Page 32 of Filthy Savage
Fuck. She isn’t supposed to see me like this—ever.
“No,” I ground out, backing away to the door. “Just tell me whether or not you’re okay. I can sleep in the van. You’re not safe around me, okay? Not while I sleep.”
I watch her visibly swallow.
“You’re safer in here than out there,” she rasps out. “After hooting hollering loud enough for people to hear you three states over, the cops are probably outside looking for you already. I’ve been trying to wake you for over ten minutes. We’re supposed to be laying low, remember?” Angel stands up from the couch and steps closer to me, meeting my eyes. She points at her neck. “Listen to me. This will heal. I know it wasn’t personal. It’s not your fault. Look, you don’t scare me, okay? Sit.”
I don’t believe this. I stand there, just looking at her. The muscles in my legs start to twinge and ache from exhaustion as she takes one more step toward me and offers her hand. Why isn’t she listening to me?
“Stay back,” I warn her. “What do you not understand about it not being safe for me to stay in here with you?”
“What I understand is that you had a bad dream. Big fucking deal. You don’t need to be alone right now, Axe. Sit. Please.”
“No.”
“So help me God, I’m not going to let you go out there. You went through something traumatic. How could it be any more dangerous than what those Los Diablos had in store for me earlier? I’ve seen your little secret. And I can add it to the fact that you’re a biker gang member. I get it’ okay? You have nightmares, and I see now why you wanted to sleep outside from the get go.”
“I could’ve…” I start, but can’t form the rest of the words.
“Yes,” she says with a nod. “You were about ready to choke the life out of me. But you didn’t. I’m fine. I’m over it. I’ve just got four words for you. Long-term PTSD counseling. Maybe that’s five words, but whatever. It works like a charm. Anyhow, I’m going back to bed, but if you step out that door, I’ll just follow you out there. Or I’ll pack my things and find another way to handle those people who are after me—without you.”
I scramble to play catch up with what has just gone down between us. There’s nothing gentle in me. My demons make me dangerous. I know that from experience. I can only bottle them up for so long before they explode. Tonight, they made Angel the inadvertent object of their fury. And now she’s getting ready to sign up for more surprise dream-phase blitz attacks?
“Is flirting with death a thing for you?” I ask without a sliver of humor.
“You’re not the only person in the world who’s seen shit. Now, get on that couch and tell me what happened. I need my beauty sleep.”
I’m not sure why I return to sit on the couch, and I sure as hell have no idea why my mouth starts moving, but that’s what I do.
Angel has that effect on me.
All I know is that I follow her voice, and somewhere deep down, it’s easier to do that with her.
For the next few minutes, I give Angel the shortest, least violent, least gruesome version of what happened on the night my parents died. Somewhere along the line, I close my eyes. The last thing I’m fully aware of is a blanket getting thrown over my legs and chest before I pass out.
* * *
For the firsttime in my life, I wake up and am not terrified out of my ever-loving mind. I blink up at the cracked, water-stained ceiling. Yes, this is still the sofa, but at the moment, my head is not on the pillow. No, I’m resting my head on Angel’s lap. How did she manage to get over here while I slept? Do I even want to move? She must have had the most awkward and uncomfortable last few hours of rest to have fallen asleep sitting up with my big, heavy noggin weighing her down. And now, I’m probably about to wake her up just by raising my head. That alone makes it a morning of firsts.
I smirk at the thought. Fuck, everything is starting off backward today. I rub my eyes, and notice that I’m not jittery or off-kilter as I usually am on mornings. Taking a chance, I carefully lift off Angel’s lap to sit up. She doesn’t stir, so I get up, stretch, and go to the bathroom feeling not too shabby. As I step into the shower, I have to acknowledge the obvious truth. There’s only one reasonable explanation for my first good night sleep in ages, and it has everything to do with the woman on the other side of this closed bathroom door. It doesn’t help that all this hot water slicking over my skin only makes me ache for her to be in here with me again, with her sweet warmth wrapped around me.
I huff out a breath, blowing a blast of shower water from my lips. Is this how it’s going to be now? Will my body and mind live on completely independent of my own control, utterly connected to Angel, submitting to this force between us? The idea scares the hell out of me. One small part of my brain is tempted to jump into that crappy minivan, get to my bike, and ride until this place is a distant memory.
But that’s not going to happen.
I’m not going anywhere without Angel.
She’s not just any smoking hot curvy woman.
She’s mine.
Stepping out of the shower, I toweled myself off and brush my teeth. We have a few hours’ drive ahead of us. While I get dressed, I tick off reasons in my head why it isn’t a good idea to kiss her on the forehead before I leave to get us breakfast. Then I dismiss the idea altogether. Smiling, I jot down a short note on the motel scratch pad on the night table in case Angel wakes up, slide on my leather cut, and leave.
Fuck. This beauty has broken the beast.
Either that or I’m getting soft.
Angel’s suggestion about counseling is starting to sound smart, if only to overcome this newer, weaker, more pathetic side of me rather than address anything to do with my childhood trauma.
