Losing Me, Finding You

by C. M. Stunich

  “Hello, Mr. Cross,” Amy chirps, reaching out to take my arm. She knows that look. Her father has the same one, and so does her mother. Christy has it worse than me even. “How do you do?”

  My dad doesn't answer her, keeping his eyes focused on mine, sucking the breath from my lungs with each second that our gazes remain locked. I've only seen him look at me like that three times in my life – three times when I didn't measure up to his standards. This is the worst one yet. I turn back to Christy.

  “Keep the brochure,” I whisper as I pull away and take a step backward. “If you don't hear from me, go. Ask for Austin.” I wink at Christy, trying to give her a brave face before I turn and face my father.

  He smiles, but only to keep up appearances, sliding his arm around my shoulder and ushering me into the cool darkness of our house. He smells like cucumbers and tobacco, an odd combination considering he condemns smoking in nearly all of his sermons. His face is free of stubble, perfectly serene, dark brows sloping gently downwards in the center like maybe he's perplexed about something, but not angry. Very few people could tell the difference.

  “How was your day, Amy?” he asks, using his minister voice, the one that begs you to tell him everything, promises that he'll understand, but in reality, condemns. I watch my mother as we move past her in the hallway and see that she's not sorry, not this time. This time, she was the one that pushed me into my father's web. I only hope I can diffuse the situation before it spirals out of control.

  I try partial honesty.

  “Not so good,” I tell him as we step into his office and the door swings shut behind me. The blinds are down, too, which isn't good. The window in here faces the backyard and is nearly always open unless he has someone from the church over. Or he's getting ready to punish me. “There was a bit of a misunderstanding at the bridal shop,” I say, wondering why I'm even here, standing here, doing this. Nobody's making me do this anymore. It's been three years since the law said I had to stay with my parents. I could walk away at any time. What's stopping me? Fear? Not exactly. I just haven't found something to chase after, not yet.

  “Tell me about it,” he says, dropping his fake smile, letting the twitch that's in his hands travel up to his eyes. He doesn't look all that imposing in his khaki slacks and white button up, but I know better. My father is the first to judge and the last to forgive. He thinks his holiness gives him power over the rest of the world. I should be used to it by now, but I'm not.

  “Nothing happened with that man. I just met him today, and I wasn't looking to buy a motorcycle.”

  My father shakes his head.

  “Amy.” Just that one word. I start to plead which is stupid. I should just turn around and walk out of this room and up the stairs, grab a bag and pack it. I should just go. Instead, I stand still and try to explain myself with my hands.

  “Dad, listen to me. I don't know what Mama told you, but I didn't do anything wrong.”

  “Amy, your mother said she could tell by the way you two looked at one another that you had been sinful. She said she could see the devil in that man's eyes and the hold he'd put on you. When did you first start seeing him? When he came into town last year?”

  “I've never been to the festival!” I scream, letting frustration bubble up alongside my thoughts of Austin, thoughts that are leading to emotions I've never had before. I feel like I've been seared with heat, left open and sore to the world, like I'm suddenly awake and can't figure out why. I barely spoke three sentences to the man and yet, I can't get him out of my head, even now. “I couldn't possibly have had sex with him.” I say it out loud because that's what they're thinking. They're thinking of me as some dirty, little slut who sneaks out and fucks men I don't know. But I'm not. I'm nothing because they've never let me be anything. I wish suddenly that I had slept with Austin, that we'd been having illicit trysts for years. At least then there'd be something worth talking about.

  “Amy, the bible says, For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it.”

  “Dad!” I say, stepping forward. “I'm twenty-one years old. I'm a woman and this is not the dark age.” I look him in the eye when I say this and can't help but realize that this is the first time in my entire life that I have ever stood up to the man.

  My dad's hand comes up too fast for me to see and cracks me across the face with a sharp sting that makes my eyes water and sends me stumbling backwards into the door of the office.

  “Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.” My dad watches me as I slide to the floor, cupping the side of my face and trying to still the blood that's leaking from my nose. Papa certainly knows how to hit, just enough to hurt, not enough to cause any real damage. I rub my jaw and close my eyes, pushing past the pain in my teeth and skull. It feels like my bones have been shattered and put back together. “Stand up, Amy,” he tells me as I open my eyes and watch him walk across the room with slow, careful steps.

  I follow his instructions, but when the next hit comes, I swear on the very depths of my soul that it will be the last.

  When I finish with Diamond, I head straight to the bar for a drink, wondering as I walk if little Amy Cross is going to be sitting there in her white sweater and sandals with something pink and fruity in her hand. God, I sure as fuck hope so. I could use a good distraction. My time with Mel and the Pres didn't go as smoothly as I'd thought. I'd expected this town was going to a breeze – in and out.

