RYAN CLIMBS ONTO his bike, taking two helmets from the handlebars. He flashes me a smile and hands me a helmet. I strap it on and climb on behind him. Wrapping my arms around his midsection, I ask, “How did you know exactly where I was?”
He twists, looking at me over his shoulder, and says, “I didn’t.”
Starting the bike and pulling away from the curb, I’m left to ponder that comment. He was looking for me. I mean, Fort Bragg isn’t that big, but still. It’s the effort he’s putting forth that makes me think maybe this isn’t such an awful idea after all. The bike rumbles beneath me as we dart off down the road. All of my concerns over what we’re doing here—despite Jim’s demands—wash away, and it’s just me and him and the bike blowing through the wind.
We ride for a few minutes before I finally recognize some landmarks. We pass the high school and then the community center. The school is in poor shape, but the community center is much newer. During one of my and Ruby’s trips into town, she swung by here to show me some of the town’s highlights. I doubt I’d be able to find my way home from here, but it’s something. In the distance, the community hospital shines brightly. I remember this landmark because Ruby said after I’ve been around the club enough, I’ll know all the back roads to get to the emergency room.
Ryan pulls up to an old cottage that’s seen better days and into the narrow driveway on the right side of the property. Underneath the carport, he cuts off the bike and we climb off. My legs ache just slightly from the ride, though it’s nothing like the previous times I’ve been on his bike. Ryan leads me inside the house. He’s walks so fast, and I’m trying so hard to keep up with him that I barely notice how sparsely furnished the place is. We breeze through the kitchen and then a living room, both of which reek of stale beer and another odor I choose to ignore for the sake of my own sanity. At the end of the hall just off from the kitchen, he opens a door and stands aside, welcoming me in.
I find myself a mass of nerves and excitement as I peer into Ryan’s bedroom. It isn’t very big, only two-thirds the size of mine at Ruby’s and Jim’s, but he has even less furniture in here than I do in mine. Stepping inside, I find the room to be cooled by a rickety ceiling fan that’s already on. It’s one of those combination fans that has the small lights attached at the bottom. To my right is a tall and narrow window that’s covered with a thin black fitted sheet that does almost nothing for privacy. On the same wall as the window is a full-sized bed and, beside that, a wooden crate that’s being used as a nightstand. On top of it is an overflowing ashtray and a collection of open condom wrappers. On the floor beside the crate is a combination of empty beer bottles and even a whiskey bottle with the cap off.
Behind me, the door closes, shrouding the room in darkness. The already cool, dark walls look almost black. The faint sliding of metal against metal and the click of the lock send a shiver down my spine. He’s locked the door, and I can hardly see anything. I take the few steps needed to stand beneath the ceiling fan. Reaching up with my right hand, I wrap the tips of my fingers around the bottom of the lower chain, but a rough, calloused hand comes out of nowhere and wraps itself around mine. His touch is gentle as he closes his grip around my curled fingers and lowers our hands. My arm bends at the elbow, Ryan guiding it down to my collarbone, with his right arm creating a cage. Though tender, his movements are carefully thought out and painfully slow. I can’t escape the way we are now.
Stepping up behind me, his hips hit me at the bottom of my ribs, painting me a clear picture of what he has on his mind. Savoring the moment, I lean back against his chest and let my eyes flutter closed. My heart beats so frantically I worry it might jump right out of my chest, almost painful in its effort.
He moves so slowly, so intent on torturing me, as the cracked skin of the knuckles of his hand trace a line from the top of my head, down to my chin, swooping inward, and slipping down my neck. My breath hitches, my lungs straining to calm the nervous pant that Ryan’s creating in his wake. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m not focused on his touch. This entire situation just feels wrong.