by Joy Blood
As I settle into my front seat, I lock my doors and lean back. Flipping through my phone, I bring up the last conversation I had with Gin. It was only me asking if he would tell the story about how he got his nickname. Still, he wouldn't.
I had come to expect our little conversations before I fell asleep. Normally, it was me initiating, but for the last two nights, he has been the one to start talking. But not tonight. Tonight is radio silence. I decide against testing him and instead play a game on my phone to pass the time. I doubt he wants to be having conversations with some kid. It’s then I actually wonder how old he is, and for the first time. Late twenties, early thirties? I make a mental note to ask him next time we talk. Whenever that might be. Just then, my notification bar drops down with a text.
Gin: Rough night?
Grace: Why would you ask that?
Gin: Because you’re sitting in your car while your friends are inside partying.
A smile creeps onto my lips at the thought of him watching me. I wonder if he’s always watching like he said he would be.
Grace: Not much for parties where getting wasted is involved.
Gin: Good girl then. Glad to hear it. Drugs are bad.
That makes me laugh. Being a biker, I bet drinking and doing the occasional drug is required.
Grace: Where are you?
Gin: Watching.
Grace: Just going to watch?
Gin: That’s all I should do.
I'm not sure what to say in response to that. I can’t gauge the meaning behind it because it’s only a text message. I'm about to respond when I hear a knock on the passenger side door. Looking over, I catch sight of the leather-jacket-encased midsection of a man who plagues my every thought. I flick the unlock button, and he opens the door. Before getting in, he ducks his bandana-covered head inside and searches for the button to move the seat back. When he gets the seat back as far as it will go, he slides in, looking like a giant inside my little car. I have to hold back my laughter after he shuts the door.
“What are you laughing at, babe? Ain’t you ever seen a man inside this tin can you call a car?” he asks, and I let my laughter loose. I can only shake my head as he joins in.
“Going to need to get you a bigger car,” he tells me.
“Oh no, I like this one. Besides, you said my father bought it for me,” I say, both of us growing silent after that. After a few minutes spent lost to our thoughts, I blurt out, “How old are you?”
He raises a brow, then mutters, “Thirty-five,” before turning back to look out the window. “Same age your dad would be,” he says, and I wince.
“I wish I could have met him before he died.”
“Yeah. Shit sucks like that. Got two of my own their mama won’t let me see.” This is news.
“Were you married?” I ask, needing to know more about this man.
“Yeah. She was my high school sweetheart. Shit just didn't work out,” he admits, shrugging
“That sucks. How old are your kids?” I can’t picture this larger-than-life man with kids. He’s the size of a bear.
“My daughter is eight now, son is six. Haven't seen them in three years. Their mama got herself a good man, better than me. He’s their daddy now,” he says in a whisper.
“How could anyone be a better man than you, Gin?”
He lets out a forced laugh. “You’re only saying that because you don’t know me, babe. I'm not a good man, nor a reliable one.”
“You have been reliable to me,” I say, making him look my way again.
“Yeah, maybe, but me sitting in this car right now...that just confirms I'm not a good man.” He goes to open the door, but I grab hold of his arm, trying to pull him back from leaving.
“If you aren't good for being in here, then neither am I. I want you here. I need you here with me.” I look up into his face with pleading eyes, noticing the scarring around the side of his face for the first time. Reaching up, I touch the side of his face. At first, I think he’s going to jerk away, but he pushes his face into my touch instead, his breath hitching at the contact.
The skin on the side of his face is smooth and bumpy at the same time, then I realize it’s healed burns. Running my fingers along the damaged skin, I make my way up under his bandana where the path of raised skin leads me. Slowly, I push the bandana up until it falls from his head, showing off a full head of chin-length hair that falls down around his face. I run my fingers through the strands, pushing it from his face to see the burns continue past his hairline.
“Burnt the fuck out of it. Shit looked a lot worse before,” he tells me, still not moving.
