Page 3 of Secrets Unveiled

“You going to open that, witch stick?” Saint asks. I turn to glare at him and notice his crooked smile as he leans back in his chair. I roll my eyes at the use of my nickname, as I always do. Saint is one of those annoyingly attractive men, but I’d never tell him that. He’s massive, even bigger than Saxon. He’s a towering 6’5” with an insanely ripped physique, golden tanned skin, and smoky grayish-silver eyes that intimidate a lot of people by how unique they are. They aren’t the same color as mine, but they are distinct, and Saint is the only person I know with those colored eyes.

Giving him a death glare, I watch as he brushes back his thick black hair, which falls right back over his forehead as soon as his hand leaves his head. His smile is unnerving and irritating as fuck as he fiddles with a toothpick at the corner of his mouth. Bright white teeth shine through his full lips as he twirls the stick from one side of his mouth to the other. Saint is dressed almost the same as Saxon: dark baggy jeans, a white undershirt, and his leather cut that hangs open in the front. A long silver chain dangles by his side that hooks to his belt and trails to his back pocket. Arrogant and cocky as hell, he sits there staring at me, raising an eyebrow as he waits for my response.

“Who’s it from, anyway?” Saint asks, not waiting for me to answer his first question. I roll my eyes, which seems likes the hundredth time this morning already, before replying, “Every year since Dad died, I’ve been getting a package on my birthday. It never says who it’s from. It just says, Another day worth living, happy birthday.” I start opening the package as the guys now watch in silence. I lift open the top of the small box and stare down at its contents. I freeze.

“What’s it this year, sis?” Saxon asks as he watches me frozen at the island in total shock from what I’m seeing.

“Well?” Saint chimes in impatiently.

“Oh my God,” I whisper to myself. The guys must be curious because the sound of shuffling and their sudden hovering has me pulling out the present and placing it in front of me for everyone to see. Saint stands to my right and Saxon to my left, both of their tall frames now leaning over me to see what I’m gawking at. Frankie stands across the island, looking down as well before the silence is finally broken.

“Are those first edition Shakespearean playbooks?” Frankie asks. Like me, Frankie has a love for literature. His mother instilled in him and my father the joys of reading. Becoming lost in an alternate universe and experiencing other worlds all from the confines of one’s own mind—it’s a luxury she never let them take for granted. Growing up, my father always read to us, mostly Shakespeare, my father’s favorite. My father was a sucker for love. He always said, What’s a life, living without love?

“Yes,” I whisper as I look up and meet Frankie’s eyes. Frankie and I bond a lot over books, and I love that he knows exactly what this gift is without having to take a closer look.

“They’re what?” Saxon asks, taking the small book from the island and turning it over to examine it. Saxon never liked reading like I do; he tolerated it since my father enjoyed reading to us, even though he never really enjoyed listening. It was the only time of day the three of us were together. I cuddled in my father’s lap while Saxon lay on the floor in front of us. Just being together was what Saxon liked, and that was enough for him.

“They’re first edition Shakespeare playbooks,” I say to him, taking back the book so he doesn’t damage it. “Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, A Midsummer’s Night Dream, and Hamlet.” I stand there, admiring the small playbooks. The bindings and covers feel so old and fragile I’m nervous they may fall apart. How did this person know I loved Shakespeare so much?

“Well, whoever sent them to you is just as big of a nerd as you are,” Saint says over my shoulder, nudging me with his arm and pushing me forward.

“Do you even know who Shakespeare is?” I ask him, knowing he has no clue. He shoots me a smile over his shoulder as he makes his way back to the table and sits back down, spreading his legs wide.

“He’s probably a guy who died a long time ago and only became famous for his work once he was six feet under.” Saint laughs under his breath as he pulls out another toothpick and places it between his teeth. “How’d I do?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Don’t listen to him, sis,” Saxon says, placing his hand on my shoulder. “He’s just mad that he’s a twenty-seven-year-old man-child who’s still mad at our ninth-grade theater teacher for not casting him as Romeo in the school play.”

A deep belly laugh comes from Frankie, and I can’t help myself from laughing with him.

“Hey, I deserved that role! I would have been the best fucking Romeo they’ve ever seen,” Saint retorts, lifting his hands to his sides, gesturing at himself as if he’s God’s gift to us all.

“Sure, you would’ve been, dumbass. You only wanted to play Romeo so you could kiss Sabrina Farley, who was Juliet.” Saint laughs at Saxon, who nods his head in agreement as I shake my head at their stupidity.

