Pictures Don’t Lie
1067 Words
Ace’s POV
I zipped down the empty street, the city stretched out and quiet at this hour, streetlights flashing past me in streaks of yellow and white. The engine roared beneath me as I pushed my bike harder, the cool night air cutting through my jacket and pressing against my chest. Scar had given me an address and a job to do, and I planned to get it done fast so he could rest.
He needed it.
His tumor was growing rapidly. Too rapidly. He needed treatment now, before it was too late. He could have been in remission already if he had not been such a stubborn f**k when he first found out he had cancer a few months back. I tried to convince him. God knows I tried. Chemo, radiation, anything. But he refused. Flat out.
I was hoping Rachel would be enough of a reason for him to finally change his mind.
My helmet hid the wide grin on my face as I thought about that sexy little thing curled up with Scar. The image made my c**k react instantly, a sharp twitch low in my gut that I ignored as I twisted the throttle again. Some thoughts were better left alone.
Those thoughts disappeared the second I pulled up to the address Scar gave me.
Spitfire’s mother stood right out front.
The building was old, brick worn dark with age, the kind of place that smelled like stale air and bad decisions. A single porch light flickered above the entrance, casting uneven shadows across the sidewalk. I slowed my bike and parked it across the street, cutting the engine and letting the sudden silence settle around me.
I lit a cigarette and leaned back against my bike, watching her through the smoke as I pulled my phone out and snapped pictures. One after another.
Scar had been sick over what happened three years ago. It ate at him more than he let on. He was still trying to figure out how to tell Rachel the truth, if he ever planned to tell her at all. I was not sure the truth about the night her father was murdered would ever come out. If it was up to Scar, it would stay buried.
Not that he knew everything back then.
Movement caught my attention.
Another man stepped out of the apartment building. He walked straight up to Mo and wrapped his arms around her like he owned her, lifting her off the ground as she laughed. They kissed, slow and familiar, like this was nothing new.
When I recognized who the man was, my stomach dropped straight to my feet.
My cigarette slipped from my fingers and hit the pavement, burning out between the cracks.
You have got to be f*****g kidding me.
“What the f**k is going on here?” I muttered under my breath.
I snapped picture after picture, my hands steady even though my pulse spiked. They disappeared back into the building together, out of my line of sight, but I already had enough.
Scar was already dealing with cancer. Planning a wedding. Holding himself together by sheer force of will.
And now this.
The news of who Mo was f*****g around with would destroy him.
Maybe he had been right all along.
Maybe Mo did not kill Paul in self defense.
Maybe she murdered him in cold blood.
And if that was true, everything was about to blow the f**k up.
Rachel’s POV
I had been watching Scar sleep for almost an hour.
The hospital room was dim, washed in muted blues and soft whites, the only real light coming from the hallway spilling in through the cracked door. Machines surrounded his bed, their screens glowing faintly, wires and tubes trailing from his body like quiet reminders of how fragile he really was. Every few seconds, a monitor beeped, steady and sharp in the otherwise heavy silence.
His body twitched every time one of the machines made a sudden sound.
It made my chest ache.
I sat on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him. The sheets were thin and stiff, smelling faintly of bleach and antiseptic. His face looked harder even in sleep, his jaw tense like he was fighting something even unconscious.
The only thing that seemed to calm him was me.
I reached for his hand and laced my fingers through his.
Almost instantly, his body relaxed. The twitching stopped. His breathing evened out, slow and deep.
My presence calmed him, even in his sleep.
The realization settled heavily in my chest.
Even though this whole ordeal was f****d up beyond belief, I had come around to the idea of being his. Somewhere along the way, the fear had tangled itself with something deeper. Something that scared me more than being trapped ever did.
My mother was not coming back.
But she would get what was coming to her for what she had done to me. I would make sure of it.
Every time I thought about her, rage crawled up my spine and wrapped itself around my throat. It felt too planned. Too clean. Like I had been handed over on purpose. Like this had always been her endgame.
She had to have something to do with my father’s murder.
Why else did nothing make sense?
What was she hiding?
What the f**k were her intentions?
Scar’s hand tightened suddenly on my thigh.
His fingers dug into my skin, firm and possessive, and the sensation sent a sharp wave through my body that made me gasp quietly. My muscles tensed, heat pooling low in my stomach before I could stop it.
I turned to look at him.
His eyes were still closed.
But his grip tightened even more, like he knew I was there on some instinctual level. Like he refused to let me drift too far away, even in sleep.
I pushed the dark thoughts out of my head and let myself focus on him instead.
On the rise and fall of his chest.
On the warmth of his hand.
On the way he held onto me like I was something real in a room full of cold machines and sterile air.
And as I watched him sleep, I realized that letting go of him might be harder than anything my mother had ever done to me.
- Writer