“You’re still handsome,” I say with a smile, bringing my hand down to brush across his covered jaw. This is what makes him pull away.
“Should get going. Stay out of trouble,” he says, and before I can respond, he’s up and out of my car, walking behind me and into the dark.
Six
Gin
I leave her there and walk back to my truck parked just far enough away for her not to see where I am. The soft whispers of her fingertips on my face, the brushing along my scarring, still buzzes on my skin. I run my hand over my head, and realize I didn’t grab my bandana from her car. Guess she can keep that along with the sweatshirt. I have plenty of them. I watch as her friend comes stumbling out of the house and gets inside her car. They talk for a minute, then drive off. I wait until she turns around and drives past where I'm parked before I start my truck and follow her home, waiting until she’s inside before I head back to my shack. She’s tucked safely inside her home, right where she belongs: away from me.
The drive home is short, and when I pull up, there’s a familiar bike sitting out front. Parking the truck in the garage, I get out and walk inside the shack to find Sage sitting at my makeshift table consisting of a broken TV dinner tray. “Thought you could just walk the fuck out and not say goodbye? Fuck, man, not cool,” he says, still looking down at his phone.
“Yeah, not much on goodbyes. You know that,” I tell him, walking over to sit on my cot.
“You care to tell me why you picked this place?” he asks, now looking up at me. I just shrug.
“Started driving, here is where I ended up,” I lie, but I know damn well he can see through it.
“Fuzz’s kid lives here, doesn’t she?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“How did you find me?” I try to steer the conversation. Jake knows where I am, but I don’t think he would give out the information.
“Reek,” is all he says. Guess I should have known. Rico, or Reek, is the club’s go-to guy for everything from tech shit to finding someone who doesn't want to be found. He lived in Chicago up until about a year ago before he patched into the club. Some years back, around the time we lost Fuzz, Rico was beaten to shit and put in a wheelchair by the same fuck responsible for Fuzz’s death, and the rest of the club members who died. Avil fucking Cantrell. Every fucking time I think about that man, I wish to hell I was capable of bringing someone back to life, only so I could kill the fucker over and over until I was satisfied. Probably never would be, though.
“Figures. You need something or you just here to ream my ass for leaving without a goodbye?” I ask sarcastically.
“Just wanted to make sure you were good and planned on coming back when you were done being a bitch.” He shoots a smile my way, knowing full well he’s being a prick. I flip him off in return.
“I told Fuzz I would take care of Grace and she ran into some shit not too long ago. I'm sticking around to make sure it passes without any trouble,” I admit.
“Grace, huh? You getting to know the chick while you’re at it?”
“She asked about her birth father, so I told her about him. No harm in that. Kid deserves to know who her dad was.” I shrug. He gives me a skeptical look, but doesn't push any further.
“Don’t take too long figuring your shit out. We need you back, man. I smell shit coming our way and want you having my back when it comes
. Still got some turncoats to track down and put to ground.”
“Get a location yet?”
“Not yet. Bitches won’t show their faces, but Jake’s girl told us something the other day.” After Sans and Brock, two of the turncoats, had Kimi kidnapped, they took her to Flores’s compound. We had wanted to question her then about what happened, but Jake wouldn't let us. Fucker.
“Knew we should have questioned her. What did she say?”
“Brock was helping her escape and Sans shot him when he found out.”
“The fuck?” I remember Brock from my brief stay at the Chicago chapter’s clubhouse. I don’t remember seeing him the night of the shootout, though. “We didn't find any bodies,” I simply state.
“Nope, we didn't. He’s either still alive or went elsewhere to die.”
“Yeah,” I say, drifting off into my thoughts. If we find the fucker, maybe he could lead us to the rest of the rat bastards.
“I know what you’re thinkin’. I thought the same. But I don't think the prick can be trusted. He turned on the club. That's that.” Sage shrugs, then lifts to his feet. “You remember him at all from the shootout?” he questions.
