Page 53 of The Biker and the Professor
But one disrespectful marriage, three painful miscarriages, and one life-altering divorce later, it's just not that easy. You don't just “know” what you want after years of emotional abuse and mental manipulation from everyone around you. You tend to take things more slowly, think things through—questioning and second-guessing everything, make smarter choices...You tend to have a lot less trust and a lot more skepticism.
All that said, I can’t ignore the fact that I’m happierwithNero than I am without him. Sure, I might have a few years on the guy, more experience, but he speaks the truth: I’m at the point where I do need to figure out what the hell I want with my life. Because right now I’m just doing stuff. Isolating myself. Binging on wine, cheese, and Netflix.
I don’t even like teaching. I needed a job to keep me occupied when I first decided to settle here, the college needed a professor and I was overqualified. My track record of teaching consists of working for a few months then quitting when I got bored. Teaching has forever been a fill-the-gap thing for me.
After my divorce, because so much of my youthful happiness had been stolen from me, I chose tonotthink about the future for a while, to live for the right now. I got into my car and sped off with Washington in the rear-view mirror. I'd wandered and meandered, living in the moment.
But how long could I continue to put off “the future?”
There’s only one thing that I am utterly and completely sure about right now, and it’s that Denver, Colorado is my home. When I stumbled into this state, I experienced an immediate “this is it” moment. I’d felt it’s gripping permanence. Everything else that came after was merely automatic, obligatory, and necessary: a house, a job, a hobby, a new routine.
Until Nero…
He was never automatic, necessary, or routine. He justwas.
He'd had the same effect on me that Denver had. New, refreshing, exciting,oh sogloriously beautiful. Just as I fell hard for Denver, I fell hard for him. With one difference: I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Denver is my home, where I’m supposed to be. With Nero, however, things are a bit...hazy.
And I believe I know why: I’ll never be able to make a rational decision about Nero until I go back to the beginning and replace all my automatic, obligatory, necessary decisions, with solid, purposeful, meaningful, and unwavering ones. Only then can I know what I truly desire for myself and my future.
Now see this, this is easier said than done. I wake up the next morning thinking I can get it all together with a pen and notebook before I’m slapped in the face with the reality of just how difficult it is to make real-life decisions.
No, it doesn’t take me an easy Sunday morning or a quiet afternoon to figure things out. It takes meweeks. Weeks of mental breakdowns and acceptance of the past. Of finally contacting friends and family via phone rather than emails, accepting apologies, and forgiving.
I make decisions, and then I change my mind. I think I want something and then realize days later that that’s not evenme, but someone I’d tried to be for my ex-husband.
I cross out and replace. I ask myself questions. Who amI? Who do I want to be? What is my purpose? What do I care about?
The cycle goes on and on. Determined not to move on until all my final decisions are genuine andme. It's the most therapeutic five weeks I've ever had.
Once I’m done, I feel relieved. I no longer feel the need to hide, or isolate myself, or live a life that doesn’t wholly satisfy me. I know exactly what I want now, and I’m going to have it.
~
I walk into the Den of Heathens compound with confidence on my heels. Without question, I’m cleared by the gatekeeper—or “Prospect”, as his leather jacket reads—who grins at me and calls me “Grunt’s property.”
Bikers are scattered all over tonight, the scent of nicotine, marijuana, and alcohol strong on the stale night air. Something’s going on inside the dome-shaped building—if the music booming inside and topless women milling in and out are any indications.
Eyes follow me as I move in the direction of the apartment building. No one stops me, but I get a lot of chin-jerks, amused smirks, or dead-on stares. They know why I'm here. They know who I “belong to.”
I spot two familiar faces, Scratch and Onyx. Scratch is propped up against a wall with two voluptuous women hanging off him, one sticking her tongue down his throat while his hand is up the other’s tiny skirt.
A few feet from him is Onyx, half of him hidden behind a large brew barrel. He’s gazing down at something, a strange look on his face.
Since Scratch is quite obviously occupied, I walk over to Onyx, stealing his attention. “Hey.”
His head snaps up, irritation on his face, but when he realizes it’s me, he grins. “’Sup, Professor?”
“I’m—”
“Shit!” he yowls, grimacing as he glares down. “Bitch, I said no teeth.”
I’m so confused until I hear a woman’s voice murmur from behind the barrel, “Sorry.”
Wait, is he getting a freaking blowjob right now?
“You keep saying that. Who taught you to suck dick?” he growls. “Just—Just forget it. Get the hell up. Go.”
Yep. He was getting a blowjob.
