Page 20

Diesel

Don’t say it.

Just don’t say it.

Tell her a lie, to mind her own business, to take a drink and shut up; anything — just don’t say it.

But when she reaches for me and I hear words that I never knew I needed to hear, coming from someone I never knew I needed until now, all thought, all willpower, all resistance fades away.

With everyone else who knew, with Hunter, with Tank, with the scant few people still surviving from that turbulent time in my life, talking wouldn’t feel the same. It wouldn’t be the same. Because they can’t listen the way I’m certain she can. There’s something about Samantha that breaks through all the barriers to the part of me that needs to breathe and say out loud what it hasn’t said before.

“That date is the day my wife was murdered because of me.”

There’s quiet. A long quiet. I don’t know if I should keep talking or let her say something, because I’ve never been in this position before.

Then she seizes on the silence. Her hand squeezes mine; her eyes caress me, too.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Diesel. Do you want to talk about it?”

With a few kind words, a gentle touch, and a look, she does what she couldn’t do with all her arguing earlier: she beat me.

“I do, and I don’t.”

A moment of quiet, of respect.

“I understand.”

“But I need to.”

“I’m here.”

And I’m lucky you are.

“I know.” I clear my throat, find a reprieve in the bourbon, then clear my throat again. Every word I want to say feels like it’s sunk its malignant little claws into my throat, is holding on, kicking and screaming, spitefully fighting to avoid the light of day. “I hate myself for what happened to her. I’m the reason she’s dead.”

I say those words and wait, not knowing what to expect. Maybe for her to tell me I shouldn’t hate myself, or that it’s all right, or that I’m a good guy who just made a mistake, but she says nothing — and it’s everything. Because any of that other stuff would be nothing more than condescending lies from someone who doesn’t know what I went through, what I did to an innocent woman who made the mortal mistake of falling in love with me.

I murdered her as good as if I did it with my bare hands.

When the silence stretches on, Samantha grips my hand again.

“We can talk more, if you want, or we can just sit. Either way is fine. Either way, I’m here for you.”

“I had a life somewhere else before coming here, and she was a part of it. Her name was Brandy. Fuck, it’s hard saying ‘was’ even after all this time. Hunter, Tank, and I… we’ve been a part of the MC life for a while. Sometimes together, sometimes separate, but always brothers, because the military brought us together, and we knew we could trust and rely on each other. When I found Brandy, I thought I had it made. She knew what the life was about because she’d had a cousin who also wore a cut, but she could keep separate from it, too. And I loved that about her; I could ride, I could do whatever the club needed, and then I could come to her, to this different life that was removed from everything else. Where it was quiet. Where it was peaceful. Where I didn’t feel like I needed to look over my shoulder. Where I felt… safe.”

I pause, searching for words, digging into myself and finding truths I’ve never spoken aloud before.

“Maybe it feels stupid to use that word — safe — because it’s not like I felt in danger otherwise. But she saw me for who I was. All of me, even the bad parts, and she loved me to my core. But this life isn’t easy. And the crew I rode with, we were fucking young and cocky and reckless and we got caught up in this war. These men — these fucking animals — came to my house to send a message. Except I wasn’t there. They came to my house, they broke inside, and they left her raped and broken and bleeding on the kitchen floor. By the time I found her, she was cold. I remember kissing her and being so shocked by how cold her lips were. And then, after I kissed her, when she didn’t kiss me back… Fuck, that’s when it broke me. Because she would always kiss me back. She’d always try to be the one to get the last kiss in. And when she didn’t try that time, I knew she would never kiss me again…”

Then I lose it.

Fucking lose it.

My voice breaks, and I grip the bottle of bourbon for dear life and hide my cowardly, quivering mouth behind it. That burning, cheap liquid stills the shaking, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to drown the pain. Through it all, Samantha doesn’t move. Just watches me with eyes that betray nothing but quiet caring.

As I sit there, trembling, the bottle still pressed to my lips, Samantha's hand reaches out and gently pulls it away. She sets it on the table, her eyes never leaving mine. At that moment, I feel more exposed, more vulnerable than I ever have before.

But there's no judgment in her gaze, only understanding and compassion.

"It wasn't your fault, Diesel. You couldn't have known what would happen. You can't blame yourself for the actions of evil men."

I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping my throat.

"Can't I? I brought that life to our doorstep. I put her in danger just by being with her. If I had never—"

"No," Samantha cuts me off, her voice gentle but firm. "You loved her. And she loved you. She knew the life, you said so yourself. She knew it, and she chose you, because she loved you. That's all that matters. That's all that ever mattered."

"I just miss her so damn much. Every day, it's like a part of me is missing. Like I'll never be whole again. Like all I have is this pain, and that’s the best I can ever expect."

Samantha nods, and her thumb traces circles on the back of my hand.

"I can't even imagine what that must be like. But Diesel, you're not alone. You have people who care about you, who want to help you carry this burden. You matter, and you don’t have to suffer alone. All you have to do is let them in."

Her words cut through me like a knife, slicing away at the walls I've built, the barriers I've put up to keep everyone out, to keep myself from feeling. She sees me in a way no one has since Brandy.

In that moment, something inside me breaks, like a dam bursting open; years of pent-up grief, of guilt and pain and sorrow and self-hatred, come rushing out in a torrent. My vision blurs as tears fill my eyes and a sob splits my lips apart.

“I’m here,” she says.