  I couldn't have been any more wrong about that.

  I sigh and open the door to the Tempered Iron, pausing to scan the room for a head full of long, silky hair that's just begging for me to run my fingers through it. I don't see Amy, but my gaze ends up catching on a girl with pale hair who's sitting at the bar flirting with Beck. She looks like the type that's from around here.

  Beck's twirling this girl's blonde waves around his finger and flashing her the same, tired, old grin that he gives to every woman. Beck is an equal opportunity motherfucker. He doesn't discriminate based on age, race, or creed; Beck will fuck pretty much anything.

  I move across the room towards them as I check my watch. Goddamn you, Diamond. It's six fucking thirty. That girl coulda come and left already. I pause behind the blonde who's giggling ferociously and wait until Beck bothers to look up at me. He's so fucking fixated on the girl's tits that it takes him awhile.

  “Oh, hey Austin,” he says when he finally notices me, running a hand through his red hair and shrugging off his leather vest. “How long you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to know that you're a fucking asshole,” I tell him as the girl turns and flashes me a face that's too pretty for a small town like this. I smile back at her and wink. “Austin Sparks,” I say before she can ask. Unlike Beck, I've still got some hard-earned Southern manners left in me. Her blue eyes go wide and her moist lips part in surprise.

  “Oh,” she says, smiling suddenly. “Amy's friend?” I grin back, nice and wide. If she's telling her friends about me then I've gotten off to a good start. I glance around surreptitiously for Mireya. I haven't seen her since she stormed off earlier and although I don't need her permission to spend time with other women, I'd prefer she wasn't sitting around watching.

  “Guess you could say that,” I tell the girl as I pull out a bar stool and slide onto the cracked, black leather. “She here?” I gesture at the bathrooms with my chin and the blonde shakes her head.

  “Um, no. She's … ” The girl starts nibbling at her lips and I watch as Beck's green eyes are drawn to the motion like a predator hunting prey. “I don't know if she's coming, but she really wanted to,” she assures me as I order a drink and lean back, letting the air conditioning bathe my sweaty body. “My name is Christy by the way. Christy Hall.”

  “Nice to meet you, beautiful,” I say as I try to quell the surge of disappointment down below. It's not just because I
was planning on taking little Amy to my room. No. If that were the case then I'm pretty sure I could steal Christy away from Beck without much trouble. The girl's now focusing all of her attention on me, batting dark eyelashes and smiling coquettishly like maybe she's never done this before. Is this whole town full of fucking virgins? I wonder as the doors to the building swing open and I turn my head to check out the newcomer.

  Well fuck me sideways; if it isn't Miss Amy Cross in the flesh.

  “Amy!” Christy shouts, standing up before I get the chance and rushing over to embrace her friend. Amy takes her in her arms with a soft smile, but her eyes are haunted and her cheek is dark with makeup, like she's trying to cover something up.

  My eyes trail down the long line of her neck to her full chest and the tight skirt she's got on. It hugs her curves like a fucking glove, smoothing down to her thighs and leaving two, long, white legs exposed. Shit. I feel myself getting hard at the sight. It's not often that a woman has that kind of effect on me. Actually, the more I think about it, I don't think a woman's ever had this strong of an effect on me.

  Amy steps away from her friend and looks up, grabbing my eyes with hers and holding them with a penetrating gaze. I lick my lips without realizing it and find myself striding across the rough wood floor of the bar to greet her.

  “Glad you could make it, Miss Amy,” I say as Christy steps back to give us some room.

  “Me, too,” she says, voice rough like she's been cryin' or something. This surge of anger swells inside of me, making me wish I could find whoever the fuck was that made her feel this way, so I could pummel the shit out of him. Whoa there, Sparks, slow down a bit. You just met this girl, and you don't know a damn thing about her.

  Amy and I step forward as the doors swing inward and usher in a new group of people.

  “Can I get you a drink?” I ask, and she hesitates a moment before nodding.

  “Sure.” Her voice this time is a whisper and her hand keeps floating up to touch her cheek. “Something that will get me drunk,” she says, and I have to pause and give her a raised brow.

  “O' course, darling. Whatever you want.” I knew this girl had some fire behind that innocent face. I pull out the stool next to her friend and step back, gesturing absently at Beck. “This redheaded fuck is Beck Evans. He's rides a Suzuki Savage, but don't hold that against him.”

  “Hey, fuck you man,” Beck says, rubbing his goatee as Christy bursts into laughter and Amy remains tight-lipped and quiet. I slide onto the seat next to her and order us a couple of tequila shots. When the bartender sets our glasses down, we both reach out at the same time and end up brushing knuckles. A thrill of heat sears right through me as Amy's eyes snap to mine and she shivers. Beck is yammering on about something in the background, but I can't hear a damn word he's saying. Who the hell is this girl? I wonder as I fight the urge to reach out and grab her, pull her against me and ravage that small mouth with my own.

