Page 5

Tarynn

P atti is a pretty solid, grounded woman. Anyone would else probably have taken one look at Crow’s face and slammed the door on me. Even though her face instantly screamed I don’t want any trouble, and this has a fuck ton of trouble written all over it, she lets us both in.

“Oh my god, what happened?” she asks, looking from one of us to the other.

Crow’s blood has spattered all over the white kitchen floor tiles, so he presses his hand back up over the wound. The red overflows his fingers almost immediately.

“I got a fright, I didn’t realize it was him.” I pinch my lips together to keep a sob from escaping. My heart is a nasty creature, wild inside of me. I can literally smell the metal of that blood. There’s so much of it. More than I’ve ever seen in my life. How much blood can one person lose before it’s too much? I should know the answer to that. What I don’t know is how to apply stitches. I’m still just pre-med. “I know we have a first aid kit. I need to get it.”

Patti stops me with a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I’ll get it. Grab a fresh towel from the bathroom’s supply and press it against his face. That cut looks deep. I suppose the hospital is out of the question?”

Crow has been silent so far, I assume because it’s hard to talk when someone just keyed a second smile into your chin, but he snorts now. “No hospital.”

Patti shoots him a scathing look. She’s all mother hen to most of us women, even if we’re not much younger than her.

“I just wanted to talk,” Crow swears. His eyes flick to me. “I was going to tell you that I’d changed my mind about the lessons. I’d do it.”

Patti’s soft brown eyes flick to mine, a question there. She must see that I’m okay, because she hurries off.

I do too, snatching up an armful of towels from the staff bathroom just past Crow.

I practically skid across the floor, and thrust the towel against his hands. Black ink meets white terrycloth. He doesn’t make a sound as he presses it to his wound. The way the pristine white turns to scarlet in an instant, makes my belly feel not so hot—and if I needed any further hints that med school isn’t for me, then here it is. I raise my eyes up to his.

“You’ve probably changed your mind again now that I maimed your beautiful face.” Shit. I really just said that. “I-err- I’m really sorry.”

He grunts. “It’s just another scar to join the current club. Some people collect tattoos. I collect scars.”

“And also tattoos.”

His eyes narrow, like he’s holding back the humor he wants to feel, keeping himself in check. “And tattoos,” he agrees quietly.

Patti’s steps are loud as she storms back into the kitchen. The bar is quiet, everyone gone. Patti was going to head up and relieve her babysitter. I feel doubly guilty about that. She has precious few hours to be with her kids, and even if they’re sleeping, she needs her rest too.

“I don’t want any trouble with the club over this, Crow, you hear me?” she lectures. The big, boxy first aid kit gets slammed on the stainless steel prep counter with a metallic clang.

“Why would there be trouble?” He seems genuinely baffled, “This was my own stupid fault. I should know better than to sneak up in the dark. I was pissed about you not watching her walk to her car and there I went, scaring her senseless.”

She springs the kit open and digs around, setting bandages, rubbing alcohol, tape, and those weird anti-stitch stitches things that look a little bit like they’re out of a nightmare. Patti is proud of how up to date the safety protocols are around here. She’s never had anyone cut their finger off in the kitchen, but she knows it could happen, and she wants to be ready.

Even though her hands are busy, her lips twitch. “I’d say she got the better of the argument. I don’t want anything coming down on her.”

My already nauseous stomach does another tumble that sends bile surging up my throat. I never thought about my own safety. Bringing down a biker club’s wrath sounds like the most terrifying prospect.

Crow’s eyes swing to my face, and he takes a step forward, his bloodied hand outstretched. I don’t move, and he stops before he steps right into me. Something sparks in the dark depths of his eyes. His brow furrows. I feel whatever that emotion is, straight down to my marrow. Instead of being chilled —like any rational, sane person should be—it sends a wave of little explosions detonating inside of me.

“I already said there’d not be any trouble, it was my fault.” He looks menacing enough and sounds even worse, but he never takes his eyes off me, like he would do damage to an extent I can’t even comprehend if someone so much as had a single negative thought about me from across the country.

This is too much.

It’s too much that even though Patti gloves up and guides Crow’s hand and the towel down from his face so she can start cleaning him up, he keeps his gaze locked on me.

