Rocco
I slump down at my desk after Simone leaves, feeling like there’s a hole in my chest. For weeks I’ve been building up my defenses, telling myself I don’t care about her, telling myself I’m protecting her but I’m done wanting her. I won’t think about her in a romantic way. I won’t fantasize about the times we’ve spent together. I won’t, I won’t . . .
And then she comes in and breaks it all down in minutes. When she kissed me, I thought that was it. I thought I was done. I wanted to grab her ass and lift her off her feet, carry her to the desk and take her right there. I almost snapped just like that. I lay my head in my hands, telling myself over and over that I can’t be with her. It’s too dangerous.
I go to the bar and call to Jakub, “Office.”
He enters half a minute later, his face red from whisky. “Boss?” he asks.
“If you ever talk to Simone like that again—if you interrupt me I’ll snap your fuckin’ neck.” He closes his mouth and I go on, “If you ever talk to her like that again, there’ll be hell to pay. She might not be my lady, but she’s a lady all the same, and she deserves respect. I don’t reckon you’ll have any cause to talk with her again, but if you do, you’ll show some courtesy.”
“Courtesy,” Jakub repeats, like he’s never heard the word before.
I walk around the desk. “Is that gonna be a problem?”
His face turns a darker shade of red. He nods quickly. “No, boss. It won’t be a problem.”
“Good.”
He returns to the bar and I return to the desk, clenching my fists together and wishing I could just let her go. It’s damn hard, though. I haven’t gone to sleep one night without Simone on my mind, her naked body writhing, her ass bouncing, her face looking beautiful and oddly peaceful as the orgasm tears through her. Most of all I remember holding her the last night we were together. She was asleep and I wrapped my arms around her and brought her close. At first I wanted to press my hard cock against her ass, but then I just held her instead, listening to her breathing.
I push the thought from my mind. It’s not right for a president to think about this type of shit when there’s a war to be fought.
After an hour or so of going over accounts—the boring part of being president—Beast knocks on my office door. “Boss,” he says, entering.
“What is it?”
“Our bikes. Come see.”
In the parking lot, almost all of our bikes have been spray-painted with Demon horns, red and dripping blood. “They’re toying with us,” Beast says quietly. “They must get a thrill out of it.”
“Get the pledges to paint over it,” I say, walking back to the clubhouse, blood boiling.
Every time I meet with Simone, something bad happens. It’s like we’re cursed. The first night in the booth it was Shotgun being killed, and then Simone being taken into the forest, and then the note, and now this. Graffiti is by far the lesser of everything else, but it still seems like a sign: stay away from her; we’re no good together; only bad things can come of it. If I was a religious man, I might even think there was someone in the sky trying to tell me something.
Later, lying in bed and drifting slowly and fitfully to sleep—sleep has never come easily to me—I promise myself that I’ll banish Simone from my mind. I won’t let the memory of her hound me anymore. I won’t be consumed with thoughts of her anymore.
I fail.
I fail so hard that I end up outside in the pitch dark at three a.m., riding my bike in low gear so it doesn’t make much noise.
I stop outside Simone’s apartment building, staring up at it and imagining how she must look right now, curled up in bed, cute and waiting for me. I wonder how she’d react if I went up there now. I reckon she’d kiss me again, and this time I wouldn’t stop myself. I’d fuck her, hard. Both of us would let all our anxiety and pain and loneliness out in a series of panting moments. Her hands in my beard, her hands on my cock, my fingers deep inside of her, and she’s wet for me, always wet for me . . .
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thoughts. I think instead about the bizarre way she left, muttering to herself. She called herself an idiot. Maybe she finally agreed with me. Maybe she thought she was an idiot for coming to the clubhouse, or wanting me, or ever giving me a second of her time.
I’m not sure if that’s the truth, but it’s the only way I’m able to ride down the street, leaving her behind.