Patchwhore

by Kim Jones

  He takes a seat on the bed next to me. “I should’ve had it months ago, but I fucked up,” he says, releasing a breath as he shakes his head. “I’d been prospecting nearly a year, and I did something really stupid.” His eyes find mine. “For Delilah.”

  I don’t like that he did something for her. I don’t like that he’s even mentioning her name. When I think of her, all I can see is her and Cook. When he’s in town, I suck his dick. Now he’s transferring there. To her town. And she may suck his dick.

  “I don’t want you to go,” I blurt out, my response earning me a knowing smile from Cook. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. And even though I want to be mad, I curl into his touch.

  “Because you’ll miss me or because you’re scared I’m gonna fuck with Delilah?”

  There’s her damn name again. Ugh. “Both.”

  His smile widens. “Well, like I said, I fucked up and did something stupid that involved her once. I won’t do it again.”

  “What did you do?”

  “A patch holder told me to not let her out of my sights. I did. And she got hurt. The result was pretty bad. For both of us. She spent a week in a hospital, and I’ve spent the past eight months trying to prove myself again.”

  “So how long do you have left?”

  His smile is gone. The sadness is back. Seeing him hurt makes the pain in my chest that much worse. “I don’t know.” He picks up my hand, kissing my fingers as he speaks. “Could be days. Could be weeks. Months.”

  “Months?” I ask in disbelief. He nods slowly. “Where does that leave us?”

  “If you were mine, you could come with me.”

  “But I’m not yours,” I whisper.

  “You could be.” His low, dark voice holds a hint of hope. But I have a feeling he knows what I’m going to say even before I say it.

  “I don’t want to be second.”

  He nods in understanding. “You shouldn’t be.”

  His hands cup my face, as his eyes slowly study every feature as if he’s memorizing what I look like. “You told me you loved me last night. Did you mean it?” I try to drop my head, but his hold refuses to let me.

  Meeting his eyes, I blink back my tears. “You know I do.”

  “Then wait for me.” I’m shocked by his request. “Wait for me until this is over. Then I swear I’ll treat you like you deserve to be treated.”

  I shake my head, pulling away from his hold. “I don’t think this is the kind of lifestyle I want, Cook.” He frowns in confusion, prompting me to continue. “The late nights alone. The interrupted moments. You being at someone else’s beck and call.”

  “It won’t always be like this,” he defends, reaching out for me. To avoid his touch, because I can’t think clearly when I feel it, I stand.

  “Really? So even after you’re back and you have your patch, you won’t go if they call? You won’t leave me to be with them if they need you?” He doesn’t deny it. “I don’t want to be with someone who loves something else more than they love me. Especially when I love them so much.” My voice cracks on a sob as the tears start to fall. “I love you so…fucking much. It scares me.”

  He’s on his feet. I can’t move away from him fast enough. Lips are on my lips. But the kiss is chaste. Then his forehead is pressed against mine and we’re both breathing hard. “I’m so sorry, gorgeous. So fuckin’ sorry. I swear on my life I’ll make this up to you.” His thumb swipes across my cheek, catching a tear.

  “Say it,” he demands. “Say it again.”

  “I love you,” I breathe, closing my eyes as he wraps his arms around me.

  I’m expecting him to hold me. Tell me he’s not leaving. That he chooses me over the club. Proving that for once in my life, I’m the most important thing to someone. Instead, with one last lingering kiss to my forehead, he turns his back to me and walks out--like he’s done so many times before.

  That sole patch on his back is now a faded orange. Branding him property of Devil’s Renegades. Reminding everyone that he’s their Prospect. And nothing more than a memory to me.

  Home

  The first week after Cook left was a lot easier to handle than I thought it would be. I focused on work. Enrolled in classes for the upcoming fall semester, which started the following week. I avoided the bar and Kat’s texts and calls. I didn’t want to hear her promises that he’d be back soon. I found a way to deal with it myself.

