Malo - Page 38

“I know it’s not,” he fires back. “Shit, you don’t think I’ve got things on my conscience? Things I wish I could go back in time and undo? But you can’t let that get to you now. You aren’t to blame for what those bastards did to her, they chose to do that not you. The most important thing you can do for Harley now is focus on taking down those fuckers, you know that’s all she cares about. That’s how you’re going to make amends to her. That’s the only way.”

I bite back another protest, another argument, some other reason I can come up with that I don’t deserve forgiveness, even mercy, after what happened to her. Sometimes, when I look at her, I’m reminded all too clearly of everything she went through, and it rips me to pieces inside. It kills me. I don’t know if there’s any way I can ever let that go, no matter how much I try, no matter how much I want to.

“Listen to me,” he continues, dropping his voice, sincere. “I know you’ve been through a lot, all right? And I know that everyone has to find ways to cope with the shit they’ve seen in this line of work. Nobody ends up in the Kings because their life has been sunshine and roses.”

I snort with amusement. Okay, he’s got a point there. He manages a smile, though I can tell he’s still angry as hell at me.

“But you can’t let that get in the way of looking out for the people around you,” he continues. “I know that’s not who you are. You don’t want to let them down.”

I shake my head. He’s sure as hell right about that. After what happened with Harley, I swore to myself I wouldn’t make those mistakes again. But, the ironic part of addiction is that it’s the pain of what you did while you were high that pushes you to want to get high again.

“I don’t,” I tell him. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve him giving me this many chances, but shit, I’m glad he has.

“If you want to kill yourself, there are plenty of quicker ways to do it,” he continues. “But don’t bring the rest of us down with you. You hear? Handle your shit.”

Even though he’s talking like he only cares about how my habit impacts the rest of the MC, I know it’s more than that. It always has been when it comes to Beast. He cares about me, even though he might do his best to cover up that fact sometimes. Letting people into your life, in this line of work, isn’t easy, and they don’t always stick around.

He nods to the door. “You can go now. Get some rest. I don’t know what’s coming next, but you’re going to need to be ready to handle it when it does.”

“Esta bien, okay,” I reply, and I get to my feet, relieved that our conversation is over. I really don’t want to listen to how many problems I’ve caused because of my habit, when it feels as though I’ve already torn myself up enough inside to last a lifetime.

I just have to hope that the temptation in my pocket doesn’t get the best of me and makes me go back on everything I’ve just promised Beast.

CHAPTER 28

MARIA

Iwake the morning after our return from Mexico to the sense that something is different around here.

I lift my head from the pillow and glance around. I’m not sure exactly what it is, but something has changed, I’m sure of it. I narrow my eyes, trying to locate what exactly has shifted since last night, when I crashed, exhausted after the day I’d had.

I climb out of bed and pull on some clothes, glad to be out of the cloying heat of Mexico. Houston doesn’t have a whole lot going for it compared to my home country, but I could get used to this comparative coolness. Running a hand through my hair, I yawn and head barefoot down toward the kitchen for a coffee and something to eat.

When I arrive, I’m faced with the sight of the last person I expected—Malo. He’s standing over the stove, cooking, and the air is filled with a delicious, savory scent that makes my mouth water. I eye him, doubtful as to whether or not he’s sober, but I can’t see any tells that might indicate he’s anything other than on the straight and narrow.

“What are you making?” I ask him.

He glances over his shoulder. “Huevos rancheros,” he replies, and my stomach grumbles loudly. My favorite breakfast. My dad used to make them for me all the time growing up.

“Enough for me?” I ask.

He nods. “Claro. Of course. I made it for you. To say sorry.”

“To say sorry?” I ask, approaching him a little cautiously. I don’t know exactly what it is I’m expecting, but there’s a part of me that’s nervous about being this close to him again. Like he’s a coiled spring, ready to jump at any moment.

“For leaving you like that in Mexico,” he explains, his voice dropping slightly.

I cross my arms over my chest. I’m still feeling a little confused about all of that, about the way he just took off without me before. I figure there’s a whole lot going on inside that head of his that he might not want to share with me, but, if he wants me to trust him, he should be willing to give me a little more in the way of explanation.

“Yeah, what was that about?” I ask, cocking my head to the side curiously.

He sighs, staring down at the pan of eggs in front of him, before he turns back to me again. “It’s hard to explain,” he replies.

I know it’s his way of telling me that he’s not ready to lay out the whole truth for me, and maybe I need to respect that for now. Sure, I might be curious, but God knows everyone in this place seems to have secrets. Better to let him come to me with them in his own time, not push him to give me answers he’s not ready for yet.

He serves me breakfast, replete with fresh-cut avocado, and I tuck in hungrily. It’s so damn good, it’s like he knew just how to make it the way I like it. I’d almost be suspicious, if I wasn’t aware he had Mexican heritage of his own. Pretty much everyone from Mexico seems to have their own family recipe for huevos rancheros, and his just so happens to align with mine.

He sips on his coffee opposite me at the table, and I glance outside to see a cluster of men hanging in the main social space across the corridor. I swallow a mouthful of food, and then point my fork in their direction.