“I have to go,” I say, moving over her and grabbing my bag. Once behind the curtain, I let the anger I feel rising consume me. I was stupid. So fucking stupid. I let her too close. I needed her to piss me off so I could hate her. She was a mistake. I never should have touched her, or tasted her, or let her say my fucking name.
I step in the shower and start scrubbing her scent from my body. I don’t want to smell her. I don’t need a reminder. I know she will still be here when I get out, but I’ll force myself to avoid her. If I can just get away from her I will never come back to Jackson again. I will get Nationals to assign someone else for this part of the country.
I punch the cinder blocks in front of me, letting the pain in my hand numb the pain in my chest at the thought of forgetting her. I’ll stop before I break any bones, but I want the blood on my knuckles to be a reminder that the hands that touched her were the hands of a killer not worthy of her.
“Dirk?” Fuck. So much for avoiding her. She just got her first taste of the fucked-up monster that I am. And it will be her last.
I hang my head in defeat and keep my fist pressed into the concrete, twisting it so the gravel digs deep into my opened wound. I need to hurt. I deserve it, but I don’t feel anything. I tense when her soft hand touches my back, but she doesn’t let it stop her from running her hands over me. There is soap in them, and I can feel her washing me with the gentleness that a mother uses to bathe a newborn baby.
She is too good for me. I should pull away, but I can’t. I want her to touch me. Something inside me screams need, but this time it’s me who requires it. Demands it. Must have it to breathe.
I feel her trying to turn my body toward her, and motherfuck me if I don’t turn to face her. That wild hair sticks in every direction around her head and shoulders and halfway down her back. It makes her body look tiny in comparison. It’s the first time I’ve seen her naked. And I’m not disappointed. Her tits are perfect—small, perky, round, and a few shades lighter than her stomach. Her nipples are a dark pink, hard and begging to be in my mouth. Her stomach is flat, but not toned to perfection. Natural and curvy, just like her tits. Only the top part of her * is bared to me and it’s pale in comparison to her thighs.
“Hey,” she says, her voice apologetic. I look at her face that is flushed red with embarrassment. At what, I don’t know. She avoids my stare and fidgets before muttering, “I’m sorry.” I feel a growl crawl up my throat and I want to roar.
“You are not fucking sorry,” I snarl. My breathing is heavy and deep and it takes everything inside me not to rip the whole room to shreds. This time I see the fear in her eyes. Good. I never want to hear her say those words again. But, just like everything else about her, those words are now embedded in my head.
We are trained in the MC never to say we are sorry. We apologize. Sorry emphasizes how bad or stupid something is. She is not stupid. Or bad. Or embarrassing.
I should tell her I’m poisonous. I should say that I’ll ruin her if she stays around me. But I don’t. Because this is over. “Get dressed.” Those are the only words she needs to hear.
I don’t speak to her again. There is no point. I’ve made up my mind. She will cease to exist from my life. I’ll call Nationals once I’m in Texas and inform them that I won’t be returning to Mississippi.
Saylor will fade from my thoughts eventually. It might take years. It might be when they put my cold, dead body in the ground, but she will one day be nothing. Not even a memory.
—
I pull up at her apartment and wait for her to get off the bike. I don’t even want to look at her. She can keep the fucking helmet. I would cut my hand off before it went anywhere near her. I could do this. I could force myself to hate her. It would be easy. It had been so far. Keeping my mind trained on forgetting her was working. Just as long as she doesn’t—
“Dirk?” Fucking words. I hated them. Why the hell couldn’t everybody be mute? But I’m sure even if we were, Saylor’s incoherent mumbles would be the most peaceful sound on earth. “I want you to take me with you.” You have got to be kidding me. She did not just ask to go with me. I have to leave. I have to get away from her. Right. Now.
“Good-bye, Saylor.” Good-byes are forever. At least for me they are. I never say good-bye to a brother. I always give them a salute. It’s a show of respect that says I will see them at a later time. Even in death, I’m sure the majority of my brothers will see the same hell I will. Saylor will never see me again. Not even in the afterlife—if there is one. She will be somewhere much nicer. I’m sure of it.