Killian (West Bend Saints 4)

“Yeah, his wife died a couple years back – I wasn’t here then – but I know he took it pretty hard. This was the first place I came right to when I came back to West Bend a few months ago. I didn’t even go to see my mother for a while after I got here,” he said. “I just came to see Coach.”

“What about the furniture?” I asked. “Is he the one who got you into making it?”

“Oh, yeah, the furniture,” Silas said. “It was Coach’s thing. He had his whole garage set up as this workshop, and he’d go in there and hole up and make things. After you left, he got me started in doing it. He said I needed to have something other than wrestling to occupy my mind, and wood-working was just relaxing.”

I wanted to tell Silas that he wasn’t the only one who had been devastated when I’d left. But instead, I touched the headboard of the bed, let my fingers linger on the surface of the wood that had been painstakingly carved and sanded until it was soft and smooth. “This is really cool, Silas,” I said.

“It’s aspen,” Silas said. “It’s local.”

“You should make pieces like this and sell them. You’re really good.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, I could never do that.”

“Why not?”

Silas shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “People aren’t going to buy that stuff. Not from me, anyway. It’s just a hobby.”

Stretching back out on the bed, I pulled Silas down beside me to face me. “You could do something really cool with this,” I said. “When you have talent like that, you shouldn’t waste it.”

“The talent I have is beating people up,” Silas said. “And even that isn’t exactly talent.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing?” I asked. I suddenly realized that Silas had been probing into what I’d been doing for the past seven years, pulling information from me piece by piece. Meanwhile, I knew only what I’d assumed about him, and that was turning out to be different from real life.

“What, since you left?” Silas asked. “I haven’t been doing anything much. Nothing important.”

“Tell me anyway,” I said, my hand smoothing the fabric of his t-shirt over his chest, feeling the harness of his muscles as they flexed underneath his shirt in response to my touch. “Did you get that scholarship you were up for in high school? The wrestling one?”

“To Oklahoma State?” Silas asked, his face reddening.

“What?” I asked. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, yes, I got the scholarship. No you didn’t say anything wrong. It’s just – I got kicked out.”

“You got kicked out of college?” I asked.

“It happened at the beginning of sophomore year,” he said. “After that I went to Albuquerque, worked some odd jobs and got on the fight circuit out there. There’s a lot of unofficial stuff in that area - MMA, boxing, that kind of thing. I’d fight anyone and anything, didn’t matter what it was.”

“Why’d you get kicked out of college?” I asked. “What happened?”

Silas exhaled heavily. “I beat up this guy,” he said. “And I got kicked out for assault. It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal, but the kid had money. His parents donated a wing of one of the buildings or something. They didn’t end up pressing charges, but only because of what happened being public.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were at some party, and he was arguing with this girl – I didn’t know who the hell either of them were, but he hit her. The girl had a fucking bloody nose; I mean, she was bleeding all over the place. And someone was standing there with a cell phone recording. So I kicked the shit out of him, and took the girl to the hospital.”

“So they kicked you out of school for that?” I asked. I hadn’t been to college, but it seemed to me that they wouldn’t want someone who was hitting their girlfriend to be a student.

“Money talks,” he said. “You of all people should know that better than anyone. Anyway, what the hell would I have done with a degree? You don’t need a degree to fight in the ring.”

“You’re one of the smartest people I know, Silas,” I said. “You were always reading all those books when we were in school.”

“Yeah, but knowing a bunch of shit about history and philosophy doesn’t pay the bills, does it?” Silas asked, his voice bitter. Then he smiled, and touched my arm. “Water under the bridge, right? No use crying over spilled milk and all that. Is there another cliché I could use that would be appropriate here?”

I laughed. “The past is the past?”

“Exactly,” he said, his hand cupping my ass. “Why don’t you distract me with the present, instead?”

“Mmm,” I said, as Silas leaned close and kissed me. He started pulling on the sides of my shirt, but I stopped him. “Wait.”

Silas shook his head. “What’s this waiting you’re talking about?”

“I want to see the workshop,” I said. “Where you built all of this stuff. I want to see what you’re working on.”

“I’ll trade you,” he said, sliding his hand underneath the fabric of my shirt and cupping my breast.

“For what?” I moaned, distracted by the fact that his palm was rough against my nipple.

