THIRTY-TWO

Dagne

My satchel weighs heavy in my hand as I run the strap through my closed fist. How pathetic is it that I can condense the important parts of my life down to a handful of belongings inside a twenty-dollar bag?

I had a bedroom once. Things that were mine. I could lie on the mattress with my stuffed unicorn in my arms and stare across at the second-hand poster of Disney princesses, imagining a world where no matter how you were wronged, somebody out there was waiting to save you.

Fairytales and folklore. Stories of a perfect world where forgiveness is easily given, and remorse brings the guilty to their knees in search of redemption.

Bullshit.

That’s all it is. Lies we tell ourselves to dampen the cold harsh reality of the world around us. Pain is inevitable, deceit as natural as taking your first step. People lie, and then they lie to themselves to justify the lie. It’s a cycle of false, fake, pretentious people fighting for the biggest share of the limelight.

A spotlight I’ve never had, and I don’t know if I ever want, either.

With a shake of my head, I slip the strap of the satchel over my shoulder and walk towards the door, purposefully avoiding catching a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror propped in the corner of the room. I don’t like this girl. She lets people walk all over her, so desperate to belong somewhere that she overlooks the obvious signs that those around her shouldn’t be trusted.

I really thought he was different; that somewhere underneath his harsh exterior was a genuine guy.

I guess I’m no less of a fool than I was the day I left home. What’s it going to take for me to be able to read people right? Will I ever recognize the man who’ll treat me how I deserve, or am I destined to be stuck on this merry-go-round of naivety for life?

Half the clubhouse have turned in for the night, the other half split evenly between those who are filling the halls with the lurid sounds of sex and debauchery, those who find solace in drinking away their reality, and the few who stick around to clean up after both.

I slip down the stairs, checking both ways for any sign of the two men I’m hoping to avoid. The downstairs halls are quiet, the lights in the kitchen off. A couple of the southern men still congregate at the bar, but to my relief they pay me no mind as I walk by to head for the exit.

Where will I go? I have no idea. But the fact I’m freshly showered, there’s a day’s worth of food and water in my bag, and my legs are rested from several weeks staying put, means I have time to work it out.

I make it out the external door and suck in a deep breath, relishing the comforting smell of crisp night air. It’s just me, nature, and—

“Where you goin’?”

—Dog. Damn it.

“For a walk.” I clutch my strap and head for the gates.

“Take it you’ve seen him then?” he calls after me.

Why do you do this to yourself? I spin around, feeling rude if I ignore Dog considering this has nothing to do with him.

“Hooch, or Digits?”

He shrugs. “Both, I guess. But I mostly meant Hooch.”

“Yeah, I saw him.”

He studies me a moment, his eyes hard as he leans casually against the outside of the clubhouse, having a smoke. “And you’re still going?”

“What’s one got to do with the other?” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air. Why does everyone assume I owe Hooch something? He used me. Twice. He almost used me three times. He’s the one who owes me.

Dog smirks, a look I’ve come to know means I’m about to get into trouble. “You tellin’ me you don’t care about the guy?”

“Of course I care about him,” I admit. “That’s what I don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?”

“We’re just so different,” I say, staring at my feet. “Plus, I don’t even know how he feels about me. I just seem to be something … convenient.”

Dog’s feet shift in my periphery, and he drops his spent cigarette to the ground. “You talked to him about this?”

My immediate instinct is to say I’ve tried, but isn’t that a lie? I’ve listened, I’ve let him in on a tiny part of who I am by telling him about my father, but have I actually sat down and talked through what we have going on? No.

“I don’t know what I’d say.”

“Try it out on me.”

“What?” I look up at the guy. “Tell you how I feel about him.”

“Yeah.” That damn troublesome smirk returns. “Practice, if you like.”

“I don’t know …”

“Go on.” He steps forward, nudging me lightly in the arm with a loose fist. “You know it’s a good idea.” He steps back, arms folded. “If you had to list one reason, one thing about the guy that you like, what would it be? And don’t give me bullshit about the beard; we get it—chicks dig beards.” He rolls his eyes. “Give me something real, sweetheart.”

What is it about Hooch that makes me drop my guard around him? I run through each of our interactions in my mind, Dog waiting patiently while I do. My hands wring the hell out of my bag strap as I focus in on the emotions he pulls out of me, and it twigs.

“I guess, when I’m around people who have it together, who’re confident in themselves, it makes me feel shitty because it highlights everything that’s wrong with me,” I say. “But when I talk with him, I … I think because he seems just as lost as I am that I can relate, you know? He makes me feel comfortable, like I’m on an even par with him. He’s not judging me, and I don’t judge him. I mean, shit, who would I be to chastise the decisions he’s made in life when I’m a walking fuck up, myself.”

“Good,” Dog coaches, winding his hand. “So he makes you feel …”

“Like I’m at home.” The realization sucker punches me in the gut.

He makes me feel secure, wanted, and like I matter. And isn’t that what scares me most? Getting attached again only to find it’s all a lie?

“So why are you leaving?”

I suck in a sharp breath, hearing the man in question’s deep, husky voice directly behind me.

