Page 71 of The Heart We Guard
I’d like to think our conversations were honest and not disingenuous. That he wants me to be here as much as he wants the baby. I’m not sure how I’ll ever know, though.
Because he didn’t come for me, didn’t come back for me, didn’t tell me where he was going when he left me before.
Until he knew about the baby.
Then, he used illegal means to scour Colorado to find me.
A piece of me worries that he isn’t the kind of man it’s healthy to depend on.
And, yet…
I shiver when I think of the way we made love last night. The connection we had, in the moment.
I’ve never had casual sex except the one time I tried a one-night stand that ended up being disappointing and embarrassing.
After that, it has always been with someone I felt something for. Someone I’d had the time to build an emotional bond with.
Butcher and I came together in an intense and adrenaline-filled moment in both our lives. Which surely is understandable. Perhaps it’s the memory of that first encounter we’re stuck in. Living in the aftershock of something so intimate and powerful.
I suppose that, in some way or another, we’re all living in the aftershock of previous decisions. But this feels like the kind of decision that could get me killed.
Eli would have something to say about this predicament, for sure. The hours and hours I spent trying to convince him thatprospecting for the Midtown Rebels was a bad idea. But he never listened. And now, here I am, with the most powerful of bikers.
If there is an afterlife, Eli’s probably somewhere laughing in it.
The diner I stopped at on the way here the last time I visited the clubhouse is bustling with people. The last time I made the trip through this town, I was determined to extricate myself fully from the dangers of this life. Perhaps I’m being foolish, not sticking with the plan.
“You can get on a plane to Vegas any time,” I remind myself, muttering inside the helmet that’s too big. Once Butcher was sure we weren’t being followed, he pulled over to check I was okay and grab his helmet from a lock box on the back of his bike.
I thought he was going to put it on, seeing he’s taking the brunt of the wind and cold in only his leather cut without his leather jacket. But no, he put it on my head and produced some large sunglasses to keep the wind out of his eyes.
I know staying with him for now isn’t a lifetime commitment. It’s a safety decision and a chance to get some rest. But these actions of casual caring are endearing.
Main Street peters out, and the road becomes much more rural. Memories of driving in the dark, trying to count the turns and remember the directions I’d been given in the diner, come back to me. In the darkness, it had felt frightening and intimidating. In the late-afternoon sun, it feels breathtaking and wide open, with spectacular views of the mountains in the distance. Gray and jagged, they look out of place against the landscape of trees turning beautiful colors for fall.
Butcher pulls up to the clubhouse gate. The person on guard hustles to unlock it, but fumbles the lock and it falls to the ground. Butcher salutes, and this time, my passage through the gate runs a whole heap smoother.
My palms sweat a little, and my heart thuds loudly in my ears. I wish there were a sign or a magic eight ball orsomethingthat would tell me if this is a good idea or not. If this is the right thing to do.
Do I really want more bikers knowing who I am? Do I really want more of them knowing my name?
The chrome of a long row of motorcycles outside the clubhouse sparkles in the fall sunlight. Their jobs must have a lot of flexibility.
I wonder what they put on their forms as their occupation if they ever travel out of country.
Biker? Criminal? Member of an organized crime family?
Unemployed?
Butcher pulls into the spot closest to the door. My gut tells me it’s not by accident that the spot is free. Being president must come with its perks, but it seems so very…well…corporate that one of them is a parking space.
Butcher squeezes my calf. “Off you get, Doc,” he says. “Hold on to my arm until you find your feet.”
I do as he says, shocked by how unsteady I feel.
“You good?” Butcher asks. His brow is furrowed as he studies me.
It should be an easy question to answer, but the truth is, I’m anything but. These are the kind of men my brother hung around with. And my brother is dead because of people just like this.
