Page 22 of Domino
“Probably what guys in a gang would say, too.”
“Yeah, but they probably don’t ride bikes as nice as ours,” he jokes, then his expression grows serious. “We’re not a bunch of gangbangers, you know. I understand some people in town don’t like us and say all kinds of stupid shit about the club, but we’re not a group of murdering, thieving bangers.”
I roll my eyes at him and wonder why I’m still standing here talking to him instead of getting into my car and driving away. There’s something in his voice, a small catch or something that evokes a sense of sympathy in me. He sounds like a man who’s stung by the feeling of being misunderstood, and it makes me feel sorry not just for him but for prejudging him like everybody else.
I mean, if I’m being honest with myself, the guy doesn’t seem like a gangbanger to me. Not that I know any, or anything, but I’ve seen enough news programs and documentaries about gangs, and he doesn’t seem to fit that mold. But that’s not really any reason to let my guard down. Maybe bikers aren’t the same as gangbangers, but they’re still something dangerous. That much I do know.
“Then what are you exactly?” I ask.
He looks down at the ground, kicking away the small stone near his boot, seemingly pondering his answer. He finally looks up at me, and I see the resolve in his eyes and in the way his jaw is clenched.
“It’s like I said, we’re a brotherhood. Most of us are combat vets. We get each other. Understand the things we’ve seen. The things we’ve done. Things that, unless you were over in the shit, taking fire from people who want to kill you, you’ll never understand. But we have. And we do,” he tells me.
As I listen, I can hear the slight twinge of pain in his voice. Maybe he’s still reeling from me calling him a gangbanger. Although I think it’s more likely he’s recalling the things he saw and did when he was in the middle of a battle. And he’s right, it’s not something I can understand no matter how hard I try. All I can do is empathize with him, which seems woefully inadequate for the things I imagine he had to endure overseas.
“Anyway, my actual name is Max. Max Wise.”
“Ashley,” I tell him, declining to give him my last name.
“So, are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“What you were smiling about when you plowed into me?”
My brain is telling me to turn around, get into my car, and get the hell out of there. But something else inside of me, something I can’t identify right away, is urging me to talk to him. However, judging by the quiver and warmth in my belly and lower parts of my anatomy, I can guess what it is. I clear my throat.
“If you really must know—”
“I really must,” he interrupts.
The smile curls my lips upward despite my best efforts to keep it at bay. The more I talk to him, the more that charm of his emerges, and I hate to admit it, if only to myself, but I’m not immune to it.
“I just got a job,” I say. “Happy now?”
“Well, congratulations. That’s great news. Where?”
“The Golden Gate Diner,” I reply before I can stop myself.
Running a hand through my hair, I try to gather myself. The last thing I intended was to give him any information about myself. And yet, here I am, blurting everything out to him, anyway, making me want to kick myself. Hard.
“Good for you. They make some great food there.”
“Oh, do you come to the diner often?” I stammer.
“Well, I suppose I will now.”
If my face burns any warmer, I’m half-afraid it’ll burst into flames right here. As it is, I’m sure it’s a shade of red not normally found in nature. What have I done? The last thing I want to do is encourage him to keep stalking me.
“I-I have to go,” I say.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you around then. Congrats on the gig.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
I quickly jump into my car and start it up, then quickly throw it into reverse. Max has to jump out of the way to avoid me running over his feet, and when I look in the rearview, he’s still standing there, looking like he’s laughing.
“Christ. What did I just do?”
