Bikers Desire (BBW Motorcycle Romance) (Dark Souls MC) (4 page)

But it would take twenty stitches for that statement to be true. After that, we ripped the swing down and we used the rope to make trip wire.

Liam’s laugh tore me away from the memory. “Shit,” he muttered, taking a slow drink of his beer as the scent of incoming rain and burning firewood engulfed us. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, basking in it. “What I remember more than anything was the look on your face…”

“What?”

“You know the one.” Liam laughed and pulled an expression I couldn’t quite place. “You looked like you were gonna fuckin’ piss yourself...”

“Haha.” I rolled my eyes and a lapse of silence fell over us.

“You know,” he spoke up after a few minutes, suddenly serious. “I think that’s when I realized you loved her.”

My blood ran cold, but I kept my eyes focused on the water and didn’t react.

“Aw don’t look like that man,” Liam added, “you don’t have to deny it on my account.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know.” He nudged me in the shoulder with a sad shake of his head. “She’s only ever had eyes for you. Ask anyone around town if you don’t believe me…they’ll tell you…”

“That’s ain’t true,” I retorted, feeling my mouth go dry. “We were only ever friends. That’s it.”

“Who are you tryin’ to convince?” Liam chuckled. “Yourself or me?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Nah,” he said, brushing dirt off his hands. “You know she’s working up at Sparrows diner. Why don’t you go pay her a visit?”

“Yeah…not sure that’s such a good idea…”

“Why not?”

I shrugged and ashed my smoke, staring off into the horizon. The sun was setting over the water and the air had a light quality to it that I only ever found in Poulsbo. Fireflies danced in the distance and a lonely cricket chirped.

“You had the life I always wanted,” I spoke up after awhile, “the girl, the land, the house with the fuckin’ white picket fence. All of it. And you just let it go. What about me man? What do I got?”

Liam was quiet.

“I’ll tell you,” I continued, “all I got is one bad leg and the scars to match. That’s it. What’s she going to want to do with me? You know she never even wrote me back...”

There were so many times I found myself wanting to pick up the phone and call her. But what would I have said to her?

Her silence spoke for itself. 

“That’s because I never gave her your letters,” Liam spoke up after awhile, rubbing his neck. Something flickered behind his eyes and his tone was laced with regret.

“What?” I frowned and shook my head in disbelief. I couldn’t have heard him right. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

He looked up and met eyes with me, ripping the seal off another beer and chugging it back. “Come on,” he said with a nod, clearing his throat and wiping his hand over his mouth. He poked me in the shoulder for emphasis. “You know why.”

I pulled at a patch of weeds and slapped at a mosquito on my arm. “Still doesn’t make it any less shitty,” I told him, “there wasn’t a day that passed that I didn’t hope for a letter from her. And now you’re tellin’ me this shit?”

“I know,” he interrupted, “and I’m sorry, I am.”

“Oh, you’re sorry?” I looked over him. “You know…I thought she hated me…for fuckin’ off. But now I’m sure she does. Do you even realize what you’ve done? She thinks I never tried to reach out to her…”

“Why did you?”

“What?”

“Fuck off…”

I shook my head. I wasn’t about to talk about this shit with him. Not anymore. “Where did you say she’s working?” I questioned, pulling myself to my feet. Thunder clapped in the distance and heavy raindrops began to splash against the water.

“Sparrows,” Liam answered.

I nodded and limped up the rocky hill away from him.

“Wait!” he called after me, scrambling to his feet. “Look, you can’t tell her about the letters A…”

But I gave him the finger and continued walking.

Chapter 2

—

“
What is the hardest thing about re-acclimating yourself with the outside world?” The group therapist questioned, pushing her glasses up on her nose and looked around expectantly.

Everyone around me was quiet with the usual timidness that came along with these things. I yawned and rolled my eyes, focusing on my oil-stained hands. My bike stalled once on the way here. I loved the thing but it was never perfect. ‘Course, being left untouched in Liam’s storage shed for half a decade hadn’t helped matters any.

“Anyone?” she tried again, shifting her gaze between each one of us. “Come on people. You know the rules. If you don’t talk I don’t give your PO’s a good report…”

When no one spoke up, she sighed and jotted something down on her notepad, twisting her pen around in her fingers. Part of me felt sorry for her. She had it rough. Working with a bunch of stubborn ass ex-cons wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.

Finally, a middle-aged woman broke the silence, raising a shaking hand in the air. I referred to her in my head as Jitters. Giving people a nickname made em’ easier to remember.

The therapist’s eyes lit up. She pointed a manicured fingernail at the mousy woman and beckoned her to speak.

Jitters swallowed nervously and looked around at the rest of the group, wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt. “The hardest part,” she said quietly, “is trying to revive my relationship with my kids.”

Everyone nodded their heads and someone muttered something in agreement. “Damn right,” another woman called out, coughing into the crook of her arm. “My kids want nothing to do with me.”

