12

I’M SITTING OUT back, and my conversation with Roach is back to what it’s always been: business. We’re discussing the chapters, the problems with other clubs, and finances, when a patch holder comes barreling out the door. When he doesn’t look the least bit sorry or concerned about busting up our meeting, I know something is wrong.

“Dirk, you got a call.” I’m on my feet, knowing that whoever is calling doesn’t have my cell. Which means that it has to be someone that I know isn’t connected to the club. I’m hoping like hell it’s some bitch wondering if I’m in town, but my gut tells me it’s Saylor. That she needs me and got the number for the bar where she hopes I’m at.

Maybe she wants to know a paint color. Maybe she’s having issues with my card. Maybe the truck broke down. I’m playing every scenario imaginable in my head, but in the few seconds it takes for me to get to the phone, I know it’s nothing like that. If she’s calling here, it’s important. I snatch the phone off the counter and bark into it.

“Yeah?” I say, waiting for it to be any voice other than hers.

“Um, Dirk?” It’s a man. A young one. Maybe even a teenager.

“Who the fuck is this?” I ask, not confirming who I am.

“Yeah, um, my name is Nate, I work over at Greer’s Grocery, and this lady told me to call and see if I could get you on the phone.” He pauses and I want to kill.

“What lady?” I growl, wishing he would just tell me what the fuck is going on.

“Sir, I’m not sure. She just fainted and . . .” I drop the phone and run to my bike, passing a nervous Shady on the way. I throw my helmet to the ground, knowing the second it takes for me to put it on is too long.

Fainted? Is she hurt? Is she okay? She had to be conscious to tell them to call me, but how bad was it? I pull the throttle back on my bike, going as fast as possible without killing myself on the curvy road that leads to town. It doesn’t take me long to get there, and my heart sinks when I see an ambulance parked outside the front door.

I push through the crowd of people roughly, my feet taking me to the group huddled in a circle by the frozen food aisle. I push a medic to the side and look down to see Saylor taking deep breaths through her white lips. I drop to my knees beside her and take her hand in mine. Her other hand is on her forehead, holding an ice pack to it.

“What happened?” I ask. When she hears my voice, her neck cranes to see me.

“I fell,” she says noncommittally. I’m calling bullshit, not that I have to. The nervous voice that called me tells all.

“No sir, she passed out. I watched her.” I look up at him and his cheeks turn red with embarrassment. I’m sure he was watching her. I never thought I would be grateful for someone ogling my woman.

“I just got a little dizzy. It’s the weather.” Saylor is grasping at straws to try to hide the obvious reason she is laying here on the floor. And I don’t know why. I suddenly get the feeling she is hiding something from me, but before I can ask what it is, the horny bag boy tells his side of the story.

“She was fine one second, then I saw her swaying. The next, she went down like the Titanic. Bam! Her head hit the handle on the freezer door, and it hit pretty hard when she landed too.” His theatrics piss me off. I don’t like him trying to make a huge spectacle of Saylor.

“Sir, she needs to go to the hospital and get a CAT scan, but she is refusing. I’ve been trying to convince her, but she won’t even let us put her in the ambulance.” The medic’s concerned face worries me and I look down at Saylor, hoping I can talk her into going. Or I can just force her to go. Either is fine with me.

She is shaking her head, and tears are brimming in her eyes. “Dirk, I don’t want to go to the hospital.” The determination in her voice makes me feel like shit for even trying to talk her into it.

“You need to go get checked out,” I try, and my shitty attempt falls on deaf ears.

“I’m asking you, Dirk. I’m begging you. Please, don’t let them take me. I’m fine.” By the look on her face and the desperation in her voice, I know this is a battle I need to let her win. But I have to try.

“Please, baby. Something could be wrong.” I’ve pulled out all stops. I even try to make my eyes do that puppy-dog shit, but it doesn’t faze her. It only pisses her off.

“Dammit, Dirk. I said no. Have I ever lied to you? No, so take me home. I’m not going to the hospital. I’m not out of my head. I know who I am, I know where I am, and no one here is authorized to make decisions on my behalf.” She turns to look at the medic, and I can’t help feeling a little sorry for him.

“Now get that damn blood pressure cuff off of me so I can get the hell outta here.” The medic begins releasing the cuff immediately. I help Saylor up and surprisingly she is steady on her feet, despite the huge goose-egg knot that has formed on her head. I want to carry her, but she glares at me, so I settle for my hand around her waist—not that she needs it. Determination alone could let her walk out of here unassisted.

The store manager appears, wearing a shirt that’s too small and a badge that states his title. He is holding a clipboard in his hand and looks almost pissed when he sticks it out to Saylor. “You need to sign this. If you are refusing medical attention, then we ain’t liable for anything that happens down the road.” I’m two seconds from grabbing the clipboard and smashing his nose with it when Saylor gladly signs it and thrusts it back in his hands. She walks out and I have to practically jog to keep up with her.

