We sit at the little coffee table in our underwear and eat lasagna directly from the pan. It’s kind of a ridiculous moment, but cute nonetheless. She’s shoveling pasta in her mouth like there’s no tomorrow, and I can’t help but stare.

“What?” she asks, mid bite.

“You’re just so fucking adorable.” She is. In one second, she’s this wild and sexy beast letting a stranger brutally fuck her, and in the next breath, she’s casually forking food in her face like she’s known me her entire life. It just feels right.

“I’m sorry, this is just really good. That Eunice is a keeper.”

“You cold?” I ask, eyeing her hard little nipples.

“I think it’s just the lasagna,” she laughs.

“Remind me to ask her for the recipe.”

I make my way to the fireplace, stacking wood from the pile into formation.

“What are you doing?” she asks me.

“I’m building you a fire. It’s a mountain man thing. I don’t want you to freeze to death tonight.”

“Gavin, I can see the heat vents in the baseboards. You really don’t have to do all that.”

“This shit is romantic. You can’t take that away from me.”

I get the fire started and turn off the lights in the room. The soft glow illuminates her smiling face and her soft gorgeous body as she sits there on the couch.

“I feel like we did this a little ass-backwards, though,” I say. “The dinner and the fire were supposed to be what got you to have sex with me.” I join her on the couch, grabbing her feet and resting them on my lap, teasing my hand up and down her calves.

“Oh come on, did you really think I was going to put up a fight?”

“I didn’t actually. It was everyone else that was worried.”

“Everyone else?”

“Sloan, you know how things are. Girls like you don’t usually end up with guys like me. I just wanted to make sure I was doing right by you.”

“Girls like me?” She shakes her head. “You don’t even know what kind of girl I am. Although I’m sure you have a pretty good idea now.”

I knew from the moment I met her what kind of girl she was, even if I couldn’t put it into words. She’s the kind of girl who makes people better. In the operating room and in life. She’s the kind of girl I need to be around, be inside, spend the rest of my days with. She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t see her own worth because she’s too busy building everyone else up.

“Sloan, you wear it all on your sleeve. I know exactly what kind of girl you are, and that’s why you scare the shit out of me in the best possible way.”

“Wait ’til you hear how loud I snore,” she giggles. “I’ll scare the shit out of you in the worst possible way.”

I carry her back to the bed, spooning her tight, my arms wrapped around her soft body as she nuzzles her face into the side of my bicep. It just feels so right, the culmination of a perfect night.

I can tell she’s drifting off, and I’m torn.

I’m trying not to ruin the moment, but I feel like I need to be completely honest with her. I’ve known enough prolific biker love stories that went down in flames due to lack of complete truth-telling, but there comes a point where sometimes you just have to dance around some details in order to protect the ones you care about.

My phone rings, and I know exactly who it is.

I hit the button to silence it.

“It’s ok,” she says, her eyes still closed. “Go ahead.”

I run my hands through her hair, I kiss her face; I don’t want to get up and face the reality that is my fucked-up family. I don’t want to let them destroy this night. I slide on my boxer briefs and step outside into the freezing cold night air.

“We got him,” my dad growls.

“Ok.”

“You with the girl?”

I don’t know what his fixation is. What his fascination is. She’s the one who told him to take him to begin with. She’s the one who hid the drugs.

“Why do you care?”

“You coming back tonight? I got a drop that needs done first thing in the morning.”

“No, Dad. I’ve been drinking,” I lie. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

I hang up the phone and head back inside. She’s curled up in a ball, tangled in the covers, fast asleep. It’s a beautiful sight. One that I don’t need to be disturbing.

“Sloan Sullivan,” the police officer calls out as he unlocks the holding cell.

I was only supposed to be here for a few hours, but I’d given up hope a long time ago. I’m dirty and hungry and my back hurts from leaning up against a wall, too afraid to sit down or I’ll fall asleep. I nurse my bandaged arm. I would be mortified if any of my patients were doing this the day after such a traumatic injury.

It had to be done, though. The only way to get out from under that abusive asshole and on with my life was to let them arrest me. Let them play their games with me. The police officer leads me to the interrogation room. Everyone sitting across the table from me is wearing a badge. I feel like I should have a lawyer.

I answer their questions with complete honesty.

Yes, I was aware of what was going on. Yes, I can tell you who his contacts are, and where his sources are located. Names, phone numbers, addresses, aliases, you call it. I’ve been stashing them away in every recess of my mind since the day all this started to go down.

No, my arm is not ok. I need antibiotics now.

No, I don’t want therapy. I just want fucking out.

I’m sick to my stomach. I’m rolling over on the man who I “loved” for the last ten years. I’m sacrificing him to save my own life.

I could throw up.

Visions of terror flash before my eyes. Every time he hit me, bit me, stabbed me, burned me, every time he made another move to isolate me further and further from my friends, from my life, from anything but his fucked-up world that he expected me to exist in.

“Yes, I will testify in court.”

Just like that, “you’re free to go.”

The walk down the hallway seems to take forever. I keep my head down. I know he’s not here, but on the chance he is, I couldn’t look him in the eye.

I gather my belongings at the front window. Seated in the lobby is my father. I play dumb.

“Were you the one who bailed me out, Daddy?” I ask. I throw my arms around him, but he doesn’t move, just sits there, stiff as a board.

“You’re a fucking nark, Sloan,” he whispers in my ear. “You’ll get yours.”

The nightmares aren’t as frequent anymore, but they are still as vivid. I grip my fingers into the sheets, blinking furiously, the only tactic I have developed to remind myself that this is not currently happening. Maybe I should’ve taken them up on that therapy.