The therapist nodded and wrote something else down on her notepad. She seemed to get some sense of excitement out of all of this. But she was probably just glad people were starting to open up.

Not that I had any intention to.

She thanked Jitters for her honesty and—of all people—met eyes with me next. “Anders,” she spoke up, pointing her pen to me. “What about you?”

“Yeah?” I questioned, looking around. All eyes were on me. “What about me?”

“Are there any relationships you’re finding yourself having to repair or function without?”

I swallowed hard and shrugged.

That was an understatement if there ever was one.

T H E N

She didn’t look up when I entered. She didn’t even flinch. She stood with her back to me, pouring a customer a cup of coffee from a steaming pot. Her dark hair was in a bun on top of her head, with loose strands gathered near her temples and secured with shiny barrettes. She favored some kind of Greek goddess; like Artemis or Athena. I joked about it once, years ago, and it resulted in her going on a thirty-minute tangent on Greek mythology; describing things she learned in her freshman philosophy course with such a vivid amount of detail that I almost felt like I was there.

I couldn’t help but feel awestruck every time she opened her mouth. She was past the point of smart. She was fuckin’ brilliant.

I listened intently as she talked about the nature of the world and told stories about ancient gods—like Achilles and Orpheus—who she described as one of the first men to ever, “royally fuck up.” In an act of nobility if there ever was one—he journeyed deep into the underworld to save the woman he loved most—only for one wrong move on his part to catapult her into hell for the rest of eternity.

Love fucking stings and it’s almost never convenient.

“You know I heard you were back in town but I didn’t think you’d have the audacity to actually come here,” she said, swaying past me without looking, her body curving around the Formica counter.

I grabbed her hand and she narrowed her eyes at me, all emotion fading from her expression. It wasn’t so obvious now, but just a few moments prior she had been laughing, bent over the edge of an elderly couples booth refilling their coffee. I watched her through the unwashed glass as I finished off my smoke. She spoke enthusiastically and without restraint, using her hands to help her illustrate whatever story she was telling.

Sometimes I wondered how she did it. How she made people fall in love with her without even trying. But that was as good of a representation as any. She didn’t just talk. She described. She immersed you in whatever it was she was saying and more than anything, she made you feel important for listening.

With an elongated sigh, she shook her hand free from mine and stepped away from me, sliding a plate of food to a waiting patron at the end of the counter. I settled into an empty seat a few feet away from him and shrugged off my wet jacket. “I missed you,” I told her as she passed me, “I didn't realize that was a crime.”

She paused in front of me with the pot of coffee raised just above her breastbone; agitation etching it’s way across her face. Time hadn’t changed a damn thing about her. She was still every bit as beautiful as she was the day that I left. "It’s not,” she retorted, “you just have a funny way of showing it.”

It seemed like an ironic twist of fate, that this time she was the one left waiting for me. For a decade I was her rock; the person she laughed and cried and vented to; the one who got her through every rough patch; and the one whose arms she “accidently” fell asleep in every other night. I was there for her—always—even when she didn’t want me to be. Until a day came when I no longer could be. She was happy with Liam—at least it seemed like it—and my presence was only complicating things.

Part of loving someone is letting them go when it’s necessary.

A dark curl fell lose from her bun and curved around her jawbone. She kept her gaze trained on mine and her eyebrows shot up expectantly as two topaz orbs pierced me for an explanation. The problem was I didn’t have one to give. At least not one she wanted to hear. I reached for her hand again but she slapped me away.

“Four years,” she grated out through clenched teeth, looking over her shoulder to make sure none of her customers were listening. “I never thought I’d see you again and now you just…”

She shook her head at me and laughed stoically.

I still caught myself staring at old dates on calendars sometimes; trying to remember a time when we were still a possibility. But a relationship was a two-way street and there were always too many variables keeping us apart. Wrong place, wrong time; it was the usual tragic story.

“I know,” I said quietly, “and I’m sorry…”

“Are you?” she retorted, “Jesus, Anders. I needed you and you fucked off. You couldn’t have at least written me?”

“I tried to,” I told her. “I wrote you every week for two years. Liam took the—”

“No,” she interrupted, shaking her head in disbelief. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“Yeah well...” I cleared my throat and shrugged. “He did.”

She stared at me with her lips slightly parted. “It doesn’t change anything,” she said after awhile, “letters or not you still left.”

“I know…”

“Do you?” she questioned, leaning into me as her voice cracked. “Because I don’t really think you do. ”

A customer called out to her for a refill and she obliged without finishing her sentence, shoving past me and pouring the last of the lukewarm liquid into his mug. His gaze lingered on her buttocks as she walked away and he whistled through his teeth, slapping palms with the man seated across from him. I scratched my jaw with my middle finger and kept my eyes trained on them both as they chuckled.