When we get outside, Shady is there with two other patch holders and I tell him to take my bike back to the house. He nods without any questions, giving Saylor and me a once-over before leaving. I help Saylor in the truck before getting in and pulling out of the lot. When we are almost home, I chance a look at her, and her anger has faded. She just looks tired.

“You okay?” I ask, wondering why I’m treading so lightly. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. I haven’t felt like that in years.

“I’m fine. I don’t like hospitals,” she mumbles, and I don’t push further. She has her reasons and I’m sure they’re good ones. I pull up at the house, jumping out to help her, but she is already out and moving to the bed of the truck. I see bags of groceries and things from the hardware store and give her a quizzical look. “I told the bag boy to go ahead and check me out. No need in all that shopping going to waste because my stupid head don’t wanna act right.” She doesn’t notice her slipup, but I do.

“You do that a lot?” I ask, referring to her head that is anything but stupid.

“What? Pass out? No. It’s happened before but not often. It’s part of the reason I have migraines too.” She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t ask any more questions. I don’t want to admit it, but the truth is I’m afraid of the answer.

She grabs a bag and I take it from her, then take her hand and lead her inside. The house still smells good and I’m thankful that she got a notion to clean today, although I’m sure that cleaning is as far as it’s gonna go for now.

“You wanna lay down?” I ask, while she fishes receipts and my card from her pocket.

“No, I wanna stay up for the furniture.” That gets my attention, and, as if she summoned them, a truck pulls up the driveway with the town furniture store’s logo on the side. “I was mad at you when I left. I might have spent too much money trying to get back at you. We can take it back if you want.” I shake my head at her words.

“Money means nothing to me. If you try to piss me off by spending it, never gonna happen. Even if you managed to clean me out, I can always make more.” She smiles knowingly, as if she figured as much even before she spent it. I meet the two men at the door, noticing another truck pulling up. The man gets out, asking where I want everything, and I point to the clean side of the carport. “Just put it out here. I’ll move it in later.” I look at a frowning Saylor in the doorway and raise my eyebrows in question at her.

“I paid them to move the old out too,” she says, and even though I told her she could redo everything, a piece of me isn’t quite ready to let the past go. She knows this and fixes the problem, like she always seems to do.

“Just push the couch into the dining room and put everything in the living room. We’ll set it up when we’re ready.” The man nods his head, avoiding even looking at Saylor. I’m sure it’s ’cause he won’t be able to focus on anything but her chest. Although she changed her shirt, this one is just as tight as the other. At least she put a bra on. Looking at her legs, perhaps I should have told her she needed to put some pants on too. Her cutoff shorts are so short, the pockets hang out the bottom of them. I like the way she looks, but I don’t want anyone else liking it.

While the furniture is being unloaded, I unload the truck—taking everything to the kitchen while Saylor puts it away. I would rather she just sit down, but I’d be fighting a losing battle. When the movers are gone and everything is inside, I survey the damage.

Saylor has more stuff than I thought she was capable of buying in such a short time. Paint, groceries, decorative shit, bedding, dishes, two sets of mattresses, two bedroom suites, a couch, a love seat, a table with chairs, two end tables, a bookshelf, and six lamps. My house looks like a fucking furniture store threw up in it.

“You like it?” she asks, standing beside me. I want to answer, but I need to sort my words so I sound appreciative. Because I am. It’s just a little overwhelming. “I got rugs and stuff too. I even bought some pictures and stuff to do the bathroom. It’ll be perfect when I’m finished.”

These material items mean nothing. The fact that she is standing here next to me makes this godforsaken place perfect. Something I never thought possible.

“I like it. Thank you.” My words aren’t much, but she smiles.

“I’ll cook for you tomorrow. Tonight, I’ll make us a sandwich, but I want to set up a real bed first.” She grabs a bag of stuff and heads down the hall. She is acting as if she didn’t just collapse in a grocery store and has a big bump on her head. I’m not sure what to think of it, but if she wants to act like nothing’s wrong, then I guess I should too.

—

I’m standing in the middle of what was once my old bedroom. Saylor never asked my opinion, she just did what she wanted and I did what I was told. I thought it would take longer to have the room ready, but Saylor surprised me with her ability to get shit done.

It’s late, maybe even after midnight, but my old bedroom has been transformed into a new bedroom in less than a day. The room is now a bright yellow and the queen-sized bed we just set up takes up the majority of the small space. The floors still look old and worn, but they are clean and Saylor has a few rugs laying around the room. Two nightstands, two lamps, three candles, curtains, a white comforter, and twenty fucking pillows later, the room is complete.

“Now it feels a little more like a home. I can’t wait to sleep in this bed!” Saylor is excited and I don’t know what over. It’s a damn house. But whatever.