  I just pretended he was still in town. That he was with Ronnie, doing whatever it was they always did. That at any moment, I would come home to find him in my house. Or wake up to him making love to me. It didn’t take me long to figure out how bad of a coping mechanism it was, considering how disappointed I felt when he never showed. But he did call.

  Every day.

  At the exact same time.

  Eleven P.M.

  Not a minute after or before. As if he was reminding me before I went to sleep that not a day went by that he didn’t think of me. But I couldn’t bring myself to answer the phone. No matter how much I missed his voice. I wouldn’t settle for a ten-minute phone call. I wanted more. I was worth more.

  The strength it took to watch his name flash across my phone and refuse to accept it, came from knowing the call would end abruptly the moment the club needed him. At “Prospect,” he would be theirs. And I would be forgotten.

  The second week was worse. I started to really feel the effects of his leaving. The days were getting long. The nights even longer. I’d been clinging to the hope that he’d get his patch and return, then fulfill his promise of making it up to me. But he never showed.

  Kat had stopped texting and calling, too. The last text simply said she was here if I needed her. I didn’t. The only one I needed was Cook. I needed his arms. For him to tell me he loved me. To see it in his eyes. Then have him prove it to me by not only coming back, but staying. All I got was his daily, unanswered calls.

  When an entire month passed, I knew it was over. Even if he did show up, I couldn’t forgive him for walking out and leaving me for so long. And I couldn’t blame him for it either. He’d worked so hard to earn his place in the Devil’s Renegades. In his words, he had fucked up. Now he was paying the price. So was I.

  I never gave him an ultimatum. Deep down, I knew not only that it wasn’t fair, but that I was incapable of being so selfish. He was passionate about the club. He needed it. And because I loved him so much, I had been willing to give him the space he needed to do what he had to do. But I never imagined it would take this long. Or hurt this much.

  One month and one week later, I decided it was time to move on. I was tired of being the one to make all the sacrifices. He had his club. I had no one. He had a patch waiting for him at the finish line. I had nothing. All this hard work was going to be worth it to him. Not only would he find what he went searching for with the Devil’s Renegades. In those first few weeks he might have had me too. But not anymore.

  Swallowing my pride, I called my parents. Of course they already knew about my and Jud’s split. My job. Apartment. How hard I’d been struggling to make it. Their pride in me would have brought tears to my eyes, had I not cried them all for Cook.

  When I told them I was coming home, their joy had me feeling a spark of happiness for the first time in weeks. My dad insisted on buying me out of my lease, and I didn’t protest. I was too ready to move on. To get back home. To surround myself with people whose love and attention I didn’t have to fight for.

  I quit my job. Unenrolled from my classes. Packed my clothes and personal belongings—leaving what little furniture I had behind. I delivered the apartment keys to the manager. When she’d asked if there were ever any copies made, I swallowed back my emotion and lied. Hoping the apartment would still be empty if Cook arrived. I would hate for him to surprise a new tenant by breaking in on them, as he had on me so many times.

  As I pulled away, I said goodbye to the only place I’d ever considered mine. The feeling was nostalgic. I had some good memories th
ere. A few bad ones too. Long nights spent alone, and some spent with him. He was my Mr. Delicious. My biker bad boy. My Cook. My love. He could’ve been my second chance. That beautiful missing piece of my broken heart. Now, he was just my memory.

  “Who’s calling you?” Emily asks, scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed. She’s sitting at my desk, while I lay on my bed—staring at the name that flashes across my screen.

  “Nobody.” I drop the phone to my chest and let it vibrate against my heart that, for some reason, still beats a little harder every time he calls.

  “I’m so glad you’re home. I’ve missed this.”

  “What?” I tilt my head to look at her. She has her face buried in my computer screen. “Facebook stalking from my account or having me around?”

  “Both.”

  The day Cook left, I’d called Emily. She listened to me cry. Said all the right things. Promised to support me if I decided to wait for him or move on. Just like a best friend should.

  When I came home, she was here to greet me. Stayed for dinner that night. We sat up late talking and she ended up staying the night. She hasn’t left yet.

