Page 63 of Coast

“Why?”

“Because the last fucking thing you need in your lives is someone as fucked as me.”

“You’ve literally been the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

“Then the bar is in hell, baby.”

“Oh, come on,” I said, angling my head up to look at him. “I didn’t have you pegged for insecure.”

“Not insecure. Just giving it to you straight.”

“Give it to me… straighter then. Because I’m not following.”

“I’m a biker.”

“So? Plenty of people ride bikes.”

“No, Zo. I’m a biker. A one-percenter. Do you know what that means?”

“No.”

“No,” he agreed, shooting me a warm smile. “Can’t imagine a ballerina has much need to learn about bike clubs. The saying is that ninety-nine percent of bike clubs are just fun, law-abiding groups of men who like motorcycles.”

Ninety-nine percent were law-abiding.

And he was aone-percenter.

“I think a part of me kind of knew that the club was, I don’t know, up to something.” Especially with the casual way he carried that gun in the alley.

“We sell guns, Zo,” he said. “Illegally.”

“Oh,” I said. “Huh.”

“That’s all you got?” he asked, reaching to tuck my hair behind my ear.

“Did you expect outrage?”

“Maybe fear.”

“I’m not sure I could be afraid of you.”

“Think that’s because you don’t know me. Not really.”

“I lived with you for a few days. You wiped away my sweat and woke me up for my meds. You took care of my baby when I couldn’t. You spoiled her with toys and swings.”

“Think we’re both mature enough to know that even bad guys have a good side. A lot of dictators and mass murderers and cartel bosses… they got families. Wives. Kids. People who love ‘em.”

“Would you hurt me? Hurt Lainey?”

“Fuck no.”

“Then I still don’t know what I’m supposed to be afraid of here.”

“You asked me about the wrong tattoos,” he said, reaching down for my hand.

“What?”

“Ask me about these,” he said, putting my hand to trace the tally marks that moved up his neck and the very edge of his face.

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