

   I was hesitant to tell Emma about his shaded history; I didn’t want her to fear him, but after what she went through with Liam, she deserved to know.  She didn’t seem too shocked when I told her that Gavin was involved in a gang before he was sent to the facility.  He and his crew had a nasty reputation on the street, known to resort to ruthless means to take out rival bangers.  My childhood certainly wasn’t
ideal growing up but Gavin’s was horrific.  His mom moved him from Britain when he was eight after his father nearly killed both of them.  She was gunned down on the street in front of him when he was ten.  Then, he was bounced from foster home to foster home for a few months until he ran away and was taken in by a local gang.  They bred him into a killer. 

   One night, Gavin and two of the members from his crew were arrested after an armed burglary.  He was thirteen when he was landed in the high security facility and quickly became the one everyone feared.  Until I came.  Gavin was the most skilled opponent I ever fought and the bad blood between us was lethal when he lost.  I had to watch my back everywhere, even when I was locked in my private cell.  His reach was long and spanned beyond the prisoners.  Then, rival bangers became the new residents at the hell hole that was even worse than the first one I was in, and they went straight for Gavin.  That’s when things shifted between us. 

   When Liam and his brother were sent to the facility, I saw Gavin scared for the first time.  He had killed one of their cousins before he was arrested, and Liam was out for revenge.  Emma had gripped my arm so tightly, I thought she was going to cut off my blood supply when I recounted the horrors of the night I killed Liam’s brother when they attacked Gavin in the mess hall.  There had to have been twenty rage filled kids who knew nothing but how to destroy and kill when they joined in the melee when Liam tried to institute his twisted form of justice by making an attempt on Gavin’s life for killing his cousin, who had started the fight between the two in the first place. Blood was everywhere. It was hard knowing who was fighting for who as fists flew, bones were broken, and lives were lost.  Three kids were sent home to their parents in coffins after that day.  Liam’s brother was one of them; I’m the one who put him there.

   My grandfather didn’t know about my conditions at first.  Mom had cut him out of our lives because he tried to force her to leave my worthless father when I was young.  She made the wrong choice.  When he heard what had happened, he reached out to try to help me, including making sure I saw a psychologist.  My grandfather met Gavin during one of his visits and saw something in him that gave him hope that the therapy would help Gavin when it wasn’t doing a damn thing for me.  He had paid for the best, working it out with the warden to have two weekly sessions for both of us.  Gavin responded well.  I didn’t. Gavin looked up to Gran
ddad like a father.  We both did, especially since my father didn’t visit me once since I was sent away. 

   My dad blamed me for what happened to my mother.  So did I.  That’s why the piece of shit left his house and my uncle’s house to me, knowing that was the last way he could torture me after hurting me all of those years.  My father never raised a hand to me; he didn’t have to.  His contempt and blame tormented me enough and I left his name behind as soon as I moved in with my grandfather when I turned sixteen after Gran
ddad went ballistic when he found out about the attack and pushed for my early release.  He pulled every favor with every connection he had, saying I was targeted and wasn’t safe.  He fought the judge’s original decision by bringing in domestic violence experts and child psychologists to take the stand at my appeal.  He upped the therapy sessions, threatening me to comply if I ever wanted to see life outside of bars. 

   I played the game and they fell for it.  He wasn’t worried about me looking for trouble but he did with Gavin.  Gavin continued with therapy, overcoming more than most, but knowing nothing but a life of violence, it was hard for that bloodlust to be drained from his system; that’s when I pushed him into boxing then becoming a bouncer, when we were released.  I watched the fire in his eyes slowly fade.  He has no desire to kill, and the occasional fights that break out at the Dark Hole seem to satisfy the dark side of him, that, and his continued weekly therapy.  

    I laid my life bare to Emma, showed her every demon I had, admitting that I felt nothing when I caused all the damage to the others in the facilities.  I had no remorse, not until my past caught up with her and she was threatened for my sins.  She was lying peacefully in my arms, regaining the peace I saw in her before I clouded it, when I realized what I had to do.  When the plane had landed, I dragged Emma behind me, telling her father that she’s my entire world, and I’m going to marry her whether he approved of me or not, but I hoped he did.  I asked him not to blame Emma for any of her choices since meeting me.  I swore I would fight, live, and die for her.  My heart was pounding through my chest, wanting his blessing for Emma’s sake.