Then she hugs me.

I bury my face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent, feeling the warmth of her body against mine. She holds me tightly as I sob, my shoulders shaking, my tears soaking into her shirt.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I let myself feel it all. It hurts so deep that for a moment I feel like I might die, too, but there's something else to the pain—a sense of relief, like a weight being lifted off my chest.

Like I can finally breathe again.

After what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, my tears finally slow, then stop.

I pull back slightly, just enough to look into Samantha's eyes; her face is so close to mine, her breath warm on my skin. In her gaze, I see everything reflected back at me — the pain, the understanding, the connection.

“You can forgive yourself, Diesel,” she whispers.

Something shifts between us. My eyes flick down to her lips, then back up. I see her swallow hard, and her own gaze drops to my mouth. We're balanced on a knife's edge, teetering between the grudging friendship we've built and something more, something deeper.

I should pull away, put some distance between us.

But I can’t make myself move.

"Samantha," I whisper, my voice rough with emotion. "I..."

I don't know what I want to say. That I'm grateful for her? That she's the only thing that makes sense in my world right now? That I'm terrified of what I'm feeling, of what it could mean, but even more terrified of stopping?

She licks her lips. "Diesel..."

And then we kiss; I don't know who moves first, but suddenly her mouth is on mine, soft and warm and hungry. Our lips fit together like two pieces of a puzzle finally connecting, and a spark ignites deep within me, spreading warmth through my veins. I cradle her face in my hands, pull her closer, desperate to feel more of her.

I want it all.

All of her.

Because in her lips, with her touch, with the taste of her, the sound of her, the scent of her, the pain finally stops.

Samantha's arms wrap around my neck as our kiss deepens. She parts her lips, inviting me in. Our tongues dance, exploring, tasting. I'm drowning in her, lost to the sensation of her body pressed against mine.

A low, passionate moan escapes Samantha's throat and vibrates against my mouth. It sets my heart racing, pounding like a drum in my chest. Desire coils tight in my gut.

I need more of her. All of her.

I kiss her harder, hungrier. Samantha matches my intensity, her fingers digging into my back. She nips at my bottom lip and I groan, the sound rumbling up from deep in my chest.

My hands skim down her sides and find the hem of her shirt. I tug it upwards, breaking our kiss just long enough to pull it over her head and toss it aside. Samantha looks at me, her eyes dark with want, her chest heaving; she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

“I want you.”

“I want you, too.”

I claim her mouth again as my hands roam over her newly exposed skin. She arches into my touch. It's intoxicating — the feel of her, the taste of her, the way she moans as I brush my fingers against the tops of her breasts.

Samantha's hands slip under my shirt, her fingertips skimming up my abs, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

I groan into her mouth, my blood singing with need.

Samantha tugs impatiently at my shirt until I break away just long enough to rip it off and fling it away. Then we're skin to skin, pressed together from chest to hips; it's almost too much, the slide of her soft curves against my hard planes. I could lose myself in her forever.

“Diesel,” she whispers, my name fading from her lips in a moan while her hands map my back, my shoulders, leaving no inch untouched. Each caress only stokes the inferno building inside me. I kiss a path down her throat, teeth grazing her pulse point. She lets out another breathy moan, her head falling back, silently begging for more.

“I need to taste you,” I murmur.

But then, she's pulling back, shaking her head even as her body trembles against mine.

"Diesel, wait," she pants, her voice unsteady. "We shouldn't... we've both had so much to drink tonight. I think we need to stop."

Her words cut through the haze of desire, a bucket of cold reality dumped over the flames. As much as every cell in my body is screaming for more of her, I know we can't do this. Not now, not like this, not when she doesn’t want it.

I rest my forehead against hers, both of us breathing hard. It takes every ounce of willpower to untangle my hands from her hair, to put even an inch of space between us. But I do it, because she asked me to, and I'll be damned if I ever make her feel anything but respected.

"You're right," I say, my voice rough. "We should stop."

Samantha exhales shakily, her fingers uncurling from my shoulders. She looks at me, her eyes filled with longing and restraint.

"I'm sorry, I just..."

I cup her cheek. "Don't apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for."

She leans into my touch for just a moment before pulling back. The air between us feels thick, weighted with everything we're holding back.

"You should go to bed," I tell her softly. "I think I'm going to stay up for a bit. I need some time to..." I trail off, not sure how to put it into words. Time to process everything? To figure out how the hell I'm supposed to move forward after this?

Samantha nods, and she reaches out and places her hand over my heart. "Are you sure you're okay?"

I cover her hand with my own. I smile. Not much of a smile, but still a smile, because for the first time in as long as I can remember, there's a lightness in my heart. It’s small, fragile, but undeniable.

"For the first time in a long time, I think I might be."

She searches my face and must find the truth there, because she returns my smile with a brilliant one of her own.

"I'm glad," she whispers. Reluctantly, she pulls her hand away and stands. I immediately feel the loss of her warmth, but the memory of her touch lingers, a soothing balm on the ragged edges of my soul. "Goodnight, Diesel.”

"Goodnight, Samantha. And thank you. For everything."

She shakes her head. "You never have to thank me for being here for you. That's what..." She pauses, biting her lip. "That's what friends are for."

Friends .

The word settles into the space between us and feels so completely inadequate. I hear it in her voice and see it in the last look she gives me as she stretches out on the bed — we both know what’s growing between us is so much more than friendship.