“You find a way to distract me now, and I’ll show you the workshop when we’re done,” he said. His fingers danced over my nipple, erect to his touch.

“That sounds like a deal for me too,” I said.

32

Silas

“How long has it been?” Tempest stood at the counter, her back toward me, stirring a bowl of cookie batter with a wooden spoon. A pair of my sweatpants, too large for her, hung around her hips; and she wore one of my t-shirts knotted up underneath her breasts, baring her midriff. She looked over her shoulder at me, hair falling messily in pieces from its ponytail, and my heart swelled just looking at her.

“What?” I asked. I was distracted, too distracted by the fact that this girl- this girl who I’d loved for so long, this grifter who’d conned Coker- was standing in my apartment, wearing my clothes, and baking fucking cookies.

Cookies.

Like she was Martha Stewart or something.

Tempest turned around, her back against the counter, the bowl and spoon in her hand. “You’re staring,” she said. “You’re looking at me like…I don’t know what it’s like, but you’re creeping me out.”

I grinned. “Oh, I’m creeping you out, am I?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m not sure if you’re hungry or -”

“I’m definitely hungry,” I said.

Tempest smiled. “You just had your fill of me this morning.”

“I know. And now I’m starving again,” I said. “What were you asking? I’m too distracted by the fact that I can see right through that shirt you’re wearing.”

“Wait,” Tempest said, turning around and setting the bowl down on the counter. “Is there a cookie sheet here?”

“Do I look like the kind of guy who has cookie sheets in his house?” I asked. “You should have told me you wanted me to pick those up at the store when you sent me for the cookie stuff.”

Tempest sighed. “Do you have a pan, at least?” she asked. “And I was asking, how long has it been since I’ve been here?”

I opened the counter and handed her a flat pan. “The days are blending together, aren’t they?”

Tempest looked at the pan, her face scrunched up. “I guess this will work,” she said. “It’ll just be one giant cookie, right?”

I watched as she poured batter into the pan, the act of us cooking in the kitchen now a regular routine. It had been three weeks since she’d agreed to stay here, since she’d decided to press the pause button on everything else that existed outside of this place. When she left to get her things at the bed and breakfast where she’d been staying, I was sure she wasn’t coming back.

But she’d returned not even an hour later, standing in my doorway.

The next day, I was cer

tain that she’d be packing up and running. But she stayed. And one day turned into three, turned into ten, and now it had been three weeks.

I felt myself getting used to having her here.

She felt like home.

I didn’t want to go back to reality. There were things I knew I’d need to deal with - Elias had called last week after someone had told him I’d gotten arrested, and started to lay into me, so I knew he was wondering what the hell was going on. I needed to rejoin the real world at some point.

But holing up here with Tempest was the closest I’d felt to peace in a long time. And I thought she felt the same way.

My cell phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. I ignored it the first two times, but on the third, Tempest insisted. “Seriously, Silas,” she said. “Answer the damn thing already. Just because we’re holed up here doesn’t mean you shouldn’t answer your phone.”

I chuckled as I walked into the bedroom to get it. “Hello.”

“Where the hell have you been?” Trigg asked. “Shit, man, I’ve texted you and called you. What the hell?”

“I’ve been busy,” I said.

“Too busy for your fucking friends?” he asked. “What, you screw one girl who’s out of your league and you’re suddenly hot shit?”

I was silent.

“Wait,” Trigg said. “Are you still screwing her? You’re not still in Vegas, are you?”

“No, I’m not in Vegas,” I said.

“You didn’t say you weren’t still screwing her either,” Trigg said.

“Because it’s ridiculous and I’m not answering that.”

“You are,” Trigg said. “Shit, man, I’ve known you how many years now? I know when you’re avoiding shit or trying to lie. You’re the worst damn liar in the world.”

“Trigg,” I sighed. “What the hell do you want?”

“Well, I want to know about the TV producer chick,” he said. “But since you’re not talking about that, I’ll tell you why I called.”

“That would be nice,” I said. “Getting to the point would be wonderful.”

“I’m doing you a damn favor, Silas,” he said. “You could be a little nicer about it.”

“Sorry, Trigg,” I said, my voice sing-songy. “Did I hurt your feelings? I’ll even say please.”