   Jess’ eyes lit up brighter than I’d ever seen, and Gavin smiled for the first time since leaving the station, when they heard our conversation. They stood behind Emma’s and my decision; Justin was a different story.  He went off, and despite my hating him, I had to admire his wanting to protect Emma, even though she doesn’t need protection from me, not anymore.  I gritted my teeth and forced myself not to rip his head from his neck when he started throwing reasons why Emma’s father should drag her back to Pickens – away from me.  Her dad calmly stood, holding his hand up and silencing Justin before turning towards me.  He looked at me,
really looked at me
, and saw past all my shit, seeing the man I’m trying to be for his daughter.  I earned his blessing that day, and he earned my respect. 

    We’re using the trip to Paris as our honeymoon since we are both so busy, her with painting and extra projects at Shallonelles and my continuing to split long hours between Kylianna’s and Dur Acier, and won’t have the extra time to take another vacation anytime soon after Paris.  Gran
ddad is getting stronger each day and is already bitching about getting back behind his desk, so I can stop working two jobs soon, and Emma can leave Shallonelles anytime she wants.  She just hasn’t made that decision yet.  I’m hoping her seeing Paris and all of the art there will change her mind about feeling guilty about painting full time until she can replace her income with her own art.  I tried to tell her how I make more than enough to sustain us, but she’s so damn stubborn.

    I can’t wait to take Emma back to the suite and give her my wedding present a little early.  I have ulterior motives to push her resigning from Shallonelles, and I’ve been keeping her away from the suite for days while the construction on the spare room I enlarged and made into her own studio was completed.  When I unlock her door and walk around the corner, I lose my breath.  Despite trying to respect Emma’s wishes on the long talk we had about everything that has happened and how, even through all of the shit, she found her way again, this time bringing me along with her instead of my dragging her down with me, my mind fills with detailed carnal fantasies, and I harden from the sight of Emma dressed in tight, faded jeans, a tiny white tank top, and her worn brown cowboy boots as she is bent over painting with her delectable derriere pushed out and swaying to the music on her iPod.

   My erection swells to a painful state when her hips quickly sway back and forth as she stands up, holding her arms up in the air, the paint brush held in one hand, as she grinds mercilessly to the music.  Her tan arms are covered in a mixture of shades from the paint and those threadbare jeans I love are now ripped in more places – places I want to taste, to stick my tongue into and explore.  The firm skin on her thigh peeks out from a frayed hole and I shift uncomfortably, this whole waiting for sex thing being a lot harder than I expected after having tasted her already.  When the black strap of her bra falls down her arm as she continues to dance, I groan and walk towards her, “Emma!”

  The paintbrush falls from her hands and beautiful hues splatter as it bounces against the protective canvas covering the floor.  Emma’s long, chestnut hair whips through the air in her messy ponytail. Her lips part in surprise, and I shove my hands into my pockets to keep from rubbing my thumb across the pink fullness before I push her against the wall and make her mine.  Pulling the iPod out of her ears, I hear Florida Georgia Line blasting before she turns it off and tosses it on her bed. 

   “Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” she finally says, self-consciously fixing her bra strap and tugging the tank top a little lower on her tan, bare midriff, unknowingly exposing the lace covering the top of her firm breasts, and my ache intensifies.  She’s still so damn shy around me, and I’m going to love taming that. 

   I tear my gaze away from her to admire her painting.  It’s an abstract and I have no idea what in the hell it is, but it’s amazing like all of the others, vibrant and captivating – just like the artist.  She sees the approval in my eyes and her cheeks flush.  I grab her around the waist, crashing her body into mine, and the different paints spill onto the covering on the floor.  She laughs as she drops to her knees trying to salvage the colors she’s mixed together.  I follow her, but I don’t give a damn about the mess.  I swore I would do right by her, and God knows I’m trying.  Baby steps.  I feel the change, a peace in her that I want.  We may be refraining from having sex, but I’m going to have my fill of her lips.  We roll all over the canvas, kissing and laughing, and the love I have for her is overwhelming.