Page 4 of The Biker and the Loner
“WhatI’vestarted?” His voice is staggered. “Are you sick in the head, girl?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because I can’t understand why you’d come here pretending to be a slut, signing up to be a Club Cat, when you’ve never even had sex!”
“I have my reasons.”
He throws his hands up. “Pray, tell. What on earth would possess you to do something sostupid? Is this some kind of a low self-esteem, low self-worth thing?”
Once again, I find myself studying him contemplatively. For six years I’ve been lugging this secret around with me like loose skin. Not even Grunt, whom I had considered my best friend, was able to get it out of me. It’s something I intend to take to my grave—my future relies on it.
But…maybe Scratch could take it to his grave, too. Relieve me some. He’s going off to die. I know it. Aside from sex, booze, and crime, he has nothing to live for, so he’ll fight like a loser—because he thinks he is. He won’t be coming back.
Could I tell him? Should I? He has no reason tonottell anyone since he has no obligation or loyalty to me.
But, if my new god of fire isforme, he’ll see to it that Scratch never makes it back to tell anyone.
“If I tell you,” I say, “you have to promise me not to sayanythingto anyoneever. It doesn’t leave this trailer.”
He shrugs. “No better person to tell your secret to right now, sweetheart. Don’t intend on coming back alive.”
See? I knew it.
I amble down the narrow passage of the trailer to sit beside him on the bed. “You also have to promise to finish what we started.”
He studies me for a few beats before agreeing, “’Kay.”
Inhaling a deep breath, I pull my feet up on the bed, wrap my arms around my knees, and tell him. And it feelssogood to unload on someone. This is the most I’ve ever allowed anyone in. The most I ever will. For two reasons only: One, I do believe I’m a teensy, teeny, tiny bit in love with Scratch. Two, he’s never going to come back.
“Jesus,” he whispers after I’m done. “Is that why you didn’t want me to…?”
“Yeah.”
“Does Grunt know?”
“No.” I pull on a string of thread from the towel around me. “Only you.”
“So why don’t you just—”
“No. No solutions or advice, please. We’re done talking about it.” I unravel the towel from around me and recline on the bed, parting my legs. “You promised me you would finish.”
His eyes follow me, immediately clouding with lust at my nakedness. But he’s fighting it, I can see it. He shakes his head. “I—”
“Keep your promise, Scratch,” I push. “I’m giving you permission.”
His expression might be conflicted, but it doesn’t hinder his gaze from tracing over every inch of my body, as if he’s committing me to memory. Finally, he says quietly, “Fine. But it’ll be different this time.”
“Please.”
He stands and strips off every article of clothing, as opposed to before where he’d merely shoved his jeans down to his knees. He crawls between my legs, hovering over me on one forearm.
Gently, he brushes the pad of his thumb across my cheek. “I’m sorry for calling you a crazy bitch.”
I offer him a rare smile. “You’re going off to die for our country, so you’re forgiven.”
With that, he lowers his mouth to mine. And this time around, everything is different. He’s gentle and patient and tender. He makes it good for me. No,great.
This time I understand what all the fuss is about. I never would have imagined that Scratch, of all people, could have such softness, such tenderness in him. He surprises me. Blows my mind.
