by Avelyn Paige
“No.”
“I’m not running if that’s what you think. I need to be somewhere.”
I step into the open door of the truck, reaching for her. Her chest begins to move quickly, and her as breathing becomes heavy.
“The only place you need to be is here with me,” I fire back at her. Tasting her lips, is only feeding the monster I have inside of me. Even an inch is too far of a distance for my liking.
“I’m serious, Ratchet. Please give me my keys,” she pleas.
I pull her keys from out of my pocket, spinning them around my pointer finger to annoy her. She reaches for them, but just as her fingers nearly grasp them, I pull them away.
“Too slow,” I smile. “Do you want to try again?”
“God dammit!” she swears. “What do I have to give you so you’ll stop being a bastard for one fucking second of your life and give my keys back?”
Her insults don’t affect me in the slightest. Bastard has become nearly a term of endearment, when it comes to my line of work with the club. What does pique my interest is her sudden thought that I need something in order to give into her. Little does she know that I would gladly lay down in traffic just to make sure she is safe. The male in me has another list of demands that start with her mouth around my cock, but that’s not going to help my cause at this point. Answers first. Fucking her raw comes later.
“Tell me the truth, and I’ll give them back. That’s it.”
She growls and reaches for the keys again, but misses them yet again. She huffs back into her seat and glares at me.
“I can’t tell you, Ratchet. You wouldn’t understand,” she starts. “But I can show you. Give me my keys and let me go to my appointment.”
Her eyes plea with me to give in and take a chance that the queen of lies is telling me the truth. Everything inside of me screams to rip her out of that truck, and fuck her into submission in the bed to show her what happens when she lies to me. The visual of my sick and twisted form of punishment only makes my cock scream louder to go through with that devious thought, but I force myself to shove that idea aside, until we are some place a little less public.
“You’ll show me,” I repeat back to her, while handing her the keys. “You lie to me again, and I am going enjoy reddening your ass with my hand, Siren.”
She gulps again as her hand moves the keys to the ignition. I note the slight tremble in her hands as she twists the key and the truck barely turnovers over. She really needs a new fucking ride, and I make a mental note to handle it for her. Not that I expect her to agree nor happily thank me for doing it, but I don’t give a shit. I won’t let her ride in some piece of shit truck that could break down and explode at any minute.
She pushes me back, closing the truck door behind me. I watch from the outside of the window as she shifts the truck into drive, but she hesitates. Her lips mouth a curse word, before she reaches over and rolls down the window.
“If you really want to know why I am here, meet me at Willie’s around three o’clock. I’ll show you why I left,” she tells me before pulling away from me.
Her truck turns left as she heads back toward town and passes me on the side of the road.
“Dumbass,” I chide myself aloud.
Was it a smart idea to put my trust into someone who has run from me more than twice in just a matter of a day? No, but I have to prove to her that I’m not here for a quick suck and fuck. She means more to me than a warm cunt to put my dick it, and I need her to realize that.
My boots shuffle in the dusty shoulder of the road, before I kick the dust and head back towards my bike.
I didn’t come all this way to chicken out now.
Hit me with your best shot, Siren. I’m ready.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I curse, as I fly down the road at least thirty miles-an-hour over the speed limit. My truck speeds around the corner flicking up rocks and dust as I skid. I mutter silent prayers that the police don’t see me driving through down like I’m a Tokyo drift stunt driver on a practice run. Jail is not where I need to be for reckless driving, but if I don’t make it to my appointment with my therapist, she might just throw me into the psych ward for being late. Neither of those options would bode well for me. I’m not big on padded rooms or jail cells. It’s just not my cup of tea.
“Come on!” I yell, as a car pulls out in front of me at the last minute. The white minivan creeps along at a glacial pace. “It’s not even fucking Sunday! Move!”
As the seconds tick by, the white van continues its course in front of me, until my patience snaps. My hands tightly grasp the steering wheel, and I jerk out to the left of the van. My eyes bug as I see that the coast wasn’t clear and a large semi is barreling towards me.
“FUCK!” I scream.
I jerk back over behind the van as my heart begins to pound wildly. The woman behind the wheel of the minivan flips me the bird and pulls over to the side of the road to let me by.
I wave a half-heartedly apologizing as I zoom past her. My fucking rage at Ratchet could have killed us both had I not swerved at the last second. Just one day here and Ratchet already has me on the borderline of stupidity-induced suicide. That fucking man has came crashing into my world, making unreasonable demands, and destroying every single shred of common sense that I still have left. All in one fucking day. Really?
My destination quickly approaches as I shut down the mental bitch fest I am having with myself. How could I be so fucking stupid to agree to let him into my plans here? Why would he want to stay when he finds out? Ratchet doesn’t exactly scream family man to me, and putting my brother on the line, shouldn’t have even been an option. Yet, I offered up my reasons on a silver platter with the long shot of his reaction being a positive one. The idea in itself is the complete and total opposite of my expectations. Maybe Dr. Matthews should have me committed after all because apparently, I’m insane enough to think Ratchet and Asher would be a good idea to mix together.