  For the three days I’ve been home, it’s like old times. The two of us hanging out in my childhood bedroom that still looks like it did the day I graduated high school. Lilac painted walls. Shelves filled with pageant trophies and academic awards. Princess canopy bed. Posters of rock bands. Fuzzy rugs and stuffed animals. A plate with leftover crust from the PB&J my mom brought up to us earlier.

  “Who is Denny Deen?” Emily asks, looking closer at the computer screen of my old desktop.

  “Denny Deen?”

  “Yeah. Redhead. Hot. Posing in a pic with Cook.”

  My heart skips at the mention of his name. “I had her hidden from my timeline, Em.”

  “I know. I unhid her. Who is she?”

  “That’s Red. The girl from the river who told me about Cook’s ex.” Damn. Saying his name hurts.

  “Can’t escape this guy, eighteen exclamation points,” Emily reads. “Operation ‘Lose The Prospect’ is an epic fail when it comes to Cook.”

  I scramble out of bed to look. Red is beaming with Cook smirking in the background. He doesn’t look like he really wanted to take the picture. It’s as if Red ran over and snapped the picture before he could protest.

  “What the hell is operation ‘Lose the Prospect?’”

  “I think it’s when a Prospect is supposed to watch the ol’ ladies and they try to escape him. Kat said Red was infamous for that.” After what Cook told me about fucking up with Delilah, I’m sure he wasn’t going to let Red escape. “He looks sad,” I whisper, wondering if it’s because he misses me.

  “He looks fucking hot.” I can’t help but smile at Emily’s shock.

  She never saw Cook. Months ago, I promised to take a picture of him to send to her but I never did. Now I wish I had. Not just for her approval, but so I’d have it to look at when I wanted to cry and feel sorry for myself. I’d managed to do that enough without the picture, though.

  “Why didn’t you tell me he was so fine?” she asks, both our faces now buried in the screen.

  “I said he was delicious.”

  “We have to find a better word. One that’s hotter than delicious.” With a sigh, I force my eyes away and fall back on my bed. “Or asshole,” she quickly adds, minimizing the screen and turning to face me. “Jerk. Fuckwit. Douchebag.” I turn my head to look at her and she rolls her eyes. “He’s really not that hot, anyway.”

  “Yes he is,” I admit on a frown.

  Unfolding her legs from the chair, Emily lays next to me on the bed. Resting her head on my shoulder and wrapping her arm around my waist. She exhales loudly and peeks up at me from beneath her lashes. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Then why are you crying?”

  I brush the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I didn’t realize I was,” I say then laugh. “I’m okay.” I nod and shoot her a smile. “Promise.”

  “You’re lying, but it’s totally cool. Because do you know what happens when you’re sad and you lie about it?” I shake my head. She sits up and beams down at me. “First, you get ice cream for the sadness, and then wine for the lie.”

  “Wine for the lie?”

  “Yep.” She winks. “Cause nothing will make you tell the truth like throwing a good drunk.”

  The next several hours are spent doing just that. I got full off of ice cream, drunk off of wine and Emily passed me Kleenex as I cried and admitted the truth. I still love Cook. I miss him. Every day the pain gets worse. He’d once told me time had a way of healing. But I know it will take a lifetime to get over him.

  Second Chances

  It’s been two months and six days since I’ve seen him. I’m still living at my parent’s house with Emily who pretty much lives there too. We always talked about getting a place together. In some sense, I guess we finally have.

  I’m now a full time student at UGA. Today was my first final, and once the perfect score was posted, Emily insisted we go out to a tiny bar not too far from home, and have a drink. Or five. Which is the number I’m on right now.

  “That guy is checking you out.” Emily juts her chin in the direction of someone at the end of the bar. There are only two people in the place besides us. I can only guess at the one who is “checking me out.”

  “I’m a lesbian,” I say, tossing back the buttery nipple shot and chasing it with a beer.

  “Well, you’re in luck because he might be a girl.”