“I’m hungry,” I mumble because I’m an ass, I’m tired, I’m hot as hell, and I haven’t eaten all day.

“Me too.” Saylor finally drags her eyes away from the room and to me. Her smile outshines the bright yellow of the walls, and I don’t think even the sun could outshine her in this moment.

I follow her to the kitchen and watch as she makes us a sandwich, just like she promised hours ago. I lean up against the counter, listening to her meaningless talk that I love so fucking much. Love. Shit.

“Tomorrow, we’ll do the living room and kitchen and dining room. It won’t take us long. The painting is the worst part and even that wasn’t so bad. I’ve already cleaned everything anyway. After I eat, I’m gonna work on the bathroom. I figure we can work on the other room last, or whenever you’re ready.” I know she is referring to Black’s room. I’m still not sure how I feel about that, but at least I have a couple of days to think on it.

Saylor’s head has a nasty bruise, but the swelling has gone down and she hasn’t complained about it all day. I wonder if it hurts her.

“What happened in the store?” My words catch her off guard and she stops midchew, her happiness fading.

“If the obvious isn’t enough, I guess I’ll tell you again. I fainted.” She continues eating, avoiding my eyes. I need more and she knows it, but she isn’t giving in that easy.

“You got something you want to tell me?” I ask, knowing good and damn well what her answer will be.

“When the time is right.” Well, that was an answer I wasn’t expecting. I’m beginning to wonder if she gets off on tormenting me.

“The time is right.” And it is. Nothing she tells me is gonna make me push her away. I don’t care if she has head issues that make her faint and give her migraines. I’m a walking fuckup. Just because I don’t fall out in grocery stores or wake up vomiting doesn’t mean I don’t have my own issues. I’m almost convinced that she is gonna argue or just not answer me, when she speaks.

“When I was a kid, I was in a bad wreck.” She has my undivided attention. I watch as she busies herself around the kitchen while she finds the right words to say. I pull out a smoke and lean back, waiting patiently for her to continue.

“I had a pretty serious head injury. Migraines and fainting are a part of my life. I’ll have them as long as I live. I don’t take meds daily because I don’t like how they make me feel. I’ve had the fainting spells for so long that I’ve grown accustomed to them.” She stops and points to the fading knot on her head, but never looks at me.

“This is nothing. I’ve had worse. It’s the first time I’ve fainted in a long time.” She avoids my eyes and I’m sure it’s because she is afraid of what she will find. She knows I’m a busy man. She knows her issues could potentially make me look at her differently. All I can think is that if she really knows me, then she knows I couldn’t give a shit less about her issues. I could tell her this. I could reassure her that it doesn’t bother me. But who needs words when you have a mouth like mine.

I grab her arm, pulling her away from the counter that she has mindlessly been cleaning, and into my chest. And I kiss her. It’s my thank-you because she told me. It’s my reassurance because she needs it. And it’s my promise that I still want her. When she melts into me, I know she gets it.

I break the kiss, just so I can look at her. Precious. Pretty. Cute. Beautiful. All those words that were once so foreign to me are now words that frequent my mind, and they are all directed toward her. I’m looking in her eyes, and guilt is swimming in them. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because she feels guilty for placing this burden on me. Maybe she feels guilty because she can’t offer me a life without worry. Maybe if I open my mouth and speak to her, her guilt will vanish.

“You’re perfect.” I want to tell her that I think I might love her. I want her to know how much. I want her to tell me back, but I’m too scared to say the words. I don’t know what it will mean if I do because I’ve never said them in all of my life.

“Do you love me, Dirk?” Fucking mind reader.

Now or never, Dirk. Redeem yourself now or never. I’m trying to speak, but my mouth just opens and closes over and over. I look like a fucking idiot—much like I feel.

“You don’t have to tell me.” Her voice is low. Her eyes are pleading. She needs this and I need to get my shit together and give it to her. Straight.

“I don’t really know what love is because I’ve never felt it.” Her face falls and I know they’re not the words she wanted to hear. But I don’t want to lie to her. I can’t give her something that I don’t have. Then I see the pity in her eyes.

“You’ve felt it; you have just chosen to ignore it. There are people in this world that love you, Dirk, you just have to let them.” She smiles sadly at me before pulling out of my arms and heading to the bathroom.

I should probably help her. I should probably just say those three fucking words that will make her smile and put her in a better mood. But I don’t think those are words you can just say. They’re something you have to feel, which I do, and something you have to prove, which I haven’t. And something I don’t want to think about right now.

I walk outside, knowing my bike in the wind will give me the answers I need. I’m not even out of the driveway before I realize that answers are not something I want. What I want is to forget. I want to forget about her questions, her assumptions, love, and every fucking thing it entails, so I ride. And forget is exactly what I do.