Ride (Bayonet Scars) (13 page)

Chapter 14

Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame.

- Benjamin Franklin

TELLING RUBY I
wanted to get a job wasn’t the best of ideas, in retrospect. True to her word, she talked to Jim about me helping down at the shop, and he agreed that he could use the help. After what happened with Duke at the party, I thought better of working with them, but it’s not like I can say anything. I should be grateful for the work, but really, I’m too nervous to feel much of anything else right now.

“How should I answer the phone?” I ask, standing behind my new desk, surveying the space. I raise my eyes to meet Jim’s. He’s got his hands on his jean-clad hips as he smiles at me.

“I don’t care,” he says with a shrug. I tilt my head to the side and fold my arms over my chest. This has become a thing between him and me.

“I need specifics, Jim,” I plead. We’ve been over this. My father always had a specific way of doing things. There was nothing in my world he didn’t have an opinion on
, and he was never shy about letting me know how he preferred things. Jim, on the other hand, is so laid back it’s frustrating. The only thing he ever cares about is club business. Everything else, he defers to Ruby.

“Okay, how about ‘Forsaken’?”

I twist my mouth up, thinking on that one, and finally decide, “I’ll ask Ruby.”

“She knows more about running this business than I do.”

“I’m not surprised,” I say with a smile. Jim stretches out his arms with a smile and waves me off as he leaves through the front door to the office. As is typical with him, he hasn’t given me any instruction. I have a mountain of paperwork on my desk that I think needs to be sorted. Or filed. It might be a stack of invoices that need to be paid. I don’t even know.

I flip on my work computer and wait for it to boot up as I eye the stack in front of me. The sheet of paper on top is a photocopy of a receipt for a turkey sandwich from two years ago. I can’t understand why Jim would have kept this, much less photocopied it, but it’s not really my call. I set it aside and scribble RECEIPTS on a s
ticky note, for later reference.

The old desktop computer is up. I spend a good half an hour poking around to see what kind of software Jim has installed on this thing. He has small business accounting software, a spreadsheet program, and some kind of part-ordering program. The first thing I do is find the operation manuals for the programs online and save cop
ies to the hard drive just in case I need them in the future. The rest of my morning is spent sorting through the paperwork. I find more receipts for luncheon items and even a few for beer runs. There are, maybe, five receipts that relate directly to the business in here.

My head pounds in confusion. Surely there
must
be a good reason Jim has all of these food receipts that date back some more than three years. I mean, how else do you explain stacks and stacks of photocopied receipts for everything from fast food to condoms? After finding
that
one, I’m just glad I didn’t find one for an escort service. Not that the guys have to pay for it—they might—I just have no idea what to expect anymore. Giving up for the time being, I rest my head on my desk and let the world slip away.

THERE’S DROOL POOLING
in the corner of my mouth, and my heart’s beating a million miles an hour. It takes me a moment to figure out what’s going on. Last I remember, I was laying my head down to try to clear my thoughts. A chorus of laughter sounds from around me. Picking my head up quickly, I try to wipe the drool away as inconspicuously as possible, but I’ve been caught.

Duke and Ian
laugh heartedly from across my desk. It’s the first time I’ve seen Duke since the fourth of July. That lingering residue of shame is suddenly thick on my skin once again. Unable to meet his eyes, I focus on Ian.

“What do you guys want?” I pull myself up straight in my chair and wait for a response.

“Just saying ‘hi’ is all,” Duke says. Out of habit, I look at the person who’s speaking to me. Duke’s blue eyes betray his smiling face and relaxed demeanor with their intensity. I don’t want to notice this, but I can’t help it. No matter how difficult the answer, but I can’t stop myself from wondering why. Why did he take me to that field, and why did he use me, and then just leave me there?

“You’ve said it
. Now I’ve got work to do.” I look away from both of them to re-straighten the stacks on my desk. Ian leaves without a single word, but Duke remains. Now that we’re without an audience, I feel on slightly better footing.