“I can only make out faces. I didn't get names. It was only when I saw Sans did I know what part he played.” It was like a reel playing in my mind.
“We’ll get ‘em, G.” I only supply a nod as he heads for the door. “Get right, then come home,” he tells me before he walks out, shutting the door behind him. The thought of being able to kill the fuckers who came into my fucking clubhouse and slaughtered my brothers, my woman, and my unborn kid makes me start pacing. I want—no, need—to fucking kill them. I rummage around my pack to find another bandana and tie it around my head, then walk back out to my truck, needing to drive and clear my head. If my bike weren't so loud, I would take that, but I don't need the attention it brings.
I drive with no place in mind, but when a text comes through, I find myself parked outside a certain someone's house. All the lights are out, but a lone figure stands in the window, now looking down at me. She disappears for a moment before the front door opens and she’s walking toward me. She has a pair of tight ass pants on that might as well be see-through and my fucking sweatshirt. I let out a groan before she gets to the truck and opens the door to climb in. She’s so damn short, she has to pull herself up with the “oh shit” handle. “Hi,” she whispers. “I didn't think you would come,” she tells me, shutting the door behind her, still not looking my way.
“What happened?” I look closer and realize she’s visibly shaking. I have to hold myself back from pulling her to me and comforting her.
“He was here when I got home,” she sobs out.
“I'm going to kill him, Grace,” I say through gritted teeth.
“No, you can’t. Not now.” She sniffs.
“The fuck you mean not now?” My jaw is clenched and I’m coiled, ready to snap.
“He was here talking to my parents. My parents!” she shouts. “He said he came to apologize to me for acting like such an ass when I broke up with him. He told them how much he still loved me and how much he wished things were different. I couldn’t believe my ears.”
“He say anything else?” I grip the steering wheel so hard, I think it might crack in half.
“No. Just that. I don’t know who he is anymore. It’s like a switch in him was flicked, and he turned into some sociopath. I don’t...what did I do? How could I have not seen this before?” She starts crying even harder, and that’s all it takes. Reaching over, I pull her shaking body into my arms, cradling her to my chest.
“You did nothing. Do you hear me, babe? Not a fucking thing. That asshole has always been that way. It just took time for his bad side to come out. Some people are just plain bad, and there ain't shit you can do to predict it. Not your fucking fault, and I don’t ever want you to think it is. Not fucking ever. You hear me?” She nods against my chest, and I continue. “Look at me,” I say, and she raises her face to mine, her eyes wide and soaked with tears. “Not your fault. Say it, babe,” I instruct, locking onto her eyes.
“Not my fault,” she repeats.
“Good girl.” My grip on her tightens for a moment before I tell myself I need to let her go. “You better get back inside. Don’t want your parents finding you with me out here. Might not go over well,” I say, trying to make a joke of it, but my chuckle sounds forced.
“They’re sleeping,” she tells me, then backs away, over to the door. “Thank you for stopping by.” Without another word, she opens the door and walks back inside. I wait until she walks through the front door before throwing the truck into gear and speeding off. The fucker is mine.
Seven
Grace
“There you are! Did you hear?” Denise walks up to my side next to my open locker. I stuff my jacket in and pull out an extra pencil for the day before giving her my attention.
“Hear what?” Concern floods me when I look at her red, splotchy face. She’s been crying.
“Oh, hon, maybe you should sit down.” She sniffs. “This is going to be hard on you. Even if you two broke up,” she says, and my spine stiffens.
“What’s going on, Denise? Just tell me.”
“Tarrance. He was...” she trails off. “He was in a car accident last night. He didn't make it, Grace,” she says, tears springing into her eyes once again. The news washes over me, and I instantly feel horrible, because the first feeling I get is...relief. I let out a breath, then take in another.
He’s gone. Dead. He’ll never bother me again. Never hurt me again. Those thoughts are comforting, but the more I think about it, the more it sinks in...
