Furore: Texas Chapter Duet Part One (The Night Skulls MC Book 1)
Furore: Chapter 3

My hands twisted in the sheets as sweat dampened my hair. My eyes clenched along with my jaws while my head pressed into the pillows. A sob rose from my throat as my mind trapped me in a never-ending show of the night that had ruined my life fifteen years ago. “Please,” I whimpered into the darkness.

Bang!

Breathless, I shot up into a sitting position with a scream. My eyes darted around the pitch-black room, and I allowed myself to let out a breath, slow and deep, and then a few more until I calmed down. I was just a grown ass woman, alone in her quiet apartment, swimming in her sweat because she’d had a nightmare.

Even in my sleep, the world damaged my dreams with fear. I’d woken this way every day for the past seven weeks, and the grief that hit me every time was all too familiar. I turned on the bedside table lamp, but the light didn’t take away the pain of missing her…or the guilt of missing him.

For the few months we’d been together, the nightmares were afraid of Tirone. Even when they dared invade our nights, his murmurs would calm me down while his strong arms banished them away.

With a defeated sigh, I staggered to the bathroom. Flinching at the burst of lights, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror and frowned.

The eyes that I’d been hiding behind sunglasses for being too oddly bright to stay inconspicuous weren’t bright at all. I traced the dark shadows under them, my pale skin looking dull and lifeless.

I ran my hand through my hair—I’d been wearing it for so long that it started to feel as my own. I even slept with it just in case I had an unexpected visitor at night, in case I’d been found, like my mom and I were found fifteen years ago.

Blinking the memory and the tears away, I locked the bathroom door. Then I looked around, making sure no one was watching even when I knew for a fact I was alone, and took off the wig.

The cream blond strands fell from the tie and hung lank and dry past my shoulders. Instantly, my hand touched the place on my skull that had been fractured that night and had never healed right. While it no longer hurt physically, it brought a shower of piercing emotional aches that would never go away.

Bracing against the sink, I evened my breath, willing the pain away. I splashed some water on my face and looked back up in the mirror. Fifteen years in hiding made it hard to recognize myself in my own skin. I wished I could have worn colored contacts and dyed my hair permanently to transform into Jo Meneceo forever. But with my severe dry eye syndrome, contacts weren’t an option I could rely on for long. I wore them briefly for identity verification at the prison and sometimes at school when the weather was cold enough to handle the irritation then I took them off the second I could. That stubborn hair wouldn’t relax enough to take all the color. No matter what I did, those roots refused to be anything other than that stupid cream blond that, with those eyes, gave me away.

Even my body wouldn’t cooperate when I’d tried to shed some pounds to look any different from that chubby, eight-year-old girl that was supposed to die that night with her mom. Wigs and sunglasses had become my last lifeline to hide ever since I lost the only parent that ever cared about me and paid her life for it.

Letting out a heated, silent scream, I yearned for the only face that calmed me down and took the pain away. The one I lay bare before without hiding who I was. “I wish you were here,” I whispered, tears falling against my will. “I wish you didn’t leave me like that.”

It was wrong of me to think or feel that way. No matter how hard I missed or needed him, we were never meant to be together for long. We never stood a chance. I should be happy for him that he left. I shouldn’t be angry that he did without a goodbye. I didn’t deserve one.

I should never try to reach him again, but logic didn’t stop me from grabbing the burner phone I kept on at all times, in case he reached out, and calling his number in the middle of the night. I was desperate.

“It’s Tirone. Do your thing. I’ll call back when I feel like it…or not.” Beep.

My skin broke in goosebumps at his voice. Squeezing my eyes in the darkness, I sank back in bed, my mouth open with all the things I wouldn’t bring myself to say.

Quickly, I hung up, cursing at myself. It wasn’t like he was going to answer. He’d never answered or returned any of my calls in the past seven weeks, and it was so reckless of me to dial his number that late at night.

I buried my face into the pillow, wetting it with my stupid tears. I was exhausted and afraid and heartbroken and alone. No sleep was deep enough to take any of it away or escape the nightmares. Those, along with the horrible emotions that had been piling up my soul, were ingrained in me and would always be part of who I was.

The darkness and grief within me would never be erased. Just like the past. My fate was sealed, and I was only delaying the inevitable. Sooner or later, I’d be found. Someone would spill the beans to the ruthless king, and he would come to finish what he started to protect his blood kingdom. Whether it’d be my bad luck or a mistake I’d made…like that name…

What the fuck was I thinking? How could I have made such a stupid mistake? Why hadn’t I researched it or asked any of the Italian kids at school or even Michele?

I thought if I’d had chosen the name by myself and never told anyone about it, it’d have been safer. No one could be tortured into telling what they didn’t know. But here I was, thinking I was a fucking genius, coming up with that name, making it officially mine since I moved to California and went to San Francisco for college, living with that name and on my own for five years without a single incident, and bam. It took one tattooed convict with no high school diploma one second to figure out I had a fake ass name and harbored a secret the size of Texas.

Without secrets, we’re fucked. You of all people should know and respect that.

Furore’s words rang in my ears, and the suspicions I’d been pushing aside all day snuck back in. What did he really mean by that? He couldn’t be on to me. He couldn’t be on to anything. He wasn’t even from around here or anywhere I’d been. I’d read his file. It couldn’t be anything but the unlucky coincidence of pushing the buttons of a smartass, Italian inmate. He wanted to rile me up for forcing him to write that assignment. Nothing more, nothing less.

Right?

