“Let’s go,” I snap, immediately regretting it. I’m not pissed at her, but the hatred I feel for myself right now is too strong for me to attempt to not sound like a dick. When she makes no move to get on, I chance a look at her. She looks annoyed.
“Dirk,” she says to me, her hands fidgeting nervously with the hem of her shirt. “You are the only reason I smile. You are the only person I want to be with. You are my reason for everything. Don’t shut me out any longer.” She doesn’t wait for my answer. She just climbs on the bike and waits for me to mount so we can leave. But I have another plan.
I lift her from the bike and carry her back into the room. I slam the door behind us and sit her on one bed, then take a seat on the other.
“Ask me anything,” I say, hoping like hell that she doesn’t ask just anything. But it’s time I’m honest with her. Might as well clear the air before we get the wrath from Nationals.
“Tell me about your parents.” Shit.
“I didn’t know my mother, but my father was a shithead.” That’s a good way to start. “My grandfather wasn’t a very good role model, but he was all I had. He raised me. He was a member of Sinner’s Creed. I was brought up in the life of an MC. It’s all I knew. All I know. What I am. And all I’ll ever be.”
I watch the sadness build in her eyes before she hides it. I don’t want her feeling sorry for me. I’m just before telling her that when she asks another question.
“Tell me something about you. Something that has nothing to do with the club.” Her smile is encouraging and I find myself wanting to tell her shit that some know, but not because they ever asked. Just because they’d known me all of my life and it’s how I’d always been.
“I don’t like people touching me and I don’t like conversation.” I’m not sure what else to say. But, as I sit here and stare at Saylor, whose eyes light up every time I share a little more about myself, I can’t help but feel like there is something else she needs to know.
I should rehearse my next lines in my head, but I’m just gonna say it as it comes to me, which I’m sure I’ll regret. “The only time I like being with women is when I’m buried balls deep inside them, but I like being with you all the time.”
I watch the jealously flare in her eyes when I tell her about fucking women—a line I could have worded differently. Then I watch it melt when I mention I like being with her. I’m sure her stomach is doing that flipping shit mine’s been doing here lately.
Now it’s time for me to ask some questions. “What triggers your migraines?” I watch her tense and I know that either I’m not gonna like her answer or she isn’t gonna tell me the whole truth. I’m betting on the latter.
“I think it’s the high pressure.” I’m calling bullshit and when she continues on a ramble, I know my instincts are right. “I’ve had them for years. I don’t take medicine to prevent them, I can only take it once it happens. And it always happens in my sleep. Usually after a really long day.” Her voice drops several octaves when she tells me the last part, and now my mission is to do what I can to prevent it.
“We won’t ride so hard anymore,” I tell her. I’m not growling, but that calm tone I’ve been working on ain’t nowhere in sight either.
“I don’t want to slow you down,” she says, and does so in a way that is pleading. She is hoping, or probably praying, that I don’t leave her behind or change my mind about bringing her with me. I concentrate on that soft tone I know I’m capable of and force myself to use it.
“You won’t. I’ll make it work.”
“Will you tell me why you got so mad at me when I answered your phone?”
“Because they know who you are and, because of who I am, the club will stop at nothing to ensure their safety.” It’s evasive, but it pacifies her. And I’m sure she already knew what the answer would be before I told her.
“Did I get you in trouble?” No, baby. You got yourself in trouble. But that’s not information she needs to know. And once again, she isn’t worried about herself, only me.
“I stay in trouble.” My words are funny to her. And I think I just made a joke. Or something like it.
—
We stop on the road later that evening and I order us a pizza from a gas station. We take a seat in the small dining area, and I watch as Saylor scarfs it down like she hasn’t eaten all day. Then I remember she hasn’t. I’m not even sure she ate any of the Skittles that we bought along the way. Since I’m not that hungry, I’m guessing she fed them all to me.
“When you’re fucking hungry, you need to tell me,” I snap, and when her frightened, innocent eyes land on me, I wish I wasn’t such an asshole. I could sit here and wonder why she looks scared, but I know it’s because I just bit her head off. She is still looking at me, unsure of what to say. That’s a first.