She poured the expensive vitamin drink back into the bottle before moving into the living room. She slid a VHS tape into the old player and settled on the sofa. She'd discovered the tape in her dad's trunk, but hadn't had the guts to watch it. With thoughts of Stake still fresh in her mind, she decided it was time. According to the piece of tape stuck to the side, it was the Kings of Bedlam Fourth of July Picnic. She didn't know what year, but at the moment it didn't matter. All she really wanted was to be reminded of the life she used to have. It had never been perfect, far from it actually, but it had been hers, and she'd felt safe.
Her father had always been mean. In his own way, she assumed her father had loved her, but when she'd been young, it had been Stake who'd intervened when Smash had so often punished her. Stake who'd picked her up from wherever she'd run off to and took the time to care for the belt wounds on the backside of her body. Everyone in town knew how far Smash went with his punishments, but Stake had been the only one brave enough to go up against her father after one of his infamous whippings. She'd never understood how a man like Stake could befriend someone like her father.
She supposed she should be grateful he'd been there for her because he'd shown her there were good men in the world. Unfortunately, he'd been so kind she'd believed he was her knight in shining armor who would one day take her away from her parents and Broken Ridge. He'd even given her a special nickname that he'd used whenever she was hurt and he'd come to her rescue. Lady bug. She'd told him it was a stupid thing to call a girl, but he'd kissed her forehead and told her she would forever be his lady bug.
"Damn him," she whispered when the camera panned to Stake. Tears filled her eyes as she watched him laugh. The movie had no sound, but she didn't need it to remember the hardy laughter of him in a good mood. She spotted herself in the background. She had to have been around thirteen, maybe fourteen.
Her right hand flew to cover her mouth as she realized her feelings for him had been right there for anyone to see. Had he known? She scrambled onto the floor to sit in front of the television on the threadbare gold rug. Reaching out to the VCR, she paused the tape on a close-up of his face. "Oh," she gasped as she touched the image on the screen. "Stake," she whispered, outlining his chiseled features with the tip of her finger. She grinned when she got to his heavy, black, beard. God, she'd hated that thing. She'd actually told him so at one point, and the next time she'd seen him, he'd been clean shaven. Being a girl with a mad crush, she'd believed he'd rid himself of the facial hair because she'd asked.
Lying back, she stared at him as she unbuttoned her jean shorts and eased the zipper down. It had been a long time since she'd pleasured herself, and with his image in front of her, she slid her middle finger through the light cream of her slit. Moaning, she ran her free hand over her breasts as she turned her attention to her clit. She began to pant as she ground the heel of her hand against the bundle of nerves, needing to be filled with something other than her fingers.
A floorboard on the porch creaked loud enough to get her attention. Shit. She lunged for the power button on the television before fumbling with the zipper on her shorts. "Who's out there?" she called, reaching for the knife in her purse.
A handsome face appeared on the other side of the screen door. "I know it's late, but I brought you a few things," Stake said. "I thought about just leaving ‘em on the porch, but I saw a posse of coons over by the trashcans."
"A posse?" Despite the very real possibility that he'd seen her pleasuring herself, she couldn't help but smile. She turned her back to him and zipped her shorts while making a production of setting the knife on the coffee table.
"Can I come in?" he asked. "These bags are getting heavy."
She warred with herself for several moments. "Why now?"
"Open the door, lady bug," he ordered.
"Answer my question first." She walked to the door and stared up at him through the screen, pretending the nickname didn't fill her with memories. "Before today, how long's it been since you've been here?"
"You know how long it's been, and you know why." He set the sacks on the porch. "Eat the food or don't. It's up to you." He turned and walked away, the dark night swallowing him almost immediately.
Santana held her breath, waiting for the loud rumble of his Harley. When it didn't come, she unlatched the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. Nothing. No Harley, no vehicle of any kind. Where had he gone, and how had he gotten to her house? "Stake?"
When she received no answer in reply, she glanced down at the sacks of food. She wasn't sure how to feel about the generous gift. Although the help was much needed, it embarrassed her that he knew their circumstances.
"Stake?" she called again before picking up the groceries. The sound of an engine firing up down the road caught her attention. She set the sacks down and hurried to the road, hoping to stop him as he passed by. Why had he parked so far away? The thought of him being ashamed to be seen at her house hurt more than accepting the food he'd delivered. She wasn't sure how it was possible, but she felt even worse about herself and her situation then she had before. It wasn't that she was too proud to accept help, though no one had ever offered, it was the realization that for him, helping her was something to be ashamed of, something to do in the dark of night.
She stood beside the road for longer then she should have. It had been obvious after only a few minutes that he wasn't going to drive by the house, but she couldn't get her feet to move, couldn't accept that he was gone again, and she had no way to contact him.
After pouring a small glass of Grape Crush, Santana turned off the lights and retreated to her bedroom. She set the glass beside her makeshift drawing table, intent on returning to the portrait she'd started earlier, before opening the bottom drawer of her dresser. She removed the threadbare Harley T-shirt Stake had loaned her so many years ago. She took off her tank top and pulled the buttery soft cotton shirt over her head. It had long ago lost the smell of his cologne, but that was understandable after wearing the damn thing as a sleep shirt for years.
She sat down at the drawing table and took a drink before concentrating on the portrait. It was a black charcoal drawing of Stake which wasn't surprising. She'd drawn quite a few charcoals of the sexy biker over the years. Actually, she rarely drew anything else.
She added the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that she'd noticed earlier in the day. She liked the addition to his face even if she was still angry with him. Whether or not he was a good man, he was still drop-dead gorgeous and one of her favorite subjects to draw. She thought of the way he'd looked at her through the screen door. She wasn't sure how to describe the expression on his face. It hadn't been anger, despite the way he'd left. Finished with the eyes, she stared at the updated piece. Although it wasn't nearly as good as looking at the real thing, it was safer.
"What am I doing?"
Before she could stop herself, she crumpled the drawing in her hands. It had taken years to get over him. The last thing he deserved was her longing. He was a piece of shit biker who had turned his back on his friends because the club had told him to. No, she refused to let herself fall for him again.
She filled the trashcan with every drawing of him she could find. Most of the portraits had been drawn on the brown paper grocery sacks she'd brought home from the store, but a few of her best pictures were on a soft vanilla heavy-weight paper she'd bought herself for Christmas a few years earlier. She held up one of her favorites, a portrait of Smash and Stake sitting under a shade tree in the front yard, drinking beer and laughing. She'd drawn it from an old photograph she'd found in Smash's trunk. It saddened her that a man's entire life could fit into an olive green Army chest, but that was the way of her father. She wondered if there was another trunk in the attic for her mother's meager possessions.
Tears burned her eyes as she sank to the mattress. "Damn it." She hated to cry. Hated feeling weak. "I won't do it," she vowed, wiping the tears from her face. She grabbed the trashcan and stared at the portrait of her father and Stake. One. She told herself she wanted something nice to remember her father by as she set the drawing aside. The rest she'd burn in the old barrel beside the shed. She had to destroy them, otherwise, she'd be tempted to dig them out of the trash in the morning.
Mind made up, she strode through the house with the trashcan. She felt like she was on a mission to purge herself of the past as she swiped the box of matches off the old stove. Other than her mother, he was the only thing holding her to Broken Ridge. It was something she hadn't realized until she saw him talking to the sheriff. Hope was a wasted emotion for someone like her, and the sooner she rid herself of it, the better off she'd be.