Chapter Twelve

Jameson

“I know you've gotta be hungry,” I called through the door early the next morning.

I stood outside of Isabelle's room with hot coffee and a bag full of food for her. And of course, she was refusing to answer me—and refusing to open the door.

“The coffee might be shit,” I said, “but these breakfast sandwiches are to die for. Seriously. They're life changing. You like bacon, right? I mean, who doesn't like bacon, but you never know these days. People got all kinds of sensitivities and allergies and shit. You're not a damn vegetarian, are you?”

I continued talking, even though she didn't answer. Nothing but silence on the other side of the door. I figured that if I kept standing there talking to her, she'd eventually get tired of it and open the door. Either that or she'd call the police. That was about as close to a plan as I had. I was just hoping she didn't call the police—I still had a warrant out for my arrest. Old ticket. Nothing serious, but I didn't want to spend a night in jail over it.

“Come on, Isabelle,” I called. “Your coffee is getting cold. And if it tastes like shit when it's hot and fresh, I can't imagine what—”

She surprised me by opening the door. Standing there in a ratty motel robe that definitely had seen better days, her hair wet and dripping, I thought she looked adorable. There was no way in hell I was going to tell her that. Her eyes were narrowed and her jaw set, and she glared at me, the expression on her face one of contempt that said she wished nothing but pure death upon me.

“Hungry?” I asked, holding out the bag and smiling.

I swore I saw a smile slowly creeping across her lips. But if I had, she pushed it away as quickly as it had come. It was gone and there was nothing but that ever so familiar scowl upon her face again.

She took the bag from my hand along with the cup of coffee. She turned, and for a second, I thought she might shut the motel room door on me and disappear inside without so much as a thank you. But in the next biggest surprise of my day, she'd actually left it open—as if telling me it was okay to come inside. Without actually telling me, of course. Because, you know, we wouldn't want to have to acknowledge that I'd helped her or anything.

I took it as a sign and walked into the motel room. Just before crossing the threshold, I had the unsettling image of her sitting there on the edge of the bed with a gun in her hand. Clearly, I'd been in the MC life too long.

“Maybe after breakfast, I can run you to a store, get you some clothes,” I offered. “I bet you could use a change or two, huh? We got an outlet mall outside of town a ways I can take you to.”

Isabelle sat down at the table near the air conditioning unit but said nothing. She'd left a seat open for me across from her at the tiny table, so I didn't wait for an invitation—one that likely wasn't going to be forthcoming since her power of speech had apparently deserted her this morning. I sat down as she opened the sandwich and grimaced, slightly.

“It's better than it looks, I promise,” I said. “Which isn't saying much, I know. But still . . .”

“I sure as hell hope so,” she said.

She took a napkin and dabbed up the extra grease that had pooled around the edges of the bun on the paper. I watched as the napkin quickly became completely saturated. As she was doing that, she must have realized what a jerk she was being, because she looked up and gave me a soft smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

“Thank you, Jameson. I appreciate the food.”

“Figured you'd be hungry,” I said, taking a sip of the coffee. Mine was black. “There's some creamer and packets of sugar in the bag. I wasn't sure how many you needed, and I didn't want to assume anything.”

“Thanks,” she said again, this time she said it a little more clearly and with a little less mumbling. She actually sounded sincerely appreciative. Progress. We were making progress.

She took slow, small bites of the sandwich and washed them down with coffee. The room was silent as she ate, and I sat there staring at her, drinking my coffee, like an awkward teenage boy. Even in her stained blouse and no makeup on, she was a hot piece. Deciding I needed to make some small talk with her to hopefully break the wall of frost between us, I asked, “So how's the car coming along?”

Isabelle sighed, rolling her eyes, and I figured that maybe that was the wrong question to ask.

She let out a long sigh. “The parts got held up in Nebraska, I guess. Some sort of union strike at the warehouse or something. Dave was really apologetic but said there's nothing he can do. I understand it, of course, but I'm still just as frustrated. He gave me a guestimate of Friday.”

“Shit,” I said, taking a bite of breakfast muffin, reveling in the egg, bacon and all that grease. And the news that she wouldn’t be leaving town any time soon. “That blows.” I tried to sound sincere.

“Tell me about.” Her voice was soft, but I couldn’t figure out the meaning behind it. She didn’t sound like she was on the verge of breaking down. Maybe just realizing that she had nowhere to go, nowhere to turn, and no friends to lean on. Maybe that was why she'd opened the door to me today—she knew she needed some help. Or, at least somebody who'd listen—give her a friendly ear to bend and a shoulder to cry on. Hell, if she did need a shoulder to cry on, I was more than willing. I'd made that perfectly clear.

“Listen, I'm serious about taking you anywhere you need to go,” I said. “I'll even sit at the damn mall while you do your thing. Just tell me where you wanna go, and I'll make sure you get there.”

“Why?” she asked, done with her meal.

“Why what?”

“Why are you being so nice to me? You don't know me. You don't owe me a damn thing. But you're going out of your way to be nice to me. To do things for me.”

It was a good question. It was one I'd thought about but hadn't quite figured out myself. I had a few theories, but I tried to avoid thinking about it too much. I just knew if I saw a woman in trouble, without stopping to think about all the angles and ramifications, I'd just act. I’d help where I could.

Let’s face it, I had a bad reputation around Milling—some of it earned and well deserved. But some things I couldn’t stand, and a woman in trouble was one of them. You can get all psychological on me and say it has to do with my mother or some bullshit like that. I don’t give a crap. It’s just the way I’m wired. But I also have to hide that sort of thing from the club. After all, I had a reputation to maintain and uphold.

“Why, Jameson?” she asked again softly.

“Because I saw a woman on the side of the road who needed help but was too afraid to ask for it,” I replied. “I've seen too many women get hurt—or die—because there was no one there to help them when they needed it most. And I really don’t want that to happen to you if I can help it. That's not the kind of man I am.”

“Die? Seriously?”

“Yeah. Die. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“So, it really wasn't just because I was wearing heels and a short skirt?”

“Nope. But that might’ve helped,” I said, winking at her. “I am, after all, a warm-blooded man.”

Isabelle laughed. It was a soft laugh, one that could barely be heard over the clattering of the air conditioner, but she laughed nonetheless. It was the first time I'd seen anything resembling a positive emotion from her in days. And I had to admit, it felt like a giant step forward.

And best of all, she was talking to me. That had to count for something, right?

We were definitely making progress. It wasn't necessarily swift, and it was fragile as hell, but it was progress. There were smiles and a conversation. I felt good about my prospects with Isabelle in that moment, better than I had since the day I'd met her.