Guilty conscience a cons.., p.1
Guilty Conscience: A Conscience Series Novelette, page 1
Guilty Conscience
Copyright © 2016 by Cat Gardiner
Publisher: Vanity & Pride Press
ISBN 13: 978-0-9973130-3-1
ISBN 10: 0-9973130-3-X
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, businesses, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Guilty Conscience Pinterest Inspiration Board: Here
Guilty Conscience Spotify Playlist: Here
Edited by: Kristi Rawley
Table of Contents
Title Page
1
2
3
4
5
6
Without a Conscience
Music References
About the Author
Vanity & Pride Press
Preface
In celebration of Denial of Conscience’s one-year book anniversary in June 2016, this six-vignette novelette was written for its generous fans who are patiently awaiting the release of the novel’s sequel. It is meant to be a bonus segue piece, a sort of epilogue yet a little backstory prologue for the soon-to-be released Without a Conscience, book two of the Conscience series. However, it is not integral information for following Without a Conscience, but it is integral that you read Denial of Conscience first.
A special thank you to a wonderful lady and dear friend, Gail and her family for inspiring the Guilty Conscience plot bunny and sharing with me all the exciting photographs they took on their trip with The Iceman—Flat Stanley style!
1
Harley Chick
March, Alexandria, Virginia
The Jeep hit a deep pot hole in the expansive parking lot of Al’s Chopper Shop in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia and Liz smiled, recalling the many weeks she had spent as a newbie motorcyclist navigating this weather beaten lot. If felt good to be back for a visit. Happy as she was to live with Darcy in Leesburg, she loved returning to this town and the mostly good memories it held for her.
Still scruffy and stocky, the owner of the motorcycle shop and her former instructor exited the open garage door then stopped in his tracks; his hand patted the beer belly at his open vest. The look of surprise upon his bearded face countered her enthusiastic wave out the window.
“Well, I’ll be. What the hell are you doing back in town?” he called out above Handel’s “Arrival of the Queen of Sheba” playing from the Jeep’s old cassette player.
“My husband’s in California and I got bored out in Leesburg.”
She parked the truck, the music shut off, and she got out. Al’s laughter rang out across the lot, his gaze appraising her new look.
“What? You’ve seen me in leather before,” she defended.
“Only on the back of a hog.”
Liz loved the man’s smothering bear hugs, and the one he gave her didn’t disappoint when his tattooed arms squeezed around her. “How are you, big guy?”
“Better than I deserve.”
“And how’s your wife?”
“Better than she deserves. The woman is giving me hell. I knew I’d regret teaching her to ride.”
Yeah. She understood that from Darcy’s perspective. She’d been quite persistent herself, and he’d been quite patient—even if a pain in the butt.
“Are you here for a lesson?”
“No silly. I’m here to see you and to purchase a bike.”
“Without Darcy?”
“Yes, without Darcy. My husband would probably insist that if I did buy something it should be a Vespa with training wheels. I thought I’d seize the opportunity for real wheels while he’s gone.”
He furrowed his brow, clearly concerned. “Gone to California?”
“Yeah. He’s on a mini holiday near Fresno then camping in some canyon with friends and their kids he met last spring.”
“And didn’t take you?”
“He asked,” sort of half-heartedly “but I didn’t want to go.” For the last three weeks, she chose not to dwell on his trip to the West Coast or the niggling fear that he felt tied down to Pemberley. No doubt, he needed this vacation away. Of late, she’d been feeling as if he wanted to bolt from their tranquil domesticity. She’d convinced herself that after five months of marriage, a man like Fitzwilliam Darcy could never truly be satisfied after the exciting life he’d led with Obsidian. He’d been the Iceman for far too long.
Al stroked his salt and pepper beard in consideration, eyeing her thoughtfully when she didn’t elaborate. “Trouble in paradise?”
“Not at all. He’d made the commitment to his friends before I came into the picture, and Fitzwilliam is a man of his word, especially since the children have been looking forward to his visit. I love him and I want him to be happy.”
“All kidding aside, is there another reason you’re not waiting for his return to purchase a hog?”
She shifted her weight, feeling uncomfortable by his grilling, but that was Al’s way, straight to the point and wanting honest answers. Like Darcy, he could smell bullshit from a mile away. It was like some sort of biker skill.
“Well … um … my husband is just a teensy bit overprotective. I think he’s regretting my learning to ride just as you are with Lisa. That’s all. Nothing I can’t handle and certainly not going to stop me from purchasing that SuperLow.” She looked away, her gaze distractedly settling on a motorcycle parked near them. She took a deep breath. “I’ve had my eye on it for eight months now.” She chuckled. “I blame you; you taught me to ride it.”
“But can you handle it on your own?”
“Sure. I’m confident in your instruction and ready for that bike.”
Al groaned. “Tell me he’s not going to show up at my shop and pound my face into the concrete if I sell it to you.”
“Fitzwilliam? No, you’ve got him wrong, Al. My man’s a pussycat. Like I said, he’s just cautious. We’ve been through a lot, and to be fair, I don’t exactly help the situation by being so defiant, but I’m working on changing that.”
