Peyton

The weather in the San Diego’s area was perfect, at least in my opinion. Spring and early summer temperatures were in the high 60’s and low 70’s. Navarro and I sat at the coffee shop, enveloped in silence. As the early-morning sun warmed my legs, I wondered just why he had scheduled our morning meeting.

He rocked his chair on its rear legs. “Got anything for me to read yet?”

“The article?”

“Yeah.”

It seemed things between us had become awkward. At least much more than before. It had been two weeks since the incident, and although I felt much better about everything, I certainly didn’t feel normal. I wondered if he sensed it, or if he had reasons of his own for being someone other than his natural self.

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

He dropped the chair back down on its legs and reached for his coffee. “What’s the hold up?”

“Hold up?” I shot him an evil stare. The real kind, not the friendly version. “Have you ever written anything for publication?”

He looked at me like I had three heads. “No.”

“Well,” I said. “It isn’t easy. I’m trying to decide where to take it. And we’re not done with the interviews.”

“I was just asking.”

I was tired of people asking. Camden asked every time he saw me. Navarro was asking. I even asked myself, but lately those times had become infrequent.

“It’ll be done when it’s done. And, when I’m done with it, you’ll be the first to know. You’ve got to proof it, remember?”

He took a drink of coffee and nodded. “Just asking.”

I took a sip of my latte and studied him. Relaxed in his seat with his coffee in his hand, his shoulders were rolled forward. His broad chest looked deflated, and he seemed considerably smaller than he actually was.

“What’s been wrong with you lately?” I asked, the words coming out before I had a chance to stop them.

I wanted him to be the way he was when I met him. Rough. Aggressive. Angry. In-you-face.

But something was different.

He rocked the chair on its back legs again. “What do you mean?”

“Look at you.” I shrugged. “You’re docile.

He shot me a look, but it was forced, and I couldn’t really identify it. “Docile?”

I nodded. “Compliant. Unassertive. Accommodating. You know, docile.”

“No I’m not.”

“Okay. Whatever. Let’s go get some ice cream.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Right now. I want ice cream.”

He stood up. “You gonna bring your coffee with you?”

“See? That’s what I’m talking about. A month ago you would have told me to fuck off, and you would have shoved your cock down my throat to shut me up. Now? Now you’re different.”

He loomed over me with a blank look on his face.

“Sit down,” I said.

He complied, sitting back in his seat. He looked defeated. I wondered if I was being shallow and insensitive. I quickly decided maybe I was simply being selfish, and that something may have happened in his life that I was unaware of.

“I’m sorry. It’s just. Here lately, you’re different. Like I said, you’ve been kind of soft and passive. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

He shook his head. “No. How about you?”

“Me? I’m not different. I’m the same. You? You’re--” I paused and waved my hand toward him. “You’re not you.”

He took a drink of his coffee and leaned forward. “Can I speak freely?”

“Sure.”

“I’m worried about you.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Me?”

He nodded. “Yeah, you.”

“Why?”

“You came to me and were some cute bitch that was going to write an article about my club. I was flattered, excited, and pretty gung-ho about the whole deal. Add to it that you’re cute as fuck, and it made everything that much better. Or worse. Or whatever. So, I invite you to the clubhouse.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his beard, then sighed heavily. “You asked questions and I answered. It was interesting, and I actually enjoyed it. Then. We fucked. Enjoyed that, too.”

So did I.

He paused and shook his head. “Then, one day we got coffee and we went to get lunch. That day we went to lunch? I was having a pretty good time with you on the back of the bike. Actually wondered for a minute what it’d be like having you around. Never met a tough little bitch like you. Thought you were pretty fucking good stuff.”

I wasn’t sure where he was going with the conversation, but hearing him say how he felt warmed me much more than the morning sun. I never would have guessed being called a bitch could be such a rewarding experience, but it was.

His face went solemn, but didn’t last long. An angry look soon replaced it. “Then, they raped you. And, I’m worried. I want you to be the same, but I wonder if you ever will be. I wish it never would have happened.”

I started to speak, but the words got caught in my throat. I sat and stared, incapable of speaking and not really sure what feelings – if any – my face was conveying.

I was filled with anger. I didn’t want what took place to have happened either, but it did. Afterward, all I wanted was for things in my life – and for me – to be the same, but I knew they never would be. The fact that four complete strangers viciously stole my chance of having a perfect life from me and left me feeling guilty, filthy, and forever tainted caused me to feel pain that I never knew existed.

“I feel responsible,” he said.

My response was dry and coarse. “Don’t.”

“I can’t help it.”

“You know,” I said.

My eyes began to well with tears. I fought not to cry, but wondered how long it would last. “That day? I keep replaying the morning in my head. When I decided to go get the recorder. I should have called the bar. I knew the name of it. I could have. But I didn’t. I wanted to go in there without calling. I wanted to put on my big girl panties and go to the biker bar without you. Sit where we sat. Do some research. Watch who…watch who came and went. If I would have called, and maybe gone ten minutes…ten minutes…”

He raised his hand, trying to get me to stop.

But I needed to finish.

He stood.

I waved him off, and then realized tears were dripping off my chin and onto my lap.

I cleared my throat. “Ten minutes. Just ten minutes later. Ten fucking minutes.”

I wiped my face with the tips of my fingers. “So, somehow…somehow I convinced myself it’s all my fault.”

His jaw was tight, and he was breathing through his nose. He was angry, but I knew he wasn’t angry with me. He shook his head. “It’s not your fault.”

I bit down on my lower lip and tried to stop it from quivering. It did very little to calm me. I was taught not to hate, but I hated the men that did what they did to me. Cutting their cocks off might have satisfied everyone else, but it didn’t satisfy me, no matter what I tried to tell myself.

“Can you just…could you…hold…”

I wanted him to hold me, but I couldn’t say it.

The crying got worse, almost turning into a full-blown blubber. Everything just seemed to come crashing down, and I began to feel heavy inside. My heart began to ache. I closed my eyes and wondered what I had ever done to deserve feeling the way I felt.

Nothing.

Life wasn’t fair.

I closed my eyes and cried, wishing Navarro wasn’t watching. I wanted to be in North Carolina, where my father could comfort me. As I wept, and wished things were different, I felt Navarro’s arms around my waist.

He lifted me from my seat and held me in my arms.

But the pain never stopped.