On the other hand, maybe him knowing would solve one of the problems for me. He’d leave, and I could go on without his interference. Two birds with one stone. The odds may be stacked pretty heavily against me at this point with everything else, but this one might actually go in my favor.
Skidding into the parking lot of Dr. Matthew’s office, I find a place and park. I almost jump from the truck, before it completely stops, and dash for the door. Being late isn’t an option for me in the eyes of the law. They need to see that I am committed to fictitiously working through my problems. It might not be real to me, but it would be to them on a piece of paper. Had it not been for my prior convictions as a juvenile for drug use, I wouldn’t have even needed to go through with this farce of a recovery program. Thankfully for me, my other past discretions where below the involvement of the law, thus saving me from being one hundred percent completely fucked. I doubt the state would look to kindly on being prostituted out by your mother, drug trafficking, and being an accessory to multiple murders thanks to the man who had gang raped me along with his club for his own pleasure. I am so fucking glad he’s dead, or I would kill him myself all over again.
The waiting room lies empty, and I sigh in relief that no one saw my rapid-fire barrel roll into this place. Signing in on the piece of paper on the front desk, I hear someone clearing their throat. In an instant, I can feel the eyes of someone watching me and for a split second, I fear that Ratchet has followed me, but it’s not him. I peer up from the sign-in sheet and find Dr. Matthews leaning against the doorframe of her office. Her furrowed brow and tightly pursed lips, tell me all I need to know. She had seen the entire display and is pissed at my tardiness.
“Hi, Doc,” I sweetly reply, hoping that my act of innocence pays off.
“Erica,” she nags. “I wasn’t aware that NASCAR was recruiting drivers here in our little town.”
My eyes fill with horror. There’s no way I’m getting out of this one. I don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell
.
“About that,” I stammer. “Something came up, and I lost track of the time. I promise that I won’t be late again, Dr. Matthews.”
She shifts from her rigid stance in the doorway, and waves me into her open office. Though she seems to be a patient and understanding woman in our sessions, I get the feeling that she might not be the sunshine and rainbows kind of person that I had originally pegged her to be.
Brushing past the doc, I make my way towards the couch of misery as I named it after my last session with her. Ever since my great revelation to her that my childhood wasn’t gumdrops and rainbows, she seems to have taken an unhealthy interest in that period of my life. Not that I blame her because unlike most people in this town that would come to see her, my problems didn’t revolve around the local gossip and church ladies luncheon drama over who stole who’s casserole recipe. The latter made for quite the interesting week at the dinner as I had the privilege of listening to the women cackle about it.
Dr. Matthews quietly shuts the door behind her and heads towards her chair. She pulls a notepad from her side table and clicks the pen, ready to hear my confessions today.
“How have you been since our last session?” she begins, her eyes focusing on me closely. “Any new developments?”
“Nope,” I sharply reply. “Nothing new in the land of me.”
Her eyes narrow, and a look of disbelief settles on her face.
Shit. What does she know?
“It was my understanding that a new arrival has developed quite an interest in you. Wouldn’t that classify as something new?”
“God, I hate the rumor mill in this place. You can’t take your trash out without someone alerting the rumor mill media about it,” I exclaim. “Don’t any of these old broads have anything else better to talk about?”
“The day those women stop gossiping is the day this world ends,” she smirks. We both share a quiet laugh, but the momentary amusement is short lived. She plasters her game face back on, and I get the feeling she has an agenda today.
“Is this man a friend of yours?” she bluntly asks, looking for more of an elaboration.
I sigh before answering her. Ratchet and his storm the gates entry into this town has already cost me my day job, risked my chances at getting full custody of my brother, and now is invading my therapy sessions. What’s next? Will I go home to find him already moved in and demanding a home-cooked meal?
Shit, I shouldn’t have thought about that. The way things have gone today, I may have just wished that thought into existence.
Dr. Matthews clears her throat and brings me back to reality.
“He’s an acquaintance, yes.”
“An acquaintance?” she teases.
“That’s right. He’s practically a stranger to me,” I lie in hopes she ends her interrogation.
“Being found pinned to the wall by this acquaintance outside of Willie’s bar doesn’t accurately explain a lack of familiarity with this man. Is he a boyfriend or perhaps, an ex-lover by chance? If his presence here is uncomfortable for you, I’d be happy to inform the police so you can file a restraining order.”
I internally laugh at the idea that the good doctor thinks a restraining order would keep him away from me. I’m almost positive that someone could bury him ten feet underground in a cement covered casket, and he would still find a way out and back to me. He’s never been one to give up easily, and I doubt that trait will ever fade away.
I fold my arms across my chest and huff my displeasure in how this conversation has turned from her interest in me to her interest in finding out if the gossip is true or some fabrication of bored housewives.
“All of the above,” I offer, knowing how much of a vague answer will frustrate her. One thing that I have learned in as many of these therapy sessions that I have attended over the years is that non-specific answers are like kryptonite to psychiatrists. The possible meaning being they will drive them off the wall. It’s a sick little game, but when she has the power to commit me at any moment, it evens the playing field in my opinion. “Why such an active interest in my possible relationship to this man, Doc? Are you inquiring whether or not his bed is occupied?”