It’s a bad time to ask, but I do it anyway. “Did you mean it? About the riding lessons? Please don’t feel obligated, especially now that you know I’m a slash or pass kind of a woman.”

The joke takes a second to hit us both. He lifts a brow in surprise. “I meant it. You get that motorcycle, and I’ll show you how to ride it.”

Patti growls low in her throat, letting us both know what she thinks about that. At the same time, she knows she’s not my mother and she’s not going to embarrass me with a lecture. She does, however, choose that moment to spritz rubbing alcohol all over the wound she just cleaned.

Crow proves that there’s something about him that’s other by not even inhaling or blinking at that burning spray. I’ve had small cuts cleaned out with rubbing alcohol before and I know firsthand that it stings like a mother. Maybe I’m just a sissy when it comes to pain, but whether that’s true or not, Crow is next level. It’s like he doesn’t even feel it, but the way his skin twitches tells me that the pain receptors in his brain are working just fine.

“My dad wanted me to quit this job,” I blurt.

Patti’s hand jerks on the spray bottle, nearly catching Crow in the eye. His reflexes prove inhumanely good as he jerks back.

“I refused,” I clarify, giving Patti an apologetic look. “I think it’s the first time I’ve ever really defied him.”

“Felt good, didn’t it?” Crow asks with far too much glee.

He’s used to living this way. On the edge of the law. I have no doubt that what his club does isn’t legal, at least for the most part. A man doesn’t get born into a club. He chooses to join it, which means that Crow likes it. Maybe he needs that kind of rough living in order to breathe.

I can testify to exactly how stifling it feels to be bound up in chains of expectations you’re never going to meet, hounded constantly to adhere to a rigid moral code that you’re also always going to fall short of.

“Does it feel good for you?” I ask, my voice trembling.

Patti’s done cleaning and sterilizing and now she has to apply those strip things that should close the wound. Each time she hires someone, she gives them the same safety spiel and we all get updates at staff meetings. She explained the process of these things to us just last week when she got them, but by the way she frowns at the package, it’s clear that they’re more complicated than she anticipated.

“I’m going to have to watch a damn video on this.” Sure as shit, she cues up her phone and gets one playing.

“Maybe,” he admits, holding perfectly still, watching Patti with open amusement that’s nowhere near cruel or cold. “But we’re not talking about me.”

His eyes slowly swing back to me. I nearly drown in the warmth that feels like it’s flooding the kitchen, rising above my head, cutting off my air.

Patti doesn’t look ruffled. She’s focused on the video.

“Yes, it felt good.” I try to push that out, but the words are little more than air.

Realizing just how true that is makes me feel like a bad girl. Like a sinner. I should hate it. I don’t. That should make it even worse, but all I feel is a thrill that doesn’t have any of the sick, guilty twinge that should accompany it.

Ever since I got this job and started working here, it’s been a blessed escape.

“Why’d your dad ask you to quit?” Crow asks.

Patti wraps up the video and sets the phone aside. “I need you to hold still for this. It’s hard enough as it is.”

“You could always use tape. Or glue,” he states dryly.

“I’d be more than happy to glue your mouth shut right now. Why is it that you can’t get the quiet ones to ever say anything and then when you truly need them to shut up, they won’t?”

“My dad doesn’t want me associating with bikers, drinkers, or other bad people.” I’m worried that Crow will be offended at Patti’s teasing, and quickly to try distract him. “He thinks that my behavior would reflect badly on him. Maybe he’s also afraid I’d be swayed into a life of- erm- well, one that he doesn’t want me to live.”

“Seems distinctly unchristian-like.”

“Hold the fuck still,” Patti curses.

I grin, while I swear Crow tries not to. It’s hard to tell what his face is doing, given the severity of the injury.

While Patti painstakingly applies the stitches that aren’t stitches, I grasp my hands together and focus on them. I don’t mean to say anything else, but the words just pour out like I’m the one with the hole in me, letting them escape.

“I’m going to rent a truck and pack my things and move out as soon as I can. I don’t want to cut my mom and dad out of my life, but I know how they’re going to react to the change. It’s just… time. I’m far too old to be living with them. I want to be independent.”

