I shrug with a smile.
“Ruby’s cool, I guess. It’s the rest of them I don’t care for.” Agreeing with her makes me feel like I’m betraying my family, so I opt for a subject change.
“This might sound desperate, but what on earth does a girl do in this town? I mean, I think you’re the only girl my age I’ve met.” Her shoulders shake with silent laughter. “Stop laughing at me,” I protest. “I’m surrounded by dirty, skeezy men. All.Day.Long. I need a friend who can keep his hands off his crotch for like five minutes.”
And now she’s dissolved into hysterics so loud that the other patrons are turning and staring.
“You seem pretty cool,” she says, sizing me up. “But I don’t hang with the MC or their chicks. Sorry.” I’m taken aback by her response. I’m trying so hard to put myself out there and to create some semblance of normalcy in my life. But between Bastard and Dirt Bag, and now this, I’m about to give up. But before I do, I’m going to try one more thing.
“One,” I say, arching my eyebrow and setting my hands on the counter. “I’m nobody’s chick. Two, I’m not a part of the club. And three, I am cool. And I need a friend. So—please—don’t make me be that desperate girl who begs strangers to be friends with her, because that’s just pathetic.”
“Fine,” she smiles, and I think it might be genuine.
“Wait.” I put my hand up in mock seriousness and say, “You’re not agreeing to hang out with me just because you feel sorry for me, are you?” She puckers her lips to avoid bursting into laughter again.
“Does it matter?”
I don’t even need to think about it. I need a friend and she’s accepting.
“No, not really,” I say. A customer walks in behind me and waits patiently while we wrap up the chit chat and I order my coffee. On the back of my receipt she writes her number and her name. As I wait for my coffee, I pat down my jeans pockets, realizing I don’t have a mobile phone anymore. I haven’t needed one since I don’t go anywhere without Ruby—or at least, I didn’t. I mentally add a mobile phone to my list of things I’d like to get. It’s been easy to forget all I left behind, but now that I’m out on my own, I find myself wanting for the things I no longer have. Still, I will forever hold the few things I still own very close to my heart.
I have the money to buy and pay for a phone—I just don’t want to be wasteful with that money. It’s plenty to last me for a while if I spend little, but not so much that it could pay for rent, a car, and all of life’s other necessities for very long. Then where will I be? So I try to check myself and to stop wishing for all of the things I don’t have.
Nic lets me know when my order is ready. She tells me to text her, something the landline at home can’t do. I say, “No phone.” Her eyes nearly bug out at my confession.
“That’s kind of fucked up,” she says in a whisper. Covering my mouth to suppress the laughter at her expression, I head out of the shop with my steaming cup of coffee. The embarrassment of not having a mobile phone eats away at me as I make my way down the sidewalk back toward Main Street. I’ve probably been gone for a good half an hour now, at least. Jim is bound to notice I’ve run out, and, no matter how casual he is with everything, I can’t imagine bolting on my first shift would sit well with him.
Lost in my thoughts, I hold the cup of coffee close to my face and take a sip of the yummy goodness. Just as I reach Main Street, I hear the familiar rumble of a motorcycle. One of the few things I’ve learned in my short time in town is that, just like Mafioso have territories, so do motorcycle clubs. I’ve seen all but two or three independent riders breeze through town. Every other motorcycle—and there are plenty—belongs to a member of Forsaken. Hearing a motorcycle’s deep rumble through the streets sends my senses into overdrive. I stop in place and peer down the street.
My eyes nearly bulge out at the sight of Ryan on his bike, his black hair blowing in his face as he steers into the right lane. Looking around, I realize I have nowhere to hide, and the doors to the closest shops are too far away to sneak into. I opt for standing there, waiting to be seen.
The second his eyes travel to my side of the street, he grimaces and darts around the corner, bringing the Harley to a stop halfway up the handicapped ramp for the sidewalk. A nearby woman shrieks in surprise. My heart is racing, but I give no other response. I don’t want to encourage this kind of behavior. Not that I think anything I do will convince him to change his ways.
After cutting the bike off and pushing down the kickstand, he strides over to me, all muscles and anger in such a pretty package.