Beyond Her Words (Corrupt Chaos MC) Read online

  My ears perk, listening, and I stop watering long enough to see a floppy eared coon dog shoot out of the tall corn, heading across our yard. Suddenly, instinct takes over and I kneel.

  “Hey, boy,” I call, clucking my tongue.

  The hound dog catches sight of me and swiftly changes his trajectory, barreling toward me full speed ahead. Lurching himself into my chest, he knocks me flat on my butt in the freshly watered garden. Sticky mud squishes under my weight, coating my thighs, calves, and feet in the nutrient rich detoxifier.

  A startled laugh ignites in my belly as the sweet dog begins to excitedly bathe my chin in his sloppy kisses; wearing off any upset that I might have felt about him tackling me. Lifting my hand to his head, I scratch behind his ears─ which only makes him vibrate with further elation. My brilliant laughter continues to grow with each sloppy stroke of his tongue. I can’t help it. It has been far too long since we’ve had a dog on the property. Our property that’s now overrun with barn cats. Cats, only my grams loves. In town, they don’t call her the crazy cat lady for nothin’. It’s a name she wears proudly.

  “Rock! Bad dog!” A male’s voice cuts through my merriment, simmering it to a low chuckle.

  “Rock!” The man calls again. Only the dog doesn’t respond; he keeps ravishing my chin in his kisses like it is a delicious salt lick, and I let him.

  Feet stomp across the hard grass behind me, then stop. Just as I turn my head to find him, he speaks, “Ma’am, I’m so sorry. . .” The words die on his lips when I catch sight of the young man standing in a crisp white t-shirt, and tight Wranglers on the edge of the garden, tugging the hose into the grass before it makes a pond in the lettuce patch. My eyes lift to meet his, and I swear I feel my heart expand and contract while also losing my ability to breathe.

  His eyes are the most beautiful greenish hazel I’d ever seen. His hair, so blond that it could be white, lies in a mess of sexy waves on top of his head and spills over his forehead. My cheeks flush under his gaze, which appears to be assessing me just as I am him.

  The captivating trance breaks all too soon when the realization hits that I am soaking in a mud bath, wearing cut-off shorts that expose too much of my thick thighs. The scorching heat of my embarrassment creeps down my chest and washes over my body. I’m a disaster, and can’t even imagine what my hair must look like—a curly wadded mess probably.

  Sickness curls in my stomach as I shy from his gaze and push the dog from my lap. Turning onto my knees while ignoring my butt being on open display, I stand up, trying not to get my hands muddy. I can feel my thighs jiggle the entire way and pray he doesn’t notice.

  Just look away. Look, away.

  Mustering fake courage, I straighten my spine and turn a bit sideways to glance at the young man. He’s knelt, petting his dog, with eyes on me and his lips curled into a smile. An unknown sensation whirls in my belly as I try to smile back. Although, I know my smile is lopsided and can never compare to his.

  He stands, and his dog nudges at his ankle for more attention.

  “Hey, I’m Brian.” He dusts his hand off on his jeans before extending it to me.

  Flicking my eyes downward, I look at my hands once more and pray for them to magically be dirty. No such luck.

  Maybe I should’ve dipped my hands in the mud so I wouldn’t have to touch the cute guy. Dagnabbit!

  Slipping off my flip-flops, I wade barefoot through the mud and to the grass before I take his proffered hand into mine. “I’m Magdalene.” I shake it once and let go as if it's burned me. It had. And what his proximity is doing to my heart and senses as the wind wafts his clean, masculine scent into my face, is freaking me out.

  An awkward silence settles over us. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and Rock circles us, stopping to sniff Brian’s boots before he circles again.

  “Sorry about the mess,” he finally says, nodding to my legs, then tries to meet my eyes once more. I look at the grass instead and wring my hands in front of me to keep myself occupied so I don’t run inside. It’s not like I want to be rude, but I have no idea what to say to him. Although, I certainly don’t want him to leave. He is really cute and is the first boy who has actually talked to me in a while.

  “It’s okay,” I mutter shyly under my breath.

  “You home for the summer?” he asks.

  What kind of question is that?

  I shift uncomfortably, staring at my toes, thinking that I am lucky they are covered in mud so he won’t notice how awful the chipped polish is. “Um, yes, I’m always home.”

  “Oh. . .ahh. . . you go to college ‘round here?” He is fighting for words as if he’s nervous. Though, he has nothing to be nervous about. I know he has to be much older than me and probably used to all the girls throwing themselves at him. He’s too cute for that not to happen.

  His bizarre question strikes me funny, so I bring my head up and frown at him. “College?” My brow cocks in question.

  “Yes. You’re what? Nineteen? Twenty?”

  What? Now why on earth would he think that?

  I watch his eyes momentarily dip to my chest before returning to my face.

  Oh, my boobs, of course. Always those. Is that all boys notice when they see me?

  My rare temper flares, and I blurt out, “I’m fourteen!”

  Brian gasps loudly, which is quickly followed by a coughing fit as he chokes on his spit and takes a staggered step back, pounding his chest with his fist. The distance feels like a swift slap in the face as a boulder settles on my self-esteem, sinking it deeper.

  Nervously, I run a hand through my messy curls. “Listen, Brian, don’t worry about the dog. Now, please excuse me. I have more chores to do.” I turn to leave, even though I don’t have anything else to do except get washed up.

  Three steps forward is all I manage before a warm hand settles on my shoulder, halting me and spinning me back around.

  “Sorry, Maggie.” He chuckles nervously. “Guess I’ve been apologizing a lot today.” He grins, and my insides warm at the sight. “I just moved to the farm next to yours with my dad. I’m kinda new ‘round here. Not making a very good first impression.” His hand shakes, as it slides through his loose waves. I think my knees might give out at the sight. He is too cute and way too close for comfort. I take a step back.

  “Who’s your friend, Magdalene?” My grams’ voice cuts through the yard, and I peer over my shoulder to see her wearing her usual—a farmhouse apron and calf length dress. She smiles at us from the back door.

  “I’m Brian, ma’am.” He waves and bows his head in greeting—a true country gentlemen.

  “Well, Brian, looks like my granddaughter had a fight with some dirt and a garden hose.” They both snicker at my expense, and I grumble under my breath. “So why don’t ya come inside for some tea while she washes up?”

  Brian and Rock slip past me, heading for the farmhouse, and I turn around to watch them meet my grams at the door.

  A pang of agony lances through my heart and my pulse skyrockets.

  This is a memory—a dream. I can’t go into that house. I can’t. Please, God, stop this now. No more. If I go in there, I’ll see them laughing at the kitchen table.

  My grams loved Brian from the start, just as I did. He was the boy next door. My farmer boy who came from a broken home, whose mother didn’t want him just as my mother never wanted me. Brian was sixteen when I first met him. He was my everything, and now he’s gone.

  No more of this. I can’t bear another second.

  Clenching my teeth ‘til it hurts, the vision finally recedes and the pain fades. It’s replaced by the comfort of an old friend— loneliness. Loneliness and I have become best friends over the years. He’s been my constant companion. The only one I can count on.

  Slackening my jaw, I try to swallow again. The pain is so raw that I whimper, blowing out a shaky breath through my nose.

  Dear God, why does my throat hurt like this?

  Where did this happen?


  Where was I last?

  The. . . .

  A burst of recollection jolts my mind like a light breaking through the lifting fog.

  The gas station. . .a wicked storm. . .me and a woman hiding in the back. . .glass shattering. . .tiles falling all around. . .the roof. . .

  My temples seize and a lancing pain streaks through my brain. I try to cry out, but it’s muted—nearly silent.

  Locked, frozen in agony, I struggle to breathe. Panic ruptures deep within.

  Please. . . this can’t be my last moment.

  A coarse voice echoes in my ears, cutting through my thoughts. “Fuck!” it booms.

  Comfortingly, a rough heat presses to my forehead, slightly relieving the misery. I inhale sharply, and the pain in my throat ignites into a burning throb. More pain soon follows in my arms, trunk, and legs, as this dense fog blanketing my mind fizzles to nothing.

  Like an angel sent from heaven to ease my suffering, the rough-comfort caresses the top of my head and the span of my forehead before slowly sweeping down my nose to the tip and back up again, soothing me.

  My panic begins to mellow. The throbbing in my ears floats away.