Before the words finish rolling off my lips, the image of Ratchet and the doctor tangled up in bed together hits a nerve. The thought of Ratchet with another woman sends a wave of nausea straight towards my gut, making it a churning mess of confusion and jealousy.
“Of course not. I am simply concerned for you as your doctor, since you did not find his presence here enough of a significance to mention, when I asked the first time.”
“His being here is a temporary situation in, which I hope to remedy later today.”
“I don’t think that’s actually what you want. His leaving, I mean. I can tell by the change in your body language that this man means something to you. Even implying to yourself that he is unattached has made you visually shaken. I can assure you Miss Delmont, that my curiosity is simply in the regards of your mental and physical well-being. After our last session’s revelations, I have a great concern of your past derailing your recovery progress.”
“He may derail me in many things Dr. Matthews, but if anyone was going to keep me on the path of righteousness, it would be him.”
“Please elaborate on that.”
For nearly forty-five minutes, I retell my story. Just a general overview of course, but I explain how he saved me. Dr. Matthews doesn’t say a word as I speak candidly about how Ratchet saved my life and helped me get clean. Because of respect and a healthy dose of fear that I have of the Heaven’s Rejects, I leave them out completely. They are the last people I want hot on my trail for exposing their club secrets about the recent bloodshed and war between the cartel.
As I finish telling my story, Dr. Matthews remains quiet for several minutes. Her face remains neutral. The sound of the ticking wall clock is nearly deafening, before she breaks the silence.
“I have to tell you, Miss Delmont,” she starts as she removes her glasses and sets aside her notebook. “For the first time since we began our sessions, you have truly opened up about a piece of your past. The fear and the anger that usually lace every word you speak were gone. This man means more to you than someone who merely helped you recover from your past traumas and addiction, and I think that deep down you know that to be true. While I wouldn’t normally say this, I think he’s the kind of person that you need in your life right now.”
“You don’t know him, Doc. He’s not the kind of man that you can bring home to your parents and have family dinners with. He’s more of a caveman who imposes his will upon you until you succumb to his side of the argument,” I protest. “Don’t get me wrong, he did save me, but he’s not the kind of person I need around right now.”
“Is that you talking or your fear of giving up control to see what the two of you could become?”
Where in the hell is all of this coming from? It’s as if she’s shoving me towards him. Not that he would mind, but I do. I may need a push in the right direction sometimes, but his direction is the opposite place I need to go. At least for the time being.
“Trust me, Dr. Matthews. Ratchet isn’t the answer to my problems. He’s the catalyst to new problems.”
“Ratchet?” she questions. I note a flash of recognition in her eyes, when she repeats his name. Could she possibly know him? I mull over that thought, before I quickly dismiss it because how could she know him living here? It’s not like he’s a frequent flyer through these parts. Maybe my brain is finally starting to lose some of its marbles.
“I know,” I laugh. “Not the best name in the world for a guy, but it’s his nickname. I think.”
It hits me suddenly that I don’t even know the real name of the man who I shared so much with. How is that even possible? Then again, nothing about my relationship with Ratchet has been remotely normal.
The session timer chimes just as Dr. Matthews starts to ask another questi
on. She quickly rises from her chair and ushers me out of the room with a sense of urgency. What in the fuck just happened?
The entire trek out to my truck I think about the odd exchange. It’s almost as if the mention of his name triggered a panicked response in Dr. Matthews. I can’t help, but wonder about it each step I take.
I fling open the door and slide into the truck when something else completely pushes into my train of thought, once I notice the time on the dashboard clock. The flashing numbers remind me that I have another meeting today that I have left to deal with.
As far as the score of today’s accomplishments goes, it is Ricca - zero and life - two. I guess it’s time to see if my promise to Ratchet will be my third strike.
“Thanks,” I grumble to the waitress as she hands me my meal. After Ricca left me on the side of the road, I decided that after two attempts of eating in this place that I needed to give it the old college go again with her not distracting me. Thankfully for me, Willie’s was open for lunch, since I was probably no longer welcome at the diner anymore. Now I just had to make sure I didn’t piss him off or I’d be starving for the rest of my stay here.
The smell from the steak in front of me makes my stomach grumble impatiently. It’s been over twenty-four hours since I’ve actually eaten something, but my cravings were singular compared to the woman who keeps eluding me. I can only hope the promise that she left me with, on the roadside, was actually the truth and not another lie. Unfortunately for her, she wouldn’t be able to run far thanks to the tracker that Voodoo packed for me. With a flick of my finger, I could see her every move in that truck. Was it invading her privacy and illegal? Of course it was, but I’m not about to let her slip away so easily this time. The trust between us needs to be rebuilt, but call me a fool for keeping my skepticism about it. I just had to pray that she doesn’t find out about it because that kind of fight could draw a good payday if I sold tickets for it.
