Page 68 of Kneeling to Candy

“Okay. There you have it. He cares about you. His reaction, though over the top, is understandable. Hell, if I were him, I’d have reacted worse. We’re not talking about you getting involved with any sex trafficking investigation, which in itself is concerning enough. We’re talking about you coming face-to-face with the devil who violated you.”

My friend’s blunt reasoning ruffles my feathers. “Why is facing one of my rapists so hard to comprehend?”

Ebony whirls on me, her fists clenched at her sides. “Because most of those who’ve been hurt never want to face their abuser again. I sure as hell never want to see Dante again as long as I breathe air.”

I freeze, staring horror-struck at my friend. “Eb?”

Realizing she said more than she meant to, Ebony’s lips thin. She turns away from me, her hands running nervously over all her cosmetics, like she’s desperately trying to distract herself.

Wanting to give my friend comfort, I take her hands in mine, squeezing them gently. She looks at me, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Ebony is very tightlipped with her past. And now I know why.

“Is Dante the reason you left your last MC?”

“Yes. Among other reasons,” Ebony grits, pulling her hands from mine. “This conversation isn’t about my past. I would appreciate it if you dropped your questioning.”

My heart aches for my friend. I school my face not to show my hurt. Ebony wouldn’t appreciate my pity. She’s too proud to tolerate it. It would only serve as a reason for her to push me away when she needs her supporters around her.

“I get it. Just know I’m here if you wanna talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” She sucks in a ragged breath. “It’s my past, and that’s where it stays.”

I’ll never pry into someone else’s trauma. It’s not my place. I left the door open if she ever feels the need to unload. “Sure, Eb. Whatever you want.”

Finding my answer acceptable, she nods. She picks up another cosmetic brush, blending in her makeup like nothing happened.

“As I was saying, facing an abuser is difficult. You can prep yourself for however you want the altercation to go, but you won’t know what your reaction is until you’re facing down the person. Let’s say the worst-case scenario happens—which is a genuine possibility, given the circumstances—and you freeze or lash out. As awful as it is for you facing the abuser and the flashbacks, what will your reactions mean for the team and the investigation?”

If the worst happened, it could mean death, not only for me and the crew, but for all the people being auctioned.

My mouth goes dry. I swallow before answering, “I see your point.”

“Good. You need to see what you’re up against before riding in like some damn Joan of Arc fool.”

“But, Eb, I won’t freeze, and I won’t lash out. I know what’s at stake.”

“Are you able to promise that? Better yet, are you able to promise Butch that? If anything were to happen to you, your biker will blame himself.”

“Why would he blame himself? I volunteered for this, knowing the consequences.”

“He’s. Your. Biker,” Ebony says slowly, like I’m a child struggling to comprehend something basic. “His job is to protect you. You ride with him, he takes extra precautions on the road. You wear something revealing out, he stays close to your side and warns other dudes off. You get hurt or sick, he helps nurse you back to health. It’s his job.”

I open my mouth to argue but stop short, realizing Butch does all those things she mentions, and more.

“Look at Atlas, Gauge, or Chase. How are they with their other halves? Hmm? They start wars, raise armies, burn the world around them to protect the one they love.”

My mind hooks on to the last word Ebony says. “Love? You think Butch loves me?”

Ebony shakes her head. “Gurl, you’re more lost than I thought. His actions speak volumes.”

I take a moment to contemplate her words. Yes, Butch’s actions suggest he cares. He’s verbalized he wants me, only me. But he hasn’t told me he loves me, nor do I expect him to, with the relationship being brand new. Still, I find the idea of him loving me to be a stretch. Who could love me?

“Nah. I don’t believe it. I need the words from the horse’s mouth.”

“Words are hard for a nearly mute man who’s comfortable with his silence.”

“Fine,” I grump. “I’ll take a handwritten note with an I love you.”

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