  That’s when I first hear it. . .

  A voice. . . The hot breath of another, fanning my face as it gently hums, “Shhh, wee lass. Shhhhh, it’s all right.”

  The rough-comfort lowers, brushing across the apples of my cheeks and down to my lips. They part in welcome, and the grizzly angel fumbles over his methodical words.

  All too soon, the sweet caress is wrenched away when an authoritative female voice snips, “You’re not allowed in here. It’s past visiting hours.”

  A string of sharp foreign-tongued curses quickly follow, and an argument erupts.

  I try to listen and dial back into reality, but the sudden burning in my forearm and awful taste in my mouth robs me of all thought. Pain ceases as a warm, fuzzy fog settles over me and my mind blanks.

  Night, night.

  “Sir, we’ve had this talk. Our privacy laws state that if you are not family, you are not allowed to stay,” a man argues.

  “Ye think I give a fuck?”

  “Sir, please don’t make me call security.”

  The weights hooked to my lids ease off as they begin to open and I glance around. Dim light filters into the room through drawn shades. A tan couch along the wall of windows is littered with unkempt blankets; a leather vest hangs on its arm. An IV machine next to my bed pumps a clear liquid into my arm. I’m in a hospital. Not sure where or why, but I’m in one.

  Sluggishly, I turn my head to scan the opposite side of the room. By the door, an argument ensues between a male nurse and a. . . . oh my bejesus. . .he’s. . . Hell, I don’t even know what to say.

  Can I be sure this is happening; right here, right now? There’s no way men like that exist in the real world.

  Briefly, I close my disbelieving eyes and open them again. Yes, that man is standing right in front of the hospital door. I’ve never seen him before, I can tell you that much. ‘Cause trust me, if I had, I’d have remembered him. He’s gargantuan. His heavily tattooed arms that stretch the sleeves of his navy t-shirt have to be the size of my thighs. Okay, maybe not quite that big, since my thighs are huge, but you get the point.

  What I really don’t understand is what Thighs-for-arms is doing in my hospital room, arguing with a nurse. Did they just filter in from the hall?

  I open my mouth to ask, except a string of unintelligible squeaks tumble out. My eyes spring wide at the strange noise coming from my lips. I try again and fail. My voice. . .it doesn’t work! Reaching up to touch my throat, I stop and look at my arms. They’re both casted from the elbow down, allowing only my fingers to move freely.

  I frown.

  What happened to them?

  The gruff clearing of a throat brings my head back up to see that both men have stopped arguing and are now facing me. Two sets of eyes assess me with concern. Or the giant’s does.

  Is the nurse still here? Not sure. I can’t see anything except this scary man before me, as he stands with hands fisted at his sides, lips unemotional.

  Just when I thought he couldn’t be any larger, I get the frontal view. The fully clothed one, that is. Not that I’d want to see him naked or anything. So get your mind out of the gutter.

  If it’s possible, I think my eyes have morphed into saucers, ready to bug out of my head, as I blatantly absorb all of him. I know that it’s rude to stare. But I can’t control it even if I tried. I’ve never seen anyone like him before.

  The cropped, rust-color hair on his head matches perfectly with his neatly trimmed goatee. Though a dusting of gray mixes pleasantly with the ginger hair, adorning his chiseled chin and jaw. My eyes lift to meet his, and I gasp a sharp, noiseless breath. The teal of his eyes – look at them; they’re gorgeous. Unlike any color I’ve seen before—orange around the center, and bursting out to a cool teal. The brightness somehow reduces the harshness of his brooding expression, pinched brows, and mature eyes. Although, the lines at the corners of his eyes somehow give him a softness on an otherwise daunting face. One that’s full of sharp, masculine lines, and a dark expression that seems right at home.

  Someone speaks, but it doesn’t register when my eyes dip lower, taking in his corded neck that seamlessly matches his wide, linebacker stature. His meaty pecs are on full display as his shirt stretches across them. I can practically hear the cotton groan in protest. Lower, the shirt clings to his thick abs, and his waist tapers into a pair of jeans that hug a set of long, muscular thighs.

  I blink again, momentarily holding my eyes shut before opening them. There’s no way this is happening. I have to be dreaming again.

