One Hundred and Thirty-Six Scars(33)

“Are you going to say anything?” I ask, after swallowing my bundle of nerves.

He clears his throat, the stool next to me pulling away as he takes a seat on it.

“Fuck,” he whispers, taking a bottle of scotch out from under the bar.

I laugh, bringing the drink up to my lips again. “I thought I’d never see you again. Although, I sort of wanted to look for you, to say thank you.” I bring my eyes to his finally and find him boring holes into me. His stare is dark, intense, and makes me squirm in discomfort. He looks the same, only older, more mature. He’s bigger and taller than he was when I last saw him too. His features are still the same, olive skin, dark eyes, dark hair, strong jaw, plump lips and you wouldn’t know, but when he smiles it could light up a room.

When he smiles, being the key word there.

Pulling my eyes away from his dark pull, I run them down his neck that’s slightly in view from the hood of his hoodie. And there it is, the deep, angry scar that runs from under his left ear, slicing down his neck and coming across his shoulder blade before sitting on his chest. I do wonder what other secrets he has hidden under that black hoodie, but I know that they’re not my secrets to ask about.

His tongue runs across his lower lip before he brings the brown liquid bottle to his lips and takes another drink. “Why didn’t you?”

That comment throws me off. My eyes drift to the door before coming back to his. “Why didn’t I, what?”

“Try to find me?” Swinging his arms over the back of the stool, I’m sitting on and the other one beside him.

“I don’t know. I guess… hang on…” turning on my stool to face him, “…why didn’t you look for me?”

He laughs, placing the bottle back on the bar. “I’m not the one who said I thought about looking for you… no offense. Though, the thought did cross my mind here and there.” He rubs his finger over his upper lip, bringing his eyes back to mine.

Exhaling out, I lean back into my chair. “Well, that’s done anyway. I did stay at your place, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“After… you told me to stay at your place and to not move. So I did. I waited for you for two weeks, searched your entire flat to find clues. I wanted to thank you.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows another mouthful. “Thank me for what?”

“For killing my father, before I killed myself.”

He shakes his head, turning his attention back to me. “What’s your name? I never did catch it.”

I smile. “Meadow. And your name is… Beast?”

He laughs. “Yeah, that’s the only name I’ve ever known.”

Tilting my head, staring into his eyes and trying hard to ignore the sudden weight of my chest, I ask, “What does that mean?”

Pushing his seat back, he shakes his head. “Nothing. Do you live in Westbeach? What are you doing here?” His face changes, eyes hardening slightly. “Are you with one of them?” He nudges his head at the door.

“What? Am I an Old Lady?” I scoff, shaking my head. “Definitely not. Don’t get me wrong, I love some of the guys, they’re like family to me now, but no… definitely not.”

Bringing my eyes up to his standing form, I notice a small smile on his lips.

“What? Is there something wrong with dating a guy in a motorcycle club?” he asks in a mock tone with raised eyebrows.

Dragging my eyes away from his, I run them down the leather vest that sits over his hoodie. Shaking my head again, I smile. “President, huh? I guess I should be surprised. But I’m not.” Standing from my stool, I shake my head, boring my eyes into his. “And to answer your question, no… the motorcycle club part doesn’t bother me. The dating part… does,” I answer, picking up the bottle from the bar, suddenly feeling like I need more of the numbness vodka is bringing me. Seeing Beast tonight has brought to the surface old feelings. Not toward my dad, but just feelings. Memories. The last time I saw him, he’d killed my dad. I want to celebrate seeing him, but then beat myself up about celebrating something that’s so tragic. As much as I hated Donald with all the hate I have inside of me, it was still a life that had been taken.

I begin walking to the door, ready to talk with the girls when his voice stops me.

“Wait… what does that mean? Dating? You haven’t…”

I smirk over my shoulder. “A little personal? Don’t you think?” Before pushing through the bar doors and walking back down the wooden steps that set off the porch. I spot the girls sitting at the picnic table, the crowd is larger, louder, and drunker. Usually, this sort of environment wouldn’t sit nicely with me. But all those earlier drinks of vodka have obviously settled nicely inside me, morphing me into an easier version of myself.