  I laugh, turning to the man who’s anything but a girl. “Look at that Adam’s Apple.” I point unashamed, even as the man looks right back at me. “No way he’s a girl.”

  “You sure are drinking heavy.” I look to Emily and notice a hint of concern in her eyes. “Is it because it’s after midnight and he didn’t call, or because he did call?”

  “Oh, he called.” I summon the bartender for another round. “At eleven. Like clockwork. As always.”

  “Are you ever going to answer?”

  I shrug. “Maybe.”

  “When you do, give me the phone,” Emily says, holding up her fingers to ask the bartender for a double. “I’ve got a few choice words for that delicious little prick.”

  A little buzzed, and feeling silly, I grin at her. “What would you say?”

  Emily hands me a shot and takes one for herself. We hold it up in a toast. “Hello Mr. Delicious,” she says, her voice proper, making me grin wider. “May the fleas of a thousand camels take residence in your undergarments, and may your arms be too short to scratch.”

  I nod in acceptance of her speech—which she had probably Googled at some point or another--and lift my glass to hers. But before we even clink them, the thick liquid begins to shake from the vibrations of what could be an earthquake. The bar quiets as a loud roar draws nearer. The thin walls shake with the force. Glasses rattle. It sounds like a train is passing through the building.

  “What the fuck is that?” Emily asks, squinting her eyes at the endless row of white lights lining up outside the building. I toss back my shot and grab another—knowing exactly what it is.

  “Motorcycles.”

  “Oh yeah…I heard there is some kind of rally or something happening in Florida. I guess they’re passing through.” Emily crosses her legs, bouncing her knee in excitement. “Maybe I can get one to take me for a ride.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me, then thins her lips at my expression. “I mean, fuck them. Stupid jerks,” she mutters, burying her face in her glass.

  The door swings open and the men pile in. I’ve seen a few bikers since I’ve been home, so it’s not the sight of them that has me nearly falling off my stool. It’s the patch they’re wearing—Devil’s Renegades.

  At least fifty of them enter. Every one of them focused on me. I’m not breathing. I don’t think Emily is breathing either. We just sit silent as they gather around us. I recognize a few, but only know Ronnie by name—st
anding tall and proud and stoic at the front.

  Then the crowd starts to part. And I feel Cook before I see him. My heart spikes. Stomach flips. Toes curl. These are the tell-tale signs that he’s near. My eyes gravitate to his. Emily’s jaw drops at the sight of him, but somehow I manage to keep my shit together.

  It’s like the first time all over again. His hair is a perfect mess. Long, sculpted arms hang at his sides. Thick, muscular legs covered in faded jeans. Dusty boots on his feet. Leather vest. Black T-shirt. Head tilted. Chin slightly raised. Full lips curved on one side. Sharp, riveting eyes that are the deepest blue. They watch me with interest and sparkle with amusement as they drink me in. Then he speaks in that voice that still has the power to quiver my liver.

  “Hello gorgeous.”

  Ohmylordhavemercy.

  “I called you,” he says, his eyebrow slightly raised in question. “A lot.”

  Emily slaps at me with the back of her hand. Repeatedly hitting me as she stares at Cook with an open mouth. I finally have to grab her hand in mine to still it. Cook’s gaze never shifts from mine despite the commotion.

  I glance at his cut that is now covered in patches. Although I can’t see the back, I know what’s on it. The reaper with the hooded eyes. The name Devil’s Renegades. And the bottom rocker that reads, “Louisiana.”

  Clearing my throat, I straighten my spine and meet his eyes. “I see you have your patch.”

  “I’d rather have you.” His response derails me. But I quickly recover.

  “But you don’t have me.”

  He shoots me a cocky smile. “Baby, I’ve had you since the moment you walked in that bar.”

  “Maybe.” I shrug, sounding braver than I am. “That changed when you left me.”

  “Now I’m back. And I’m here to make it up to you. Just like I promised I would.”

  Something akin to anger festers inside me. How dare he think he can just show up with his army and tell me what he’s here to do. This isn’t Pops. Or Louisiana. Which reminds me.