Crow blinks at me like we’re doing the whole code. One for yes, two for no.

“This sounds completely trivial, doesn’t it?”

Two blinks. No.

Patti swats Crow on the shoulder when he tries to open his mouth. She finishes the stitches, pulls the strange cord thing in the middle that binds them together, and stands back to assess her work. She shakes her head.

“Well, that was damn hard and you’re still a mess, I’m afraid. You need real stitches. Don’t you guys have a private doctor or surgeon or something?”

Crow’s whole body goes rigid.

“Okay,” Patti murmurs, rolling her eyes. “Club secrets. I hear you loud and clear, Sunshine. Get yourself there if such a place exists, and get your face looked at by someone proper. That shit I just put on you isn’t going to hold.”

While Patti zips up the kit, Crow takes a step towards me. “I think you’ve been aching to rebel for a long time,” he says, low, trying not to move his mouth, so the words come out in this low, strange register.

I don’t have to tell him he’s right. Unlike his face, mine is the open book to end all open books.

“Maybe you’re the one on the straight and narrow. They’re the ones who are living an abnormal life, trying to control you and manage you. You’re not their property. You’re a human being. Is it in the Bible not to break and leave your children downtrodden?”

I can’t deny the prickling sensation that works its way down inside of me, burrowing into my tissue and seating itself deeply in my very cells. It feels like delight. Like relief. Like for once, I can just be honest.

“I don’t know. My dad could find a passage somewhere that suits his purpose just fine. He’s good at that.”

“I don’t think you believe in any of it.”

Patti jerks like someone just shoved her. She’s ready to step in and put herself between the two of us to shelter me. It’s a nice gesture, but I can’t hide forever. Not behind her, and not behind my own fears and insecurities.

I face Crow down, trying not to flinch. “That’s going a little bit far. I don’t know what I think, but does it even matter? No one knows for sure anyway. That’s why all anyone does is spend so long on the burden of proof. I don’t want to talk about that .”

“What do you want to talk about?”

It’s like he’s just wrapped his hand around my throat and squeezed until he cut off my air. I need to get my shit together and send Crow on his way before Patti’s patch job busts wide open. I’m sure she’d very much like it if we were both out of here. As in, an hour ago.

I shake my head subtly at him. “Thank you, Patti.” I give her a tight hug. Her arms are solid and motherly. She smells like the stale alcohol she spent all night pouring, a little bit like sweat, deodorant, and fries from the kitchen. It’s familiar and comforting. I pull back after she lets me, which isn’t for a solid minute, until she’s sure I can stand on my own two feet. “We’ll get out of here now and let you do the things you really want to be doing. Like sleeping.”

She gives Crow a motherly stink eye. “You take care of her, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Crow responds, without a trace of mockery.

I want to protest that no one needs to take care of me, but he’s already heading for the door. I should probably just let him ride off into the night and head out in a few minutes, but I found myself trailing after him. It can’t possibly be, but I imagine that I smell fresh air, leather, and the tang of metal in his wake. It’s either blood or grease in his place, but my mind refuses to believe it.

He waits for me at the backdoor, arms crossed over his leather vest, inked muscles bulging in his forearms. I let my eyes trace the veins there far too leisurely, before I remember myself and grab my car keys.

Crow shuts the door, checks to make sure it locked behind us, then follows me to the station wagon. He doesn’t even make a move to get on his bike. It’s clear that he’s not going to ride off until I’m gone, and he can be assured that I’m safe.

That kind of protective, overbearing bullshit is exactly what I’m trying to get away from. It should piss me off, but it doesn’t. Not when he does it. With my dad, if I asked him for the most mundane thing, a walk in the rain in the summer just for the sake of how pleasant and freeing it can be, he’d deny me. Probably give me a lecture about why he’s right after, often with those Biblical passages I mentioned in the kitchen. Thou shalt not walk in the wet or thou shall be punished with pneumonia.

I don’t unlock the car door. “If- if I send you some ads of the bikes I want to see, would you look at them with me? I don’t want to get scammed. I might have to go to Seattle.”