“What do you want?” I snap. Duke’s blue eyes bore into mine. He takes long strides to reach me
, and, when he does, I’m cornered. Standing up from my seat, I pull back into the wall behind me. Invading my personal space, he places his hand on my hip, fingers splayed across my backside, just like the other night.

“Don’t touch me,” I whisper. He doesn’t retreat. Instead, he moves in closer, blocking everything else from my line of sight. All I can see and smell is him. But everything about him reminds me of Ryan, and that’s painful. Because while Duke may be a
dirt bag, Ryan’s a bastard, but the bastard doesn’t want me. Neither is any better than the other, but at least I don’t feel as inconsequential with Duke as I do with Ryan. He may have left me in that field, but at least he saved the degradation for afterward, which is more than I can say for Ryan.

“You lik
e it when I touch you, Princess,” he breathes into my ear. Pulling back to meet my eyes, he licks his lips. With all my might—which isn’t much—I shove back on his chest. At that exact moment, the office door opens and there stands Ryan. He’s got a few days’ worth stubble on his chin, a dirty, wrinkled white shirt on under his leather best, and once again, black jeans with black boots.

“Give us a minute,” he grinds out. For a split second, I pray he’s talking to me. I’d gladly leave right now if only I had the option. But it’s Duke who removes his hand from my hip and steps away, leaving me in an even less comfortable situation than I was in when Ian left me alone with him.

“Are you fucking him?” Ryan asks. He’s in a mood where he apparently can’t be bothered with pleasantries, not that he and I have anything pleasant to say to one another. All I really want to tell him is to go choke on a sock, but since I know I don’t have the courage to do that, I lift my chin, refusing to answer.

“I said,” he repeats, moving closer. “Are you fucking him?” He stops at my desk and
, instead of coming around, cornering me like Duke did, he places his hands atop the Formica surface and leans in. “Well?”

I blow out a breath and clench my eyes shut for just a moment before all of my battling emotions get the better of me. I was safe once, back in Brooklyn with my father. I may not have been happy, but I was safe. I could have lived that life, ya know. I could have married Leo. I could have dealt with the hand I had been dealt. Instead, I’m here, in this small town
where the closest Macy’s is almost two hours away.

“We grew up together,” he says. His arm muscles tense under the weight of his upper body, his hands turning red.
“He’s the closest thing I have to a best friend. But I don’t want him fucking you.”

“You don’t want me, remember?” I snip. His eyes flash something fierce and angry before he shuts it down.

“I never said that,” he responds.

“
I don’t fuck little girls
.” I spew his words back at him. His eyes search mine; the earnestness that shows through them makes me squirm.

“You gonna hold that over my head forever?” The tiniest of smiles breaks free through the angst of his features.

“You’d deserve it if I did,” I whisper, suddenly breathless. He pushes off the desk and stands up straight.

“I mean it. I’m not going to be happy if I find out you let him fuck you.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say. It’s the first thing that comes to mind and then bolts out of my mouth without permission. Back in Brooklyn, had I told any of my father’s men to shut up, he would have likely let them slap me around for being so disrespectful. But Ryan, he doesn’t even blink.

“Don’t let him fuck you,” he grits out. His jaw barely moves,
and his eyes are so still, so intent on scaring me into submission, that he begins to looks statuesque in his anger. His heightened emotions sets something off within me. From every gentle touch to every cold word he’s said, I can’t keep up with the flurry of emotions this man can run through in a single minute. And I’m done acting like an idiot just because I thought he was a good guy. He’s not. Lesson learned, and it’s time to move on. Part of moving on is refusing to let him intimidate me.

“Go to hell,” I say, stomping my way toward the door to the outside world.
I barely make it past him before he’s turned, and is brushing my arm. I stop immediately. His touch is so gentle, almost reverent in the way the back of his dry hand glides over my exposed forearm.

Bending his head down, the tip of his hair brushes against the top of my head. He smells faintly of stale beer and peanuts and another scent I can’t make out. Something fruity, but still somehow human.

“Thinking of him touching you, having his fingers inside of you—I’m already in hell.” I blanche at his admission, my face heating, and I run so fast out of the office I barely make it outside and to the sidewalk before my vision blurs with unshed tears.

