“You could have earned your place like a man.”
“What?” Was that an option? No. That was never an option. The men had to fight. They had to spill blood. Sometimes, they had to kill. I was no weakling, but no one would mistake me for a fighter. I was a slim nineteen-year-old girl, not muscular, not even tall. And for all my bluster and bravado, I hated violence. The thought of being in a fight, of hurting somebody, made me nauseous.
Our food arrived while I turned that thought over in my head. I ate my burger like I was starving, despite my racing mind. It had been a very long day, and even the butterflies in my stomach needed to eat to continue on.
When the waitress delivered the check, I tried to pay my part. He pushed my money away. “You’re gonna need that at the end of the road.”
“I’m not a charity case,” I said, glaring.
He glared right back, cool as a cucumber. I wondered if it was even possible to push his buttons at all. “And I’m not so destitute that I can’t afford a few meals for a pretty young thing. So indulge an old man. I’m paying.”
I blushed. He thinks I’m pretty. “Don’t let that go to your head,” he said, noticing my reaction, “From what I’ve gathered, you think highly enough of yourself already.”
“Bastard.”
He huffed. “I don’t tolerate that sort of lip from anyone. I’m telling you that right now. I’ll let you off the hook because it’s been a rough day for you, but that’s your last warning.”
Or what? I wanted to ask. I wanted to keep provoking him, pull more of a reaction from him then a huff and a short speech, more than those cold, calculating looks. But I bit my tongue. Again. I’ve been doing a lot of that.
“We’ll be staying in this town for a day or two,” he said as he stood. I followed him back outside. “I’ve got some business to attend to. You’ll wait in the motel unless I take you out, understand? You don’t go anywhere alone.”
“What?!” That was just too much. He may have been doing me a favor, but I wasn’t his prisoner.
He raised an eyebrow at me. “How about you ask like someone that has some manners?”
I knew I was being deliberately shitty. I couldn’t help it. I was stressed and far from home, and his calm about the whole situation was making me angry. “Care to tell me what the fuck please, sir?”
We’d reached his bike. He paused to kick the stand up, intending to walk it to the gas station just in the next lot. He didn’t look at me as he spoke. “Oh, honey. You’re going to pay for that.”
I followed him to the gas pumps, a few steps behind. What did he mean by “pay”? I should have taken off right then. Fact was, I wasn’t his prisoner and I wasn’t his family, and if I wanted to run screaming, no one would take his side. Hell, he might not even try to follow me. I could make my own way to LA, or to anyplace else. But something stopped me. That hint of promise in his threat. Something smoldered beneath the surface when he’d said it, and that something lit a flame in my belly and in my pants. I glared at his back, at his colors - those damn patches that stated loud and clear what motorcycle club he was in. He filled his gas tank just as calmly as ever, showing no sign that he was angry or upset with me. I watched his movements - deliberate. Patient. He was like an old oak tree, or a boulder. There were few storms in this world that could knock him over. I doubted anything I could throw at him would move him at all.
I waited outside while he paid, watching him walk to the store and back. Long strides, but no rush. He swung a leg over the bike and nodded towards me, indicating that it was time to go. I could hitchhike. I could find a bus. I could ask for a job in the burger joint and never leave this block. I climbed on behind him and clasped my trembling hands around his waist.
---
He made me wait outside while he reserved our room at the single-story motel on the edge of town. One room.
I thought I’d hyperventilate as I followed him to the door. The closer we got, the more vulnerable I felt. We’d be isolated inside. I’d been alone with him in the desert, but that was on the open road. This was just a tiny room. It felt lonelier than the vast expanses of dust and cacti.
I followed him inside anyway. It went against my better judgment, my sense of self-righteousness, my anger. I shivered. Whatever was happening, I wanted it.
He didn’t let me speculate for long. As soon as the door was shut, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me to the bed. “What the hell are you doing?” I squealed as he tore my backpack away. He manhandled me expertly, spinning me around to free the pack, his grip firm but not painful. Strong, though; pulling away would be futile.