“You’ll need a ride then. I doubt you can keep driving your parents’ shaggin’ wagon around if you’ve turned into a badass and defied their illogical logic.”

“A what?” The words sink in with a wave of heat. “Oh my god, don’t call it that!”

I don’t know what’s more shocking. Taking the Lord’s name in vain out loud and with force, or the thought of all that room that the station wagon has in the backseat and behind it. Room to do sweaty, impassioned things, two bodies tangled, groping, straining, intrinsically coming together.

“You need anything, you call me,” he states flatly.

“Why are you being so nice? You barely know me, and I just tore your face off and kicked you in the balls.”

I try to give him a wobbly smile so it’s not a verbal kick. He considers that with the seriousness of a man trying to solve the meaning of life.

“You make things feel quiet .” I’m taken aback at the unexpected response. The most amazing part is that he looks surprised too, like he didn’t mean to say that. “You’re the only person who doesn’t seem to give a damn that I’m antisocial as fuck.”

“I was just doing my job. Getting you a drink and something to eat. That’s what I do here.”

We both know that’s bullshit.

“You didn’t have to. It wasn’t even your side of the bar.”

“That’s true, but Chastity wasn’t going to, and it would be rude to not even ask. To not… acknowledge you as a person.” Rage spools out, nipping at me like a feral dog. “That just wouldn’t do. And the bike lessons? I- who else would I ask?”

“Literally anyone with a pulse.”

I fight my smile down. He’s serious. “Most people with a pulse don’t know the first thing about bikes. No offense to the rest of the guys who come here. I know they’re in your club. I just wouldn’t want them teaching me. I just wanted it to be you. Something inside me said I could trust you.”

“That’s the last thing you should ever do,” he snaps. He closes his eyes, frustrated with himself, I think. “You can’t ride a bike in the winter,” he offers, like an apology.

“I’ve seen people do it,” I say.

“People with years of experience or a death wish.”

“Okay then, I’ll take the bus.”

“Over my dead body. There are creeps on the bus!”

“I think I gave you a taste of how I can handle myself,” I point out with some sass. Look at me. Blaspheming, turning into a rebel, and giving a man a hundred times more experienced than I’ll ever be, a bit of sass. The ruination my dad predicted is happening and happening fast. “Besides that, there are no creeps in Hart. Your club has taken care of anyone who wants to commit crimes.”

“That’s not true. Don’t get complacent.”

“All right. But I’ll be fine on the bus. I can probably get on fulltime here if I’m too late to apply to hair school or can’t get a loan if my education fund isn’t accessible to me. I still have to sort that out. It’s sort of terrifying.”

“When’s your next day off?”

I hesitate. Telling him feels a lot like making plans and making plans feels like making this legit. Relax. It’s just riding lessons. Which you asked him for. It’s nothing more.

“Tomorrow.”

He brings a hand up to his cheek, but keeps it hovering an inch from the wound. I wonder if it’s numbed out or it’s just starting to be wildly painful. “You’re serious about moving out?”

“I am.”

“Pack your stuff. I can arrange a storage locker for you so your parents can’t mess with your things. I’ll be at your house by noon, unless that’s too early, with guys to help move. Then, I’ll take you to buy that bike.”

My jaw nearly blows clean off my body. All of this is happening way too fast. What the hell does he mean pack your stuff?

Probably that you should live your life before you lose the nerve you just found.

I stare him down. He stares back. We could do this all night, but he needs to get to a real doctor, and I need to- to go home and start the rest of my life on my own terms. “I think you’re a nice guy under all those layers of absolute menace to society.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a terrible judge of character?”

“No. Of all the things that I’m terrible at, that was never one of my failings.”

I don’t let him have the last word. I unlock the car and slide behind the wheel. For the last time? Will I be spending the last night at my parents’ house? Can I even find a place to rent that fast? Does any of that really matter? I said I wanted to do this. It’s like I gave the command to both of us.

I pull out of the parking lot and onto the road that leads back into Hart, Crow’s dark, solitary figure little more than a shadow in the dark that eventually swallows him whole.

He’s not going to let me turn back, even though this is crazy.

Maybe, that’s what I need right now. It’s probably what I’ve needed all along.