“You should,” he said, fake sniffling. “Quit screwing around. I wanted to tell you that some weird shit has been going on with Coker.”

“What do you mean?” I asked warily, waiting to hear that Coker was looking for Tempest and the rest of her team.

“He’s all around the fight circuit looking for fighters, bragging about some big money-making opportunity he has going on,” Trigg said. “International fights. He’s talking about making people stars. Abel and I are obviously not idiots. But some of the guys are getting into it.”

I exhaled, my relief palpable. Whatever Tempest had promised him, Coker was apparently too much of a tool to have realized that they weren’t going to deliver. “Yeah, I would stay out of that, Trigg.”

“Do you know something about it?” Trigg asked.

I stopped. Tempest would want me to be discreet. “Nah, I don’t know anything,” I lied. “But if it’s something Coker’s involved in, you don’t want to be.”

Trigg was silent for a minute. “Roger that,” he said. “There’s another opportunity for you, though. Coker’s not involved in it at all. One of the other promoters wants you- he’s been trying to get in touch. There’s a fight coming up that has a big purse. Ten grand. Have you been keeping up with shit?”

Had I been keeping up with shit? I’d been running in the mornings with Tempest, using the heavy bag that hung in the corner of the garage downstairs for practice.

I wasn’t supposed to be fighting. Doctor’s orders. The last fight had been impromptu, unexpected, really. I was doing Abel a favor.

I wasn’t trying to get back into it, but the pull was strong.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been keeping up with shit.”

“You should do this fight,” he said. “I know that last one was it for you, that you paid off your tab to Big Johnny, but it’s ten grand. That would be a lot of weekends bouncing, you know?”

“I don’t know,” I said, thinking of Tempest in the other room. I knew she’d hate the idea of me fighting.

“Ten grand, Silas,” he said. “This guy had a hard-on for you specifically. He’s been trying to track you down. What could you do with ten grand?”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, hearing Tempest behind me.

“What’s there to think about?” Trigg asked.

“Dude. I said I’d think about it,” I said.

“Well, think hard about it,” Trigg said. “And fast. It’s coming up real soon. Need to know ASAP.”

I sighed. “Yeah. I’ll let you know.”

I hung up the phone and turned to face Tempest, who slid her arms around me. “What’s up?” she asked.

“That was one of the guys I trained with out in Vegas,” I said. “Did you know Coker hasn’t figured out that you’re scamming him yet? He’s looking for fighters for some international TV channel or something.”

Tempest grinned. “I told you we’re good at this,” she said. “We usually string them along for a while. Emir has something set up to auto-respond on email to the mark for a few weeks and blow him off. By the time they realize they’ve been conned, we’re somewhere else.”

“I’d say you’re a sneaky bitch, but I approve of you scamming Coker, so I won’t.”

“I am a sneaky bitch,” she said, looking up at me, her smile radiant. She slipped her hand down the waistband of my sweatpants. “Want to see how sneaky I am? Do you think we can do it before the cookies come out of the oven?”

“How long are they in the oven?”

“Twelve minutes,” she said.

“Race you,” I said.

33

Tempest

“Sorry about the cookies,” I said. But I wasn’t sorry in the least.

Silas laughed. “I’m not. It was worth a giant burnt cookie. And a house filled with smoke.”

“My Nana called me yesterday,” I blurted out. I hadn’t told Silas about her. We’d spent the last three weeks screwing and talking about things that had happened in our lives since we were teenagers. But we hadn’t talked about West Bend. Or about the shit that had happened with the sheriff. Or about how my grandmother had asked me to look into things. I didn’t want reality to intrude on us, to pierce this perfect little bubble we had going.

We were living in this little fantasy universe we’d created, and I found myself not wanting to leave. And yet, I wanted him to meet the person who was most important to me, my grandmother.

“Is she in West Bend?”

“She’s at the nursing home in town,” I said. “Excuse me- an assisted living facility.”

“I’d heard she moved away,” Silas said. “After what happened with your parents and stuff…”

“She didn’t move far away,” I said. “But she’s here in town now. I want to take you to meet her.”

The smile that crossed Silas’ face couldn’t have gotten any fucking bigger if it tried. “All right.”

“It’s no big deal,” I said, holding my hand up. “I mean, it’s