Dog laughs, spinning on his heel to disappear inside the clubhouse.

“That wasn’t nice,” I call after him, but it’s too late.

It’s just me, and the man I called home.

“You got an answer for me, fairy?”

I turn around to face Hooch, and wilt. I’m on the back foot here, and I sure as hell don’t like it. He stares down at me, his shoulders broad as he stands with both hands jammed in his jean pockets.

“You promised me you’d stay.” The pain in his voice is a knife straight to the heart.

“You know why I’m going.”

“Because I hurt your feelings?”

“You did more than that,” I snap. “You used me, again and again. You can’t help yourself.”

“Maybe I’m just findin’ excuses to keep you around?”

“Is that what I am? Entertainment? A distraction?”

“Is that such a bad thing if the need is real?”

I want to argue the point with him, God how I want to. But he’s hit the nail on the head. Maybe he went about it the wrong way, but those precious moments in the laundry prove the truth to his words: he needs me. He’s said it. He’s showed it.

“What do I get out of this, though?” I whisper. “I get that you need me, for whatever reason, but I can’t just keep on giving without getting anything back to replenish the well.”

He sighs, reaching out and running a thumb over my cheek as he cups the side of my face. “You’ve got to tell me what you need before I can give it to you.”

Snap. He’s got me on that.

“I need to know I can trust you, before I tell you.”

“Trust that my intentions come from a good place,” he offers. “I screw things up, Dagne. It’s just what I do.” He drops his hand away, rubbing his fingertips over the leg of his jeans instead. “I’m goin’ to hurt you, but it’ll never be intentional.”

“That’s not exactly a winning offer,” I admit.

“But I’m tellin’ you the truth, ain’t I?”

Yeah, he is. It’s just not a rose-lined walkway through the Garden of Eden, it’s an uneven dirt road through hell.

“What happened in there …” he says, holding a hand out to the clubhouse. “I didn’t realize that I was using the grief with you to get at Digits for personal reasons. I mean, it made sense when you said it, but up until that point, all I was focused on was makin’ the son of a bitch hurt for the things he said to you.”

“I don’t need violence, though.” I shake my head. “I need resolution.”

“Violence is how I resolve things.” He looks skyward, as though searching for an answer in the stars. “We’re from two different worlds, sure, but haven’t we both been hurt the same?”

“I guess.”

“So what really is so different about us?”

He has me, literally, figuratively, and every way in between. We’re not so different in the center of it all. I want to belong, and he feels he needs to be worth something to the people around him. I’m trying not to repeat past mistakes, and he’s doing his best to make up for the ones he’s made.

“I guess … nothing.”

His heat envelops me as he steps forward, tentatively reaching for my face with both hands as though he could startle me out of this daze at any second. And he could. I’m lost in a fog when I’m with him, but it’s a beautiful mask for the burnt forest of failures around us.

“So stay, Dagne.” His palms rest against my jaw, cupping my face in his hold. “Come back to Fort Worth with me and promise you’ll give us time to understand how this goes. We’ve got the pieces, babe. We just need to figure out how they all work together.”

I close my eyes, letting his words sink in as I fight back my emotions. It’s so perfect, so magical out here with him in the night. If I could freeze time and live in the bubble we create, I would, because it’s quiet in here, even from my own mind.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I promise this time. No more running.” No more hiding from what I don’t understand. No more fighting fires before they’re even lit.

No more.

“Thank you.” His breath caresses my lips before he seals them with his own.

I soften into his hold, my hands finding their own way instinctively to his sides as he leans me back a little, deepening the kiss. It’s fairytales, folklore, and all that bullshit I don’t believe in, right here for the taking. Yet I don’t know if I can, because what if love still isn’t real and, just like my dreams as a child, he’ll fade away with time?

I can continue to survive on my own, but I can’t be loved only to be left alone again. It took me too long to get to this point, and it’s not a road I’m willing to walk again.

One hand slips to my lower back, the other still possessively cupping my face as I reach up and wrap mine around the back of his neck. He breaks away, our foreheads still touching as he seems to gather himself before moving in for a second round.

It’s completion, satisfaction, and the unique euphoria of knowing you’re on the right path, that you’re doing exactly what you should be, when you should. It’s a moment of bliss in an otherwise fucked up reality, and it’s everything we need to survive.

“We’re goin’ to head inside,” he murmurs, deep and breathless, “and you’re putting that fuckin’ bag down with my shit upstairs. You feel me?”

“Yeah, I do.”

His eyes fix on my mouth as he caresses my bottom lip with his thumb, an intense focus that leaves me shivering for more.

“I’m not goin’ to sleep tonight unless I know you’re in the only place I can keep you safe.”

“Here?”

“In my bed,” he states, “with my arms wrapped around you. Ain’t anyone threatenin’ you again on my watch.”

I can handle that. “You know I’ll probably hurt you too,” I whisper. “It’s just what I do.”

“It’s a given.” He straightens, sticks both hands under my arms, and hoists me up against him.

I wrap my legs around him automatically to save from falling, linking my hands behind his neck. “Just shows that I care,” I tease.

“Then I hope you make me bleed.”