“He’s overprotective because he’s in love. Guys are like that.”
She grinned from ear-to-ear. “Yeah. We’re perfect together, even if we push each other’s buttons.”
“It’s what makes a good relationship. C’mon. I’ll show you what I have in the showroom. I hope you don’t want any special colors. I’m on a black kick—none of that pink crap on a hog.”
“Black is good.”
He eyed her up and down again, from leather jacket to riding shoes. “Shame to cover up those legs of yours but I’m glad to see you dressing properly for the bike.”
Together they walked through the garage where several Harleys were undergoing custom modifications as well as personalized airbrushing on the fuel tank. Al was a great instructor and a hard core, bad-boy biker, but he had a true gift: he was a talented artist and it showed in his detail work.
“Are you going to stop in to see your father while you’re here?” he asked, remembering that she once lived on a plantation on the Potomac down near Mt. Vernon.
“Yeah. My sister tells me that he’s not doing so well. I thought I’d brighten his day, maybe cook dinner for him and spend the night.”
“Jane, right?”
“You have a good memory. She’s been practically living with him after I left last August. I haven’t seen either of them since Christmas and feeling a little guilty about it.”
Stepping into the small showroom the shop maintained, her eyes lit with excitement at all the options around her. Touring bikes, street models, and a couple of trikes sat at the ready to rev the hell out of there. Fitzwilliam would enjoy the chrome eye candy, too, but she suddenly felt panicked imagining the argument that lay ahead when he returned from his camping trip with the Grant family. Her fingers tapped her thigh, as they often did when anxious. She hoped he’d be in good spirits when he returned and accept that the damage had already been done, the money (not that that was important) already spent. She finally nodded, convincing herself that he’d appreciate her independence in the purchase and would eventually admit to wanting a matching Harley so they could ride together. After all, wasn’t that was at the heart of her learning to ride? To share his world, live more on the edge like he had grown accustomed to. She’d do anything to keep him from getting bored. Or … maybe after spending a week with three children, he’d come home more overprotective than before, perhaps wanting to talk about having children of their own. She wanted that, too, but then she’d never be allowed on a bike for the rest of her life! So she better enjoy it now.
Her heart wavered for a millisecond until she ignored her husband’s steely voice in the back of her mind, walking straight to the Harley that she drove 50 miles for. She’d have to take her chances, do some damage control before the Iceman reared his obstinate head. Sending him a few photographs and a few texts about needing some power between her legs in his absence might do the trick. He’d appreciate that one, laugh at the innuendo, and perhaps even forget that he wanted her to train some more, wait a few more months before buying her own bike.
“Well, here she is. The 1200T Sportster is streamlined and stable, perfect for a newbie. It’s ready to hit the pavement if you are. You can ride her outta here today.”
“Can I really?”
“Of course I remember. I’m not so green anymore. My husband actually lets me solo ride up and down the two-mile long driveway on his hog.” Of course, Fitzwilliam thinks I’m only going 20 mph not 60.
He laughed, again. “Gee, what a sport,” and she slapped his arm in retort. “Well at least he’s been continuing with your education. Have you taken any of his bikes out on the road?”
“Oh yes! A few times. The last, though, we had our first real fight.”
Al rolled his eyes, obviously recalling his own experiences with Lisa. “What happened?”
“We … um … just had a difference of opinion about how I cornered.”
“So what you’re telling me is that he doesn’t really think you’re ready to drive this hog outta here.”
“I am. I promise you; I am.”
“I’ll take your word, but you should bring him by the shop, Liz. I’d like to meet another man who’s not afraid to teach his wife how to ride. We’re a rare breed—we need to stick together.”
“You’d like him, Al. Her hand smoothed along the black leather seat, fingers rising to grip the cool handle bars. “Oh, he would so love this.”
“But do you?”
She lifted a leg and straddled the bike, leather against leather met when she lowered herself onto the saddle. She battled with her conscience feeling guilty as the words rolled from her lips. “Yes. I have to have this. It’s totally me.” Her left hand adjusted the mirror and her eyes met Al’s in the reflection. “Can I take it for the night? I’d like to ride down to Mt. Vernon along Route 400. I miss the river.”
He clicked the remote in his hand and the showroom garage door rose. “Sure. Have at it, kid.” With a smile, he handed her a helmet. “But be careful. As pretty as that drive is, there’s a shit load of traffic this time of day. Watch your turns and remember what I taught you about counter steering. And most importantly, be alert. People drive like ass. It’s like flirtin’ with disaster.”
“Sheesh, you’re starting to sound like my mollycoddling husband.”
“It’s ’cause we care. We don’t want to see that pretty face smashed all over Memorial Parkway.”
“Gee thanks,” she said before settling the helmet with a secure fasten, then donning the riding gloves withdrawn from the pocket of her leather jacket. “Al, can you do me another favor?”
“Sure.”
“Can you snap a picture of me to send to Fitzwilliam?”