The sound of his heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor and the crunching of the ice cube tray only jar me further out of my sleep. I have a feeling he’s not coming back to bed. I peek through half closed eyes and watch him grab the bottle of whiskey from the counter.

Whoever that was has him rattled. Maybe they clued him in on who the sad little slut in his bed really is. I know my confession screwed over everyone in the drug trade in our region, but I’ve spent the time following my trial keeping my nose clean, hiding out at the hospital, letting everyone forget about who I am, drifting off into obscurity.

Maybe I’m just being paranoid. I don’t even know what the hell his club does, aside from owning the bar where Olive works. They could be investment bankers for all I know. Judging from the rough and tumble crowd in Hank’s hospital room, I highly doubt it.

Fuck it. If my actions had a big impact on his club or his life, and he just found out, I’d probably already have a bullet in my head. The revolver is still staring me down on the nightstand, so I’ll likely live to see another day.

On the other hand, I saw the way he toyed with me earlier. There’s a real darkness in him that I’m sure extends beyond the bedroom. My blood runs cold.

“Play dead!” is all I can think, as if I’m about to get mauled by a grizzly.

I feign a snore, something that I’d become quite good at doing under my years of terror from Arthur. The one thing he never did was screw with me while I was sleeping. He wanted me wide awake when he subjected me to whatever was coming.

They’re nothing alike, a voice in my head reminds me. But how do I know? From where I’m laying, my body aching from being fucked into submission and then wrapped in care, it seems like I’m falling right back into old habits.

Instant attraction—check.

Seedy criminal affiliation—check.

Way too good-looking for me—check.

Things moving way faster than they logically should—check.

The only difference is amazing sex. Amazing sex, motorcycles, and the little glimmer of hope I have that I don’t have a “type.” That people like Arthur don’t seek me out. That not every man I’m attracted to ends up being a controlling abusive thug.

The pounding between my legs reminds me of how I let him use me. Exactly like I asked him to. I asked for this. I let this happen. For the first time since I moved into my shitty apartment, I’m wrapped in satin sheets in a strange and comfy bed after a night of overindulgence.

I hear him snoozing on the couch in the corner, his feet propped up on the coffee table, and I want nothing more than for him to come comfort me, come lay with me, tell me how irrational all my fears are.

Maybe they’re not.

I watch his chest rise and fall.

I will myself to fall asleep. This ends tomorrow. It’s just a fling. Blink blink blink and it all goes away.

“Hey,” I whisper, stroking her face until her eyes snap open. She looks terrified, pulling the sheets up around her shoulders as she sits bolt upright. “Little jumpy?”

Her face softens into a smile and she kisses me on the lips. Her touch immediately hits me in all the places she had me last night, stirring my senses. “Sorry,” she says, her bottom lip trembling. “Guess I’m just not used to waking up in a strange place. What time is it?”

“Nine. Do you have to work today?”

“No, actually. It’s my midweek weekend. I’m off for the next two days.” As much as I want to roll over on top of her, slide my morning wood right into her and feel her wrapped tight around me, I feel like I need to get something off my chest.

“About last night…” I say, running my fingers through her hair.

“What part?” she laughs. “The orgasmic sex or the orgasmic lasagna?”

“The part where I fell asleep on the couch. I’m sorry.” I do feel like a total shit for not staying with her, laying with her, taking her in my arms, but knowing what kind of trouble I might have gotten her in, I just couldn’t do that to her. “My dad and the guys took Goob from the hospital last night.”

I expect her to punch me. I expect her to be mad. To feel used. I expect her to think I brought her out here so she couldn’t stop whatever it was that was happening. Instead, she just shrugs.

“Well that’s pretty dumb, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m mad that I wasted a whole day working on a rehab plan that I knew he’d never follow, but aside from that, no. Is that why you brought me out here, though? Because you thought I was going to get in the way?”

“No.”

“Gavin, do you know where my cellphone is?” she asks. I shake my head. “Me neither. When I go home at night, I go home. It’s the one luxury I have right now because I’m not a fully certified surgeon. When I leave that hospital, I could give two fucks about what happens while I’m gone.”

I brush my hand down her thigh and squeeze her knee.

“Even if you did bring me out here to keep me out of your family affairs, you really did pull out all the stops,” she giggles. “A-plus for effort.”

“Sloan, I brought you out here because I wanted to be with you.”

“And I did too. So thank you. Seriously. For all of this. This was amazing.”

I can’t help but think she’s holding back, not telling me everything that’s on her mind. She’s so casual, almost cool, the exact opposite of the passion filled woman I had underneath me last night.

“What do you have going on today?” I ask her. I want to take her home with me. I want to show her where I live, show her the farmhouse, start making plans for our future. I want to repeat last night over and over again.

“You don’t have to act like you care,” she says. “Seriously, Gavin, I had so much fun. You’re a really great guy.”

“But…”

“But what?”

“Usually there’s a but.”

“No buts. You’re a really great guy.” She slides out of bed and begins to gather up her clothes from the floor. I grab for her arm, and she stares at me like a wounded animal before jerking away.

“Sloan.”

“Gavin, you gotta stop,” she says. “Let’s just treat this exactly like what it is.”

I can’t help but think I fucked up. She’s cold as ice, quickly dressing herself as if I’m not even in the room.

The damn girl finally came to her senses. Who am I to press?

She got what she came here for, and I got exactly what I expected. A stern reminder. Of who I am and where I come from.

“You got all your shit?” I get dressed quickly. I check the fireplace to make sure the fire is out. It certainly is between the two of us.

I can see she’s upset by the way her eyes are slick with tears as she stands in the doorway watching me, but I’m not playing that game. I’m not going to beg. It’s for her own good.