Page 27 of Wreckage of My Life
I am speechless. I want to return the words, but they get stuck in the back of my throat. Clearing it with an awkward cough, I push her away from me, then turn back to my packing.
“Be safe,” my mother murmurs softly before leaving the room.
I grab my small bag, then do another sweep of the room before stepping out of it myself. My gun is in a holster under my long sleeved thermal shirt. I have a leather jacket on, deciding to leave the cut at home. I don’t want to fly the club colors all across the states I have to ride through to reach Wisconsin, then into Illinois. The less attention I can bring onto myself, the better.
“Where’s your cut?” The prez barks at me when he sees me walking out of the clubhouse.
“None of your fucking business.” I’m actually surprised he’s up this early. It’s four in the morning, still dark out, and he’s normally sleeping off whatever orgy he participated in the night before.
“It is my fucking business. I’m your president. If I tell you to wear the cut, you wear the fucking cut,” he growls into my face, spit flying out of his mouth from how enraged he is.
I pull my head back and make a show of wiping the side of my face, then take my finger and wipe it on his shirt.
“Your business is to make sure nobody gets killed from wearing the cut. Me wearing it across state lines like that is a sure thing to achieve it. Is that your end goal?” I stare him down. Being a few inches taller than him sure helps.
Us raising our voices in the courtyard has brought some spectators to our show. I look around and spot Shortie who is watching us with wide eyes. I give him a barely detectable chin lift to which he responds with the same. He and I became friends after I had him look into Mia Smith and her whereabouts.
On the other side of Shortie is Sully, my right hand man in the club, along with Puck. I know I can trust them with my life, and I am glad that they are now witnessing the scene our president is making.
My father, noticing the brothers gathering around us, takes a step back from me, giving me a sly grin.
“Good luck,son,” he pats me hard on the back, then walks away. His evil laughter echoes through the yard until he’s inside the building.
I strap my bag to the back of my Harley, checking one more time that I got what I need in the saddlebags. When it’s time for me to straddle the powerful machine, my mind goes in a direction I was hoping to never remember again.
In my mind, I see Becca when she got on the back of my bike on the night we first met. I put my hands on my hips and throw my head back in laughter when I remember how she told me she rode a scooter before.
Without warning, my brain switches to images of her in the throes of passion. She is riding me, pleasure obvious on her face, head thrown back and long hair touching the backs of my legs, brushing them with its tips just enough to keep me pounding into her.
I remember the last time we had together. How I watched her sleep until it got close to her alarm going off. How hard it was for me to leave her. How I wrote on her back with her eyeliner. My handwriting on her bare skin looked so sexy, I wish I could’ve tattooed it on her.
I wonder if she’ll remember me in the years to come. And I also wonder if I’ll ever see her again. Life is strange sometimes, so anything is possible.
“You good?” Sully shows at my side, staring at me in confusion. I feel the same.
“Yeah,” I grunt and try to snap out of my memories of Becca. I need to get her out of my head. She is a distraction I don’t need.
I finally throw one leg over the bike and settle in the seat. I start the bike up and rev the engine.
“Keep an eye out on shit for me, and your ear to the ground,” I jerk my chin at Sully.
I look around the yard and acknowledge the waves of everyone present. It feels ominous somehow. Like it’s a final goodbye which in turn makes my gut churn uncomfortably.
I start to slowly roll out of the yard until I reach the paved road and am able to speed up. I can’t help it and take the long way out of town, which takes me down Main Street. I rev the engine a couple of times as I pass by the hotel Becca stayed in even though I know she’s not there. Her flight was two days ago, and I’m sure she didn’t stay behind.
With a heavy heart, I continue out of town, bracing for the eighteen-hour ride I set myself up for. By noon, I feel dead. It’s been eight hours of just stopping once to use the bathroom at a gas station. I’m tired as fuck, and I could use some food.
I pull into a diner that’s very much the same as the one back home where I bought Becca lunch on the morning after we had sex for the first time.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter to myself. Why is everything reminding me of her? I need to get her off my mind.
I try to stretch and get my bearings before walking toward the entrance. I groan in pain, feeling like I am a hundred. I’m getting too old for riding long hours like this.
I use the facilities before heading to an empty table that’s in a booth, happy to feel the soft seat under my ass. It’d be garbage under normal circumstances, with its worn-out vinyl almost non existent in places. However, given that my tailbone hurts like a motherfucker right now, I have a new appreciation for anything that’s not the seat of my bike.
I place an order for food with the way too bubbly waitress, then pull my cell phone out. Like it has a mind of its own, my thumb taps on the Contacts app, then finds Becca’s name. I know I shouldn’t, but I am weak and want to hear her voice.
The call goes straight to voicemail, like she has the phone turned off. I sit here like a creep, listening to her message.
