I drop back to the bed and scrub my face. Darren told me things would be overwhelming for a while and that I need to stay in the moment. Focus on this day, hour, minute, whatever it takes to keep from flippin’ out.
With a few deep breaths, I listen to the cues my body gives me. The pinch in my shoulder is screaming for ice. Even though I won the fight, Reece got in a few good hits. The angry jagged scab on my cheek is proof of that.
My stomach growls. No more need to diet and after last night’s fight on an almost empty stomach I’m ready to make good on my burrito promises.
With a plan for the next couple hours, I push out of bed and drag myself to the shower. I try to avoid thinking about the last forty-eight hours. I avoid all thoughts of what it felt like to be comforted by her again: her arms wrapped around me, replacing the memories of the hands that took and took until they got their fill.
I crank the shower to high and step under the spray, not at all missing the only person who I’ve ever let in.
The only woman who’s accepted me for me.
No regrets.
Not one.
It’s time to move on.
But how?
*
Mac
I’m lying in the dark in Hatch’s bed. The smell of stale booze and dirty ashtrays fills my nose. The low grumble of his snore pounds in my head, intensifying my hangover. As far as I can remember, I only had the beers at the bar. Once we got here to the motorcycle clubhouse, I flopped on Hatch’s bed and everything went black.
The second I woke up I checked to make sure I was still clothed. Thankfully my bra, jeans, and tee were still in place. I dig my fists into my eyes. Dirt from riding on the bike mixes with day old mascara. My brain feels like it’s going to explode and my stomach twists.
Why did I drink so much? The memory of Rex’s face haunts me: crystal blue eyes and black hair, a million different kinds of beautiful, him pulling that lip ring between his teeth to keep from smiling. Rex smiling. To think of all I’ve stolen from him: his happiness, a future. My eyes flood with tears, and I push back the weakness to avoid the full meltdown that threatens.
Crap. I can’t do this. Not here. I shrug off my self-pity and try to focus through my post-drunken blur.
I’m an idiot.
My original plan to ride through the country, stopping at random places and drinking myself into oblivion was not well thought out. Where would I be if Hatch hadn’t found me?
I lick my lips. So thirsty. My gut rumbles and spins. I need to eat, get my bike, and find a decent motel to recover in. Then I’ll come up with a better plan.
“Hatch.” I smack his shoulder with the back of my hand. “Wake up.”
He groans and rolls away, giving me his bare, tattooed back.
“Seriously.” I shake him. “I need you to take me to my bike.”
His answering snore tells me he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
“Shit.” Maybe there’s someone else who’s headed out who can take me. I push up from the bed and pain stabs through my temples. My hands grip at my head. “Ouch.”
I stumble across the room, tripping over biker boots and who knows what else. It’s too dark. I pull back the thick curtains and the bright sun makes me think it’s later than I thought.
Where did I put my backpack?
My eyes scan the area. It’s not here. I move across the room, flipping up dirty clothes and tossing food wrappers.
“Hatch! Where’s my backpack?” I have no memory of bringing it in here, but then again most of my memories from last night are fuzzy. “Shit, shit, shit!”
I race out of the room and down the hallway to the main living space. There’s a naked couple asleep on the couch, and one woman passed out on a recliner.
But no backpack.
Everything I own is in there: cash, cards to my bank account, clothes. If it’s gone . . . My heart pounds and I break out in a sweat. Bile rushes to my throat. I race to the kitchen, double over the sink just in time to cough up the sour taste.
I have nothing, no one I can call. The only person who would consider helping me would be Trix, but how do I explain being in Colorado with her semi-boyfriend. I’m screwed. Totally fucked.
“Yo, Snow.” Hatch’s voice calls from behind me. “You okay?”
I spit bile and shake my head.
He laughs. Asshole.
“Where’s my backpack?” I just want to get the hell out of here. Physically, emotionally, these last two days have brought me to the threshold of my tolerance. I can’t handle anything more.
“No clue. Did you leave it at the bar?” He hands me a paper napkin.
I take it, straighten from the sink, and wipe my mouth. “Of course I didn’t.”
“You look like shit.”
“You’re an asshole.”
A slow smile spreads across his goatee’d face. “Come on. I got something that’ll perk you up so we can find your backpack.”
“Perk me up?” I look around the dirty kitchen, open bottles of liquor, half-eaten food. “I don’t think I want whatever biker hangover cure you’ve got in mind.”
I just want my shit so I can leave.
“Hey, you want to find your shit and get on the road?”
God, yes. So badly. I nod.