I better start buttering up the latent Iceman. He’s 3000 miles away at a campground, and there’s no way he’s gonna leave those kids and fly home at the drop of a hat to chastise me.
She texted with lightning speed: Since you’re not here, I had to straddle something else. Blame yourself for leaving me with too much idle time … then held the phone out to Al.
He read the text, followed by a howl of laughter and a snap of the photo. “You sure have changed, Liz.”
“Yeah. I blame that on Fitzwilliam, too. Thank God.”
A second later, Darcy replied with: You better be joking, baby. Adding a photograph of him looking sexy on the back of a Suzuki in front of a massive tree in Sequoia National Park.
A turn of the key followed by a careful inspection of all the instruments and mirrors and Liz was ready to roll. She flipped the start button and the hog purred to life and so did her pulse. She felt alive—just as she did whenever Darcy took her into his arms. The bike growled when she revved the engine, just as her man did whenever he made love to her. She’d try to temper her newly unleashed wild streak in his absence, if for no other reason than because she loved him and understood why he tried to shield her from harm. They’d been through hell together.
Another text from her husband vibrated in her breast pocket and she chuckled so sure what it would say. Too late, she had a ride awaiting her!
She was rolling out the door, swerving around potholes before Al could call after her, “See you tomorrow, Hell on Wheels.”
2
Reflection
Of all the places Darcy had traveled in the world both in the Navy and with Obsidian, he’d never visited Sequoia National Park, not far from Fresno, and he knew that his wife had never been to Southern California. Surrounded by the Sierra Mountains, his excited traveling companions in the van (and he on a rented Suzuki) arrived yesterday into King’s Canyon and immediately set up their base campsite. The kids were quick to help and as soon as the campfire was hot, he’d tasted his first s’more. It wouldn’t be his last, that was for sure, and he’d felt like a kid, right alongside the three silly ones he had met last spring on his famous Hog Tour across the world in between ops. The Grant family was as welcoming and generous as before, and the kids were fun goofballs, each wanting a ride on the bike. His only regret was that Liz wasn’t with them and he felt a little guilty about leaving her. She’d love this—the hiking, biking, and touring. The sequoia groves, the cave, and the majesty of it all was as breathtaking as Georgiana’s (his former) home in Asheville. He shuddered when he considered how his girl would even love the damn snakes and spiders the size of his fist, and made a mental note to plan their own camping trip when he got back—maybe up in the Blue Ridge Mountains. They’d make love under the stars and bathe in the moonlight in a hot spring.
The sun was high and even though it was spring, it felt about 85 degrees. It was nothing like the heat of the Bolivian rainforest during Operation Samba, and far from the hot desert climate of Egypt during Operation Haggalah three years ago, but the nights were chilly and the mornings crisp.
With the sun beating down upon him through a break in the tree canopy, Darcy sat on a boulder, removing his hiking boots. He dipped his feet into the cold brook fed by a waterfall above him. The forest held a rhythmic cadence filled with birdsong and rushing water. He rested back on his elbow, face to the sun, drinking in the sublime moment of peaceful surrender. Closing his eyes, he allowed his heart to take him back home to Virginia. Pemberley. Liz. Absolute happiness and perfection.
The tranquil moment temporarily quelled the uneasiness he’d been feeling in his bones. Growing for weeks without rhyme or reason, the foreboding sense of … what, he couldn’t be sure, had increased, and the 3,000-mile distance separating him and Liz unsettled him. He had looked forward to this trip with the kids for months, and they were an enjoyable diversion from his preoccupation, but he wished that Liz had agreed to join them. She had been adamant, encouraging him to keep the commitment he made prior to her lightning-bolt arrival into his life.
He ran his hand through the unkempt waves on his head, his thoughts drifting to his wife’s touch. That, too, was soothing. He missed her more than he had during their forced separation following Operation Cancan. It occurred to him that they hadn’t been apart for more than a couple of days since they married last October. Five months of wedded bliss! Apart from retiring from Obsidian, marrying Liz was the best thing he had ever done: playful bickering, tangoing in the sunroom (which always led to dancing between the sheets), horseback riding and motorcycle lessons.
The vivid recollection of her legs saddled upon her mare, Mallika, did things to him. His pulse increased at just the thought of her supple skin wrapped around him and the soft feel of her below his hand, the titillating sensation of her lips against his heated flesh. Good Lord, this was the wrong place and time for these thoughts! But it couldn’t be helped. The picture perfectness of his surroundings made him think of her. His mobile phone beeped again and he chuckled, her timing perfect.
Her first text read: Hey, baby. On my way to Longbourn.
He knew full well that she wasn’t doing so in the Jeep and that she most likely bought the damn motorcycle, contrary to his advisement over the last few months. His Lakmé was becoming more and more free-spirited. Who could blame her? She’d been essentially locked away for eight friggin’ years of servitude to that deadbeat, Bennet. He wondered if Pemberley felt too much like Longbourn.
Her next text read: I’ll call you after I get off. The photo she sent was a close up of the bike’s seat and her legs wrapped around it. He laughed. She was such a tease.
3