“Way to go, Jo.” All those years, cutting ties with the dreadful past, building this fiery, strong-minded persona to keep people at arm’s length, hiding my fear and despair behind quick wits and a sharp tongue, getting a degree and a job and an apartment away from New York, away from Chicago, all that hard work, could vanish in a heartbeat all because of one stupid mistake.

Great. Should I start packing already, uproot myself from my new home and replace another one? Where to this time? Fucking Alaska?

I dragged my butt out of bed again and went to my desk. Going through my purse, I pulled out Furore’s note. His darn assignment I had to accept in its poor condition.

My eyes landed on the four words on the sheet paper. Per il mio figlio.

He had to write it in Italian, of course, to prove a point. It wasn’t hard to translate, though. For my son.

As simple as the words were, they carried a lot of meaning behind them, heavy and deep. My curiosity was over the top. I wanted to know more. Furore’s story wasn’t about an outlaw who had gotten into a fight, hurt a man and went to prison for it. There was much more to it, and despite my fear, I wanted to know every detail.

Why was he in my class, studying Creative Writing for his son?

Why when the tip of Furore’s finger caught the side of my knuckle did a burning jolt of heat shoot deep into the pit of my stomach?

Why did I not reprimand him for touching me in the first place?

Why did I know, if the situation had repeated itself, I still wouldn’t have told him to stop?

I shook my head, shoving the piece of paper back into my purse. “You can’t do this. Not again. Never again.”

More reason to leave. Now. Before it was too late.

But what about Ty? What if he came back and didn’t replace me?

He left you. He’s never coming back. He’s never coming back to you.

That inner voice nagged at me, but my mind refused to believe he’d just leave without even saying goodbye. Part of me was still wishing for his return, even if we should have never been together, even if we would never be again.

No. He had to come back eventually, even if it wasn’t for me, and I’d wait. Running away now would only incite more suspicions, if there were any in Furore’s head, anyway. I had to stay put and pretend nothing had happened, at least, until I knew for sure the vague threats behind his words were empty.

Lying back in bed, I sighed against the pillow. Would my life ever get easier?

I begged for sleep to swallow me. Suddenly, the nightmares felt like the lesser evil tonight. But when I closed my eyes, all I could see was Ty’s face. I couldn’t bring myself to blink it away. I didn’t have any pictures of him or us together to go to when missing him was too much to bear; it was too risky. My memories were the only proof of his existence and the time we’d had together. Those I vowed never to forget. I’d forever cherish them even if they were wrong or never meant to be.

“Hush, baby. I’m here. It’s safe,” he’d have said.

“But you’re not here anymore.”

Just close your eyes and dream of me.

My wet lashes drooped and let the dark surround me. I filled my nostrils with his smell I conjured from memory and wrapped my arms around myself, pretending it was him enfolding me. “Can you sing it?”

Anything for you, Miss Meneceo.

I chuckled. He loved to call me Miss Meneceo, especially in bed. God, it was hot.

But if you laugh at my accent again…

“You know I will.”

Well, laugh all you want, Miss Meneceo. You know what you’re up for if you do.

“No, I don’t.” I lied. I knew exactly what he’d have done. “Just sing.”

Over in Killarney

Many years ago

Me mother sang a song to me

In tones so sweet and low

Just a simple little ditty

In her good old Irish way

And I’d give the world to hear her sing

That song of hers today

Tears rolled down my cheeks, slowly soaking my pillow sheet. I rocked myself like he’d have done, his voice echoing in my head as he pulled the best Irish accent he could muster just for me.

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don’t you cry

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li

I’m here and will never say goodbye, singing you an Irish lullaby

My heart ached. “That’s not how the last line goes.”

I know. Gotta make it my own.

“But you left me, Ty.”

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don’t you cry

Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li… Wait…are you laughing?

“You have the worst Irish accent ever.”

His grunt of what would have been disapproval murmured in my ears, sending a sweet shudder down my core. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Bad girls like you don’t get lullabied to sleep. They get fucked to sleep. On your stomach. Now.

I flipped over, my fingers slipping inside my panties. I was so wet and ready for him. God, I missed him. Missed the heat of his lean, firm body cascading over my skin, missed watching the angry cords of his muscles in his neck and shoulders tensing as his hands dug into my flesh, missed the thickness of him filling me all night as he relentlessly pounded me until we were both satisfied and worn out.

Ty didn’t just fuck me to sleep. He fucked the demons out until there was nothing left but the two of us and the peace that came after.

My fingers were nothing compared to the magic he wielded with his cock, but I moved fast, rubbing my clit, my teeth spearing my lips as heat gathered in my belly and pushed lower.

I fucking love your cunt. Love the way you take me, Jo. Fuck, you’re such a slut taking all of me like that, Miss Meneceo.

Moans seeped out of my throat and met the wet sounds my pussy made around my fingers. I want you to look at me. I rolled on my back to see his face as if he were here. Look at how you’re taking my cock, Jo.

I gasped loudly, my back arching, my pelvis in the air reaching, begging for him. I fucking love you, Jo. Fucking love you…

Jo.

My eyes snapped open as, suddenly, it wasn’t Ty’s voice or face in my head. It wasn’t his lips that said my name. It was Furore’s.

C’mon, don’t be shy now. I know you want me like I want you.

“What the fuck?” I gasped at the empty darkness, my mind playing a slideshow of one picture on repeat. Laius Lazzarini’s lips puckering up and whispering my name, slowly, teasingly, sensually.

Be a good girl and finish yourself off for me…Jo.

Abruptly, dark green eyes framed in gray taunting me, my body clenched and an orgasm crashed over me hard.

Ci vediamo, Jo.