  In through my nose and out through my mouth, I breathe. Shaking my head, I try to clear it and wake myself up. The stiffness forces me to grumble in discomfort. It didn’t work. The man is still standing here, unmoving, like a marble statue, erected straight out of the floor.

  “Miss,” a soft male voice slices through the air.

  Finally, I’m able to hear again, and sweep my eyes left, where the nurse stands.

  I try to reply ‘yes?’ But another squeak tumbles out instead.

  Not again.

  The nurse strolls to my bedside, a fake smile in place. I know that smile. That’s the same smile they used when my grams lay in bed, rotting away to nothing but skin-and-bones as cancer gnawed the last months of her life away.

  “Can you talk?” he asks.

  Trying again, nothing comes out. I die a little on the inside when I have to shake my head to answer him.

  A fleeting frown passes over his features before his fake smile reappears.

  My arms are in casts. My voice doesn’t work. What else is wrong? Do I dare look at my legs? They feel heavy, but I’m too afraid to peek under the blankets. Tears prick the back of my eyes and I bite my lip, desperately trying not to cry. The tingling in my nose tells me the waterworks aren’t far off. I can’t remember the last time I felt this broken. That dream didn’t help either. Neither is this scary man who’s standing in my room, watching me. It’s all too much.

  My lip trembles, and I close my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose as I press my head back into the mattress. Viola. . .my garlic. . .the storm. What happened to them? An elephant starts to crush my chest, and my pulse skyrockets. Sweat begins to drip down my forehead and cheeks. My breathing accelerates, coming out in short bursts.

  For a split second, I hear an argument erupt once more, but I soon blank out, as the world crushes me. My car, my garlic, my pictures, my. . . . my. . .Oh god! My arms. . .my voice. . .Brian. . .Grams. . .

  A hiccupped cry rips through me and the tears start to flow. I never thought life could get worse, but it has.

  Without cause, my mind races through meaningless thoughts. . .I shouldn’t have left Johnathan. He loved me. He did. He’d said as much when he asked me to marry him the day before I skipped town. In the parking lot of the jewelry store, over the
console of his Lexus, hand in mine, he’d proposed. It wasn’t a scene out of a romance novel. It was reality. Four simple words, and a kiss on the cheek. I faltered, fumbling over words, and finally said that I need time to think it through. Although, I knew I didn’t need any time. I was trying to be polite, letting him down gently. Or, the only way that I know how to let a man down—quick and painless. Running away, it’s better than arguments, which will turn to bitter hate in the end. Johnathan didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve me. How could I marry a man when he didn’t even know my name? Rebecca, he called me, and never questioned it. Not once.

  No one knows my name. A new place, a new identity, a new hair color. The day I’d left, I stripped my hair of all color. I missed the strawberry blonde, just as much as I missed my name. Magdalene, or Maggie, for short. Brian first started calling me that, and I’ve never heard another person say it since. I’ve been a Misty, a Johanna, and once at a bar, a man had asked if I was a Sally. I’d said I was, his eyes lit up, and we ended up dating for three months. For a fleeting moment in time, I became his Mustang Sally. That is, until one night when we fought because I refused to kiss him. That’s not something I do. Kiss.

  I’ve only ever kissed one man in my life, and I plan to meet the Lord staying that way. Loyal to the core, to the only man I’ve ever loved. The only one who ever meant anything to me—my Brian.

  Muffled noises clash just as the memorable burn and horrid taste in my mouth returns. Thankfully, the elephant climbs off my chest as the fog I thought I’d beaten, descends upon me once more, a murky darkness slowly following behind.

  Nighty, Night.

  Why do doctors always speak to their patients like we have advanced medical degrees? Or they do the complete opposite, and treat us like imbeciles?

  Doctor Whatcha-ma-callit is doing the former as he stands astutely at the foot of my hospital bed, reading my chart from a tablet in his hand. What I’ve gathered thus far from this titillating experience is that he’s a big city doctor. One that stooped to country town level when he was drugged, cuffed, and dragged to this hospital in order to work his one-of-a-kind miracles to save me. Yeah, he doesn’t have a “God complex” at all. Nope, not a bit. Internally, I roll my eyes at the thought.