  Amy glances away first.

  “Sorry I'm late,” she tells me, tapping her fingers on the countertop and looking at the wedge of lime on her napkin like she isn't quite sure what to do with it. “I had some … family obligations to deal with.” She tries to smile, but I can see that whatever happened today has really fucked her up. I knit my brows and sprinkle some salt on my hand, down my tequila and bite the lime. Amy watches me carefully, and I can tell from her face that she has no idea what she's doing here. Somethin' about her expression says she didn't come all the way down to this shitty bar just to see little ol' me.

  “You alright there, beautiful?” I ask as yet another group of people enters the bar. It was nearly empty in here and now the place is friggin' packed. I try to block out all the chatter, so I can focus on Amy, and nearly jump out of my skin when a hand falls onto my arm. Shit. What now? I turn around slowly, trying to push back the irritation that's curling my lips. Can't seem to help it though; there's something about Amy that makes me want to take her all in. Distractions be damned.

  “Hey.” It's Mireya. She steps forward and blocks my view of Amy with her dark eyes and cherry red lips. It's an interesting contrast for sure. The two women couldn't be anymore different and while they're both beautiful, I find that my gaze is drawn right back around Sawyer and onto Cross again. “Everything go okay today?” she asks as I nod my chin at Amy. I don't answer her question. First off, she's being a rude bitch (not unusual) and second, I sure as shit don't want to talk about what happened with Diamond today.

  “Mireya Sawyer, meet Amy Cross,” I say as Mireya sighs and steps back, giving Amy an up and down once-over that doesn't say she's real pleased with my choice of women. Normally, Mireya will join if I give her the chance. Today, I can tell she's just not into it. She seemed like it earlier, but whatever she thought happened at the bridal shop must've changed her mind.

  “Nice to meet you,” she drones as she steps away without another word and bumps into Gaine with a scowl plastered across her face. He gives me a look but follows Mireya to a table in the corner, drawing my attention to the rest of the room. Looks like my entire fucking MC has come in for the night. Normally, I'd be the last one to give a shit, but tonight, I'm all for this sweet, little Southern girl with her culled accent and her shiny, white shoes. I bet they're the craziest ones she's got.

  I turn back to Amy and watch as she slides the alcohol across the bar and stares at it with numb eyes. Without touching either her salt or her lime, Amy downs the gold liquid and slams the glass onto the countertop. And she doesn't even flinch. Holy fuck. I knew she was just my type of girl.

  “What's it like?” she whispers quietly. I watch her carefully and try to think about something other than how soft her breasts would feel beneath my hands. “The road, I mean. What's it like to travel all the time? To not have any place to call home. Is it hard?” Amy turns toward me suddenly, opening her pale eyes wide. She is fucking pretty, no doubt about it, but it's not just her round eyes and swollen lips that draw my attention. Shit, I don't know what it is, but I want to own this girl, feel her beneath me as I slide inside and know that she belongs completely and solely to me. Even the mere thought of Amy with another man makes me feel like picking up one of these bar stools and tossing it out the fucking window. And I just met the girl. I don't know whether to be pissed off or happy about that.

  “Sometimes,” I answer her and I'm surprised to hear that my voice comes out in a whisper. Beck glances over at me, rubbing at the Jolly Roger tattoo on his chest. Amy looks at me hard, digging into my soul with those eyes. “Why?” She pauses and turns away to glance at Christy who's diverted her attention back to Beck. When she sees that her friend is distracted, she looks over at me again.

  “Is there somewhere we could talk?” she asks and my body goes stiff as a friggin' rock. When a girl asks that question, she's got only one thing on her mind. I start to wonder if I was wrong about little Miss Amy; it shouldn't be this easy.

  “Pool room's open,” the bartender says, standing way too close to us. His face is neutral, but despite his tattoos and his shoulder length black hair, I don't think he has a damn clue what the girl means. I start to protest, to tell Amy that I'd be happy to take her up to my hotel room, when she nods and pushes back her empty shot glass.

  “Thanks,” she says, reaching out as if she's going to take my hand and pausing. She lets her arm drop to her side and nibbles on her lower lip. After a moment she stops and looks back over at me. “Come with me?” she asks, and I nod, suddenly uncertain about what in the dark depths of hell is going on. I'd kinda like to consider myself an expert on women. I've loved enough to tell you that whatever it is that Cross is up to, I've not experienced it before. I stand up and follow behind her tight, little ass, trying to keep my eyes away from the table where Gaine and Mireya sit. I can practically feel those dark eyes on me, watching, disapproving. Hell, Austin, what do you care