Looking over his shoulder, he jabs, “I guess you just bring it out in me, Rookie.”
That stung.
We walk for what seems like forever, and not one car drives by. The moon is high in the sky, and the wind is beginning to blow with a chill that has me shrinking into myself to keep warm.
My emotions are a mess. I don’t know what to accept as truth, and what is a lie. I’m always so sure of everything, until Zeek walked in my life. Now, I know nothing about nothing.
A shiver trembles from my lips causing my teeth to clatter. Zeek looks over his shoulder and stops.
“You cold?”
“I’m fine.”
Ignoring me, he shimmies his leather cut off.
“Here, this will help.”
I shake my head and hold my cuffed hands up.
“No, really I’m fine.” The last thing I want is to wear the insignia of the club that just offed one of my family members.
His face hardens, his eyes narrowing in on me.
He grips my upper arm turning me forcefully, and places the warm leather on my back. The smell of cologne, worn leather, and a hint of mint cocoon me in a blanket of danger. I find it comforting, the lingering scent a warning of adventure and risk. It’s no surprise I crave an adrenaline rush, and Zeek is a non-stop high.
Peering up under my lashes I catch Zeek looking me over hungrily, the look in his eyes anything but earnest. They’re hooded and trailing up and down my body unforgivingly.
“What?” I whisper. Running my hands down my pant legs I look down at myself a little uncomfortable.
“You look so beautiful wearing my cut.” He blinks, his eyes hardening like he didn’t mean to go there.
I swallow the lump of lust forming in my throat. My body flushes with excitement that wearing his cut is such a big deal to him. But my head battles with what the hell my body is thinking. It’s like there is a much more rational woman in my head waving little red flags around wildly, yelling, “Hello, he’s a cop killer, let’s not just go throwing our panties at him!”
Pressing on the small of my back he urges me forward, snapping me from my internal war on whether or not to hate the criminal, or toss my underwear to the side for him.
An old raggedy motel comes into view a few miles up. The sign reading Whispering Petal Inn. I quirk a brow at the name. It sounds like the name of a porn star.
I point at the motel.
“Maybe we can stop, get some water and rest our feet.”
Zeek stops, and looks over the building, rubbing his chin.
“Yeah, maybe.”
Getting closer the motel is an ugly blue color, and has ten rooms or less. It looks like something out of a scary movie.
“Maybe we should keep moving after all.”
Looking over his shoulder, the corner of Zeek’s mouth curves into a grin.
“You scared, Rookie?”
“Look at the place.” I gesture toward the beat up motel.
“I can assure you, it will be fine.”
“If you say so…” I respond and step forward hesitantly.
“We can’t just check in, our faces are probably plastered everywhere,” Zeek mutters, walking toward the motel.
Looking at the open road the thought of running flickers through my mind once again. The thought is there, but my feet won’t move. For some reason, what Zeek told me back there, about him saving me before his club is sticking in the back of my mind. I know how much that club means to him, and he’s throwing it away for me. At that thought, I swear I feel my heart clench.
He pulls on the small chain of the cuffs when he notices me looking out at the vast freedom before he tugs me behind him like a disobedient pup. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I’m not.” I kind of was.
Rounding the side of the building you can see into the main office. It has a couple of ugly blue chairs that look like they’re from the fifties, with a pock-marked counter running along the back side of the office. A man with a magazine has his feet kicked up, clearly oblivious to anything around him.
“Donald, that was just delightful, dear. We will have to go back there on our way back.” Zeek’s head snaps in the direction of the voices. Holding his hand, conveying for me to stop behind him and stay still. Following the voices myself, I find a little old lady hunched over, her flowery dress that looks more like a nightgown slapping against her with the wind. Her silver colored hair pulled into a bunch of little pink rollers.
“It was okay, at best, Mildred. Let’s not get carried away.” The man I assume is Donald states, his tone of voice not nearly as cheerful at the little old lady. They’re getting out of a red Buick, looks to be a 1980’s model, and heading toward a motel room. They’re both carrying takeout in their hands, and my stomach growls, this time with hunger pains.
Zeek marches toward the elderly couple, one hand gripped on my cuffs as he reaches behind his back and pulls his gun from his waistband. My eyes widen. What is he doing?
“Zeek, no,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes.