Chapter Five
Caitlin
I open my eyes and blink up at the unfamiliar ceiling. And everything comes crashing back. I’m free. And I feel rested. Like that’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years.
I stretch and catch sight of Axl on the other bed. He bolts upright, a wicked looking knife parallel to his forearm as he thrusts his elbow forward as if ready for a strike. The attack is obvious and I freeze, terror turning the blood in my veins to ice water.
His eyes lock on my face and he settles back. Sets the knife down. Rubs at his eyes for a second. And I realize he’s got his own demons.
“Where are you from?” I ask, unable to curb my curiosity. I’ve known the man for a couple months now, but I know nothing about him below the surface. Things like his brother runs the shop when he’s not there. That he rebuilds bikes. That he’s fearless and good with his hands and has wicked looking tattoos and scars.
He says nothing.
But that doesn’t surprise me. He’s not really the sharing type. He’s guarded. But I’ve also never really tried to get in. Never really tried to get him to open up and talk. Usually I ask a question, then let it go when he doesn’t answer.
“Where were you before you opened the shop?” I ask, knowing he’d rolled into town a few months prior only because I only shopped in that little plaza he opened up shop in regularly.
He’s out of bed in a moment, stretching and peeling his shirt off his frame. I see all his old scars, thinking about how shocked I’d been the first time I walked in and caught him working on a bike without a shirt. He looks like he’s been through battle. War.
His body is coved in wicked looking whip scars and deep lacerations that have long since healed over pink. Some of the scars are patchy, like road rash that’s healed over. It’s breathtaking. I can’t even begin to imagine the amount of pain he’s been through. But the scars are surrounded by tattoos that obviously came first. His whole back is a mass of black ink in intricate patterns that move up over both shoulders and down both arms to the wrists.
“Why are you so good with bikes? Who taught you?” I ask, trying again despite his silence. I want to know things about him. I mean, we’re traveling together and I’d like to get to know him. Even though I shouldn’t want to know. I shouldn’t allow myself the chance to get attached. Or more attached, I guess.
In all honesty, he’s the only friend I’ve got. And that’s sad because it’s a fucked up, weird, complicated kind of friendship, but it’s also kind of spectacular. I mean, he’s put a lot of faith and trust into me. After all, I could be a serial killer he’s helping escape, but he’s at ease with me. Comfortable, even.
Not that I think he’d be afraid of me. No, I think he’d be upset that he’d be helping a serial killer in that scenario. Not that he’d fear for his life.
He pulls on a clean shirt. “We should eat and get on the road,” he says and I know for sure he’s not going to answer any of my questions. And I don’t mind. I do want to know, but maybe it’s better if I don’t. Maybe he’s protecting me in a whole other way. Because he’s got to know that at the end of this, we’re going to part ways and never see each other again.
“Breakfast sounds good,” I say, packing things up and heading for the door.
Down at the complimentary breakfast, I see him grab a plate and begin to load it up with eggs, bacon and sausage while I grab a milk to settle my stomach and a yogurt.
We meet at a table and I notice him angle himself to watch the door again. And I wonder if he’s ever been in a position where he wasn’t watching the door. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure he is always on the lookout.
I sip my milk while he shoves a bite of eggs in his mouth. His plate is piled high with fatty breakfast filth that makes my stomach queasy just looking.
“Need a drink?” I ask, seeing that he didn’t grab one. “I don’t think they’ve got beer,” I tease lightly, but my tone falls a bit flat. He stops eating mid chew and stares at me.
I meet his glance, then stare at my glass of milk. But he keeps looking at me and I begin to squirm in my seat. My cheeks sting and I squeeze my thighs together, aware of a tingling heat rushing through my belly and between my legs. What is wrong with me?
“No thank you,” he growls and a shiver sneaks down my spine.
I nod, picking up my spoon and digging into my yogurt.
“That all you’re eating?” he asks and I peek up at him from under my lashes.
I nod, unsure if I could even speak. It feels like my whole body is heating up and I have no idea why. Maybe I’m running a fever. Coming down with something. Getting sick. With all the stress I’ve been under the last few days, I wouldn’t doubt it.
I can tell from the protective set of his shoulders he’s still guarded from all my questions earlier, but I feel his worry. “I’ll be okay,” I say, realizing it feels good to say the words out loud and actually mean them. How long has it been since I actually felt like things would be okay?
“I know,” he growls.
I drink my milk and realize I haven’t once peeked over my shoulder to stare at the door. And the thought sobers me. Hope follows. It’s like living proof I won’t feel the need to look over my shoulder forever.
“How do you know?” I ask and he halts mid bite to study me.
How does he know I’ll be okay? What makes him think so? I watch him, fully expecting some blow off answer. Some run of the mill statement about how strong I am. Which is totally off the mark.
He nods at my face. “You broke the cycle,” he growls, picking up his napkin to wipe his mouth, his eyes never leaving mine as my heart stops in my chest.