“Grace? Are you okay? You just zoned out,” Denise says, pulling me away from the thoughts.
“Yes. I'm fine. Do you know what happened?” I ask, though I’m sure I already know the answer.
“Apparently he was on his way home. He must have swerved to miss a deer or something because he went into the ditch. He wasn't wearing his seatbelt. Broke his neck from the impact, I guess,” she tells me. “So horrible. His poor parents.” I feel like I'm going to be sick. Pushing past her, I run straight to the bathroom and barely make it into a stall before I lose my breakfast. Not that I had much. “Are our okay?” she asks from behind me.
“Yeah. I'm fine,” I tell her, taking a handful of toilet paper and wiping my mouth. “I think I'm going to go home. I can’t be here right now.” I rinse out my mouth and walk past her, her “Goodbye,” and “I’ll drop off your assignments after school,” barely registering. I just walk out of the school and get into my car.
When I pull up in front of my house and park my car, I can’t seem to get out. It’s like my body is frozen in place until light tapping on my window pulls me from my fixed stare on the mailbox. My head jerks at the noise, and I look out my window to see Gin standing by my car. Taking a deep breath, I open the door. He steps back and holds onto the open door until I'm out of the way, then shuts it. “Did you do it?” I ask, not wanting to look at him when he answers. I don’t want to know that he caused the accident that killed Tarrance.
“I told him if he didn't leave you alone he was dead. He didn't listen,” he tells me, as if I just asked him what the weather was like in Florida.
“You killed him,” I whisper.
“I would do it again.”
“What kind of person are you?” I finally look up into his face. He’s stoic, unmoving on his decision.
“Told you, babe. I’m not a good man, but neither was he. Now he’ll never lay a hand on you or anyone else again. It’s what Fuzz would have done, and it’s what I did. It’s what we do. I’m a member of the Hell’s Riders MC, and I do NOT sit by while some prick terrorizes a girl.” His voice doesn’t get louder, just harsher. “A girl who I promised to protect and watch over. A girl who I have no fucking right to look at the way I do. A fucking girl...” He sucks in a breath, then scrubs his beard in frustration. “You are safe now, that’s all that matters.
” He turns to walk away, and once again, I'm frozen to the spot. I can’t speak. Can’t even breathe. I just watch as he walks down the sidewalk, his tall frame covered from head to toe in black.
“Gin,” I say, finding my voice, but it’s barely a whisper. “Gin!” I say just slightly louder, but he doesn't stop. This is when I find my feet. It’s like some force is pushing me toward him as I propel down the cement path he just walked, reaching him before he pulls open his door. “Gin,” I say again, out of breath, and he turns around just in time for me to fling myself into his arms. His big arms engulf me in their embrace, holding me tight and pressing my face to his chest, his large hand covering my cheek. “Thank you,” I squeak out as he smooths my hair from my face. We stand there for only a few moments more before he pushes me away. Tears fall from my eyes.
“Use that number only for emergencies,” he instructs in his stern voice, then gets in his truck and drives away, leaving me there with undying tears. Tears I shed because of him off and on for five years. Five years because that’s how long it takes for him to come back into my life. Five years, one marriage, one baby, and one divorce later.
Eight
Gin
I watch her. Watch her blonde hair in my fist as she moves her head up and down in my lap, her lips wrapped tightly around my cock, sucking me dry. “Just like that, babe. Almost fucking there,” I encourage, hoping maybe if I say I'm almost there, she’ll put in more effort and this can get over faster. Just when I'm about to give up and kick her out, I feel it. I let my load loose into her overly eager mouth and wait until she has me completely swallowed before I tell her to scram. She doesn't protest one bit as she gets up and walks out my door.
Sighing, I tuck myself back into my jeans and roll to my side to go to sleep. Only, I can’t. I never fucking can. Every time I close my eyes, I see big green eyes framed by long blonde hair staring at me with a mixture of awe and disappointment.