“Better take good care of those, sweetheart. That’s some gift,” Frankie says to me. He gathers up the play books and places them in my outstretched hands. He places his hand on top of mine, giving them a gentle pat before releasing me and giving me a soft smile. I nod, taking the books to my chest and leaving the kitchen, heading straight to the library on the second floor.

During the fire, my father’s book collection went up in flames. He cherished his collection and had a whole library where he kept first editions, collectibles, and every book he ever read to me, all safely nestled on his custom-built mahogany shelves. Since rebuilding, I’ve been trying to slowly build back up the collection we lost. Making my way down the long hall, I turn to the right where my favorite room in the whole house is.

Floor to ceiling bookshelves line all the walls, and a couple of comfortable reading chairs sit in front of the windows where I spend most of my nights getting lost in a book. My favorite part of this whole room is the secret room that is hidden behind one of the massive bookshelves. I tilt the Bible that is placed strategically on the shelf until it’s at a perfect ninety degrees. The shelf then slides forward, revealing a smaller room that holds all my most precious books that are either super expensive or special editions I can no longer get. I keep the best in here, mainly because it’s a fireproof room, and I know they’ll be safe.I also store my easel and painting supplies here.

Looking at the painting I’m currently working on, I sigh to myself. I’m trying to recreate an image of my parents on their wedding day that I found in my father’s room one day. He caught me looking through a box of photos in his closet and gave me the small polaroid. It was a candid shot of my parents smiling and laughing together. My mother looked absolutely stunning—her long blonde hair fanned around her shoulders as my father whispered something funny in her ear. However, the fire destroyed everything, including that one photo. I’ve been trying to recreate it by memory and have come to realize it’s harder than I thought it would be. I chose this image as my final project for my art major, and I’m starting to think I won’t be able to capture their intimate moment from memory. I close my eyes tightly before turning back to the shelves. Finding a free spot on the wooden shelves, I place all four playbooks together and step back to admire them once more. Who sent these to me? Whoever it was knew my love for books and spent what I can imagine would be a lot of money for these. For years now, I’ve been trying to determine the mystery gift giver, but have yet to find them. I’ve racked my brain for years, trying to pinpoint them. From members of the club, Mira, Frankie, but still no one has claimed to be my mystery person. I will find them one day, mark my words.

Closing my secret room behind me, I make my way back downstairs to the kitchen. I see Saxon is now on his cell phone, yelling at someone on the other line.

“It’s an easy clean up—what’s the problem?” he barks through the line. “It’s the landfill beyond town. What’s so difficult about that? You know what, never mind, stay put. Saint and I are on our way.” Well, there goes our shopping trip. Hanging up the call, Saxon takes in a deep breath, frustration washing over his tired face. Turning to me, he gives me a sympathetic smile.

“Sorry, sis. I have a few things I need to take care of. Rain check?” Shrugging his shoulders, he puts his cell back in his pocket, looking at me through apologetic eyes.

“No worries, Sax. I have a few things I need to tweak on my bike at the garage today, anyway.” I shoot him an understanding smile, the corner of his mouth turning up in a mediocre smile. Taking two long strides, he pulls me into his chest, giving me a hug before kissing the top of my head.

“Make sure you don’t make your bike faster than mine; I don’t think I can handle my sister beating me in a race.”

“No promises.” I smile at him as he and Saint make their way out of the kitchen and to the foyer. I follow them until I reach the front door. Leaning in, Saxon places a kiss on my cheek, reminding me to be careful. I assure him I always am. Sax exits the house first, and Saint comes up behind him and does the same, kissing my other cheek. As much as Saint and I bicker, he really is a part of my family, and we always make sure we give each other a kiss when one of us leaves. I punch his shoulder as he steps through the door for good measure.

I watch as the two of them mount their Harley Fat Boys, the roar of their engines echoing through the air. Revving their engines, Saxon pulls away first and Saint follows, but not before he flips me off first. I do the same, giving him my middle finger and whispering to myself, “Fucker,” as a smile creeps across my face.

SAGE

I’ve been at the garage for three hours now, and I’m still nowhere near finished on the install of my new front tire and handlebars. What was supposed to be a quick and easy job turned out to be far more tedious than anticipated. The club owns, or rather my father owned, a small mechanic shop not far from town. It’s a place where members can make an honest living outside of whatever they do privately. I love it here. It’s small, dirty, never tidy, and smells of motor oil, but I feel safe and at home. Plus, I’m never alone. There’s always a handful of club members either working or just hanging out on the old beat-up sofas in the corner.

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