Chapter 15

What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?

- George Eliot

SHAKING OFF HIS
admission—what he knows—I head up Main Street, looking for someplace, anyplace to go. I’ll head back to work. Eventually. But right now, I just need some space. Main Street is a long, mostly straight stretch of road that acts as a main thoroughfare through town.

Two blocks north of the shop, I find myself in familiar territory. I recognize the shops and restaurants from mine and Ruby’s shopping trip the other day. Even though the prices were a little more expensive than I would have liked, Ruby insisted that it’s good business to patronize the local establishments, even if we can get a lower price in another town. I filed that lesson under “Things about Small Town Life” and stowed it away for future reference.

I cross Main Street and head up Laurel Street, relieved to have remembered where Universal Ground is located. Patting my face down for any stray tears that may have escaped, I take a few deep breaths and head up the half-block to the front door. A slice of wind picks up, reminding me that I’m not in Brooklyn anymore, and even in the middle of summer here, it’s perfectly acceptable to wear a long-sleeved tee-shirt.

The doorbell chimes as I walk in. The girl from the other day, Nic, is behind the counter again. This time, she’s covered her body art up with a three-quarter sleeve blue plaid button-up, and her long, pin-straight blonde hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. Approaching the counter, I give her a quick wave. I cringe inwardly, afraid it was too friendly. The way she moves behind the counter, at least last time I was here, reminds me of a skittish woodland creature. Like she’s going to run off at any moment. And I really don’t want her to run off. She’s about the closest person to my age I’ve met since I got here. Even if we never become friends, I’d like to remain friendly. Universal Ground is in a good location, just close enough to the shop, and not too far away from Redwoods College. Back in Brooklyn, I had a ‘place.’ It was in a nearby café. I’m hoping to replicate that here.

“Hey,” she says, meeting my eyes. Her head bobs, looking around me. “You’re alone today?”

“Yeah,” I respond flatly. After the disaster in the office, I’m feeling a little braver than usual. So I ask, “You’re not a fan of my aunt?”

“You just dive right in, don’t you?”

I shrug with a smile.

“Ruby’s cool, I guess. It’s the rest of them I don’t care for.” Agreeing with her makes me feel like I’m betraying my family, so I opt for a subject change.

“This might sound desperate, but what on earth does a girl do in this town? I mean, I think you’re the only girl my age I’ve met.” Her shoulders shake with silent laughter. “Stop laughing at me,” I protest. “I’m surrounded by dirty, skeezy men. All.Day.Long. I need a friend who can keep his hands off his crotch for like five minutes.”

And now she’s dissolved into hysterics so loud that the other patrons are turning and staring.

“You seem pretty cool,” she says, sizing me up. “But I don’t hang with the MC or their chicks. Sorry.” I’m taken aback by her response. I’m trying so hard to put myself out there and to create some semblance of normalcy in my life. But between Bastard and Dirt Bag, and now this, I’m about to give up. But before I do, I’m going to try one more thing.

“One,” I say, arching my eyebrow and setting my hands on the counter. “I’m nobody’s chick. Two, I’m not a part of the club. And three, I
am
cool. And I need a friend. So—please—don’t make me be that desperate girl who begs strangers to be friends with her, because that’s just pathetic.”

“Fine,” she smiles, and I think it might be genuine.

“Wait.” I put my hand up in mock seriousness and say, “You’re not agreeing to hang out with me just because you feel sorry for me, are you?” She puckers her lips to avoid bursting into laughter again.

“Does it matter?”

I don’t even need to think about it. I need a friend and she’s accepting.

“No, not really,” I say. A customer walks in behind me and waits patiently while we wrap up the chit chat and I order my coffee. On the back of my receipt she writes her number and her name. As I wait for my coffee, I pat down my jeans pockets, realizing I don’t have a mobile phone anymore. I haven’t needed one since I don’t go anywhere without Ruby—or at least, I didn’t. I mentally add a mobile phone to my list of things I’d like to get.
It’s been easy to forget all I left behind, but now that I’m out on my own, I find myself wanting for the things I no longer have. Still, I will forever hold the few things I still own very close to my heart.

I have the money to buy and pay for a phone—I just don’t want to be wasteful with that money. It’s plenty to last me for a while if I spend little, but not so much that it could pay for rent, a car, and all of life’s other necessities for very long. Then where will I be? So I try to check myself and to stop wishing for all of the things I don’t have.

Nic lets me know when my order is ready. She tells me to text her, something the landline at home can’t do. I say, “No phone.” Her eyes nearly bug out at my confession.

“That’s kind of fucked up,” she says in a whisper. Covering my mouth to suppress the laughter at her expression, I head out of the shop with my steaming cup of coffee. The embarrassment of not having a mobile phone eats away at me as I make my way down the sidewalk back toward Main Street. I’ve probably been gone for a good half an hour now, at least. Jim is bound to notice I’ve run out, and, no matter how casual he is with everything, I can’t imagine bolting on my first shift would sit well with him.

Lost in my thoughts, I hold the cup of coffee close to my face and take a sip of the yummy goodness. Just as I reach Main Street, I hear the familiar rumble of a motorcycle. One of the few things I’ve learned in my short time in town is that, just like Mafioso have territories, so do motorcycle clubs. I’ve seen all but two or three independent riders breeze through town. Every other motorcycle—and there are plenty—belongs to a member of Forsaken. Hearing a motorcycle’s deep rumble through the streets sends my senses into overdrive. I stop in place and peer down the street.

My eyes nearly bulge out at the sight of Ryan on his bike, his black hair blowing in his face as he steers into the right lane. Looking around, I realize I have nowhere to hide, and the doors to the closest shops are too far away to sneak into. I opt for standing there, waiting to be seen.

The second his eyes travel to my side of the street, he grimaces and darts around the corner, bringing the Harley to a stop halfway up the handicapped ramp for the sidewalk. A nearby woman shrieks in surprise. My heart is racing, but I give no other response. I don’t want to encourage this kind of behavior. Not that I think anything I do will convince him to change his ways.

After cutting the bike off and pushing down the kickstand, he strides over to me, all muscles and anger in such a pretty package.

“Where did you go?” he asks sharply and without regard to volume. I simply wave the cup of coffee while giving him a flat look. I mean, hello. “Come on,” he says, reaching out for me.

Even though I’d love nothing more than to climb on the back of his bike again and to drift off into that exhilarating freedom, I can’t do this. Ryan is like a game of Russian roulette. It doesn’t matter how it ends, it’s not going to end well. I shake my head from side to side in protest. He takes a step forward, puts his hands on his hips, and squares his shoulders.

“I’m not fucking around. Get on the bike.” The way he growls when he says bike lights a fire in my belly. I don’t know what his deal is, but I really want to find out. And if I don’t get on the bike, I might never figure him out. But I’m not about to just give up and act like the little girl he’s so keen on accusing me of being. I take a deep breath, gathering what little courage I have, and I purse my lips, then shake my head. Bringing the cup of coffee to my mouth, I take a sip. Before I can even lower the cup, he’s on me, breathing down on my face. With his knees bent, his eyes search mine, cold and demanding. Inwardly, I shrink, but do my best not to let that show in my body language. Looking up at him, I move my occupied arm out of the way and lean into him.

“You must be joking.” But he’s not. He rips the cup of coffee out of my hand, letting it fall to the pavement. I want to pick it up and throw it away properly, but I have no doubt that’s a bad move. He takes my hand and drags me toward the resting Harley. Without letting go of me, he swings himself onto his seat and then gives my arm a tug. I climb on after him, just as unsure of what I’m doing as the first time I attempted this. Wrapping my arms around his midsection, I settle in.

He starts up the Harley and navigates it around the wary people, then out onto Laurel Street. We breeze through narrow residential streets, eventually finding our way back to Main Street. Neither of us attempt to say anything as he guides us through a part of town I’ve never been in. The north side of Fort Bragg is separated by a river inlet from the rest of town. Only a few businesses and some higher-end townhomes reside on this end. We travel right on through the north end of town and keep going. I curl into his back and rest my cheek against his leather vest.

We ride for a good half an hour until the tension in Ryan’s back dissipates and he turns the bike around and we head back to Fort Bragg. We’re close to town when he veers off to the right on a quiet road that hugs the last bit of land before you hit water. A new housing development is going up on both sides of the road, which will effectively cut off the view of the ocean from Main Street. I’ve barely been here two months and already I find myself attached to the mostly untarnished view. I scowl at the construction crews as they outline the lots and move their equipment around on the dirt.

Slowing down, we hang a right onto a dirt road that doesn’t look drivable. Not that it matters, since Ryan clearly knows what he’s doing and where he’s going. Heading directly toward the water now, we come to a stop just as my nerves start to frazzle by how close we are to the shoreline. Cutting the engine, Ryan waits patiently as I stumble off the bike and cling to him for support. Now that I’m on my feet, I take a step back from him. He’s brought me to a beautiful place, and so far he’s stopped being an asshole, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of dropping me off the cliff. Not that I think he’d really do that or anything.

Off of his Harley and onto his feet now, Ryan stares at me with a blank expression on his face. He reaches his hand out, palm up, and gives me a short nod. I don’t even think about it. I place my hand in his instantly and slide up beside him. We walk hand-in-hand down the rest of the trail, following it as the dirt path narrows and dips until we’re standing at the end, with the ocean directly in front of us.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, appreciating the gesture.

“Did you fuck him?” He asks quietly. And just like that, just like everything with him, all of the beauty surrounding us is shattered, leaving behind splinters that I know I’m going to be stepping on for weeks. Because just like that, I’m reminded who he is, but more importantly, I’m reminded who he isn’t. He isn’t romantic; he isn’t gentle. He’s pragmatic. I have nowhere to run out here. I yank my hand away and fold my arms over my chest.

“Why do you care?” I ask, folding in on myself. I’m such an idiot, getting on the bike with him, letting him order me around. Old habits die hard, I guess.

“Because I do.”

“What kind of answer is that?” I wait for a response that never comes. There’s something he’s not telling me—I can feel it. Even though it eats me alive, I save my breath and choose not to ask what it is. He’s not a child who can be coaxed into giving up information he doesn’t want to. Well, neither am I.

In the following silence, I look around. This is my first trip to the Pacific Ocean, though it is a little lackluster considering the tension between the two of us. Underneath my feet is wet, compacted sand. But up ahead, sharp blue and greens, and even the occasional burst of red, glisten from the rising shore. I’m so mesmerized by the colors in the sand as I approach the water line that I don’t even hear him come up behind me.

His fingers lightly drag along my spine from the bottom up, and then back down again. He moves achingly slow, never breaking contact. My breath hitches, my heart picks up speed, and I curse myself for enjoying his touch. His sudden tenderness settles in my chest, striking a blow. Allowing him to be hot and then cold and back and forth can’t be good for my self-esteem. I don’t move, but I emotionally detach myself from the situation in an effort to think clearly. So I ask the question that’s been on the tip of my tongue since he stormed into the office. Expecting him to deny it, I gear myself up for a fight.

“Did you fuck her?” I ask.

“Who?”

“That woman from the party.”

“Yes,” he says. There’s no awkward pause or uncomfortable groan. It’s like a slap to my face, but that’s not something I can deal with right now.

“Where?”

He moves in, the front of his body flush with the back of mine. Bending his head down, his breath heats the side of my face. “Against the barn. I followed you out there. I saw him. With his hands on you, touching you. You laid down in that field for him. You let him shove his finger in your pussy. You let him taste you.” The way he says the words, detailing my transgressions, it makes me sick to my stomach. I move to step away, but his arm snakes around and holds me in place. Tears spring to my eyes, my gut twists in knots, and everything apart from him melts away. I can’t feel the chilly breeze on my skin, nor can I smell the salt and seaweed of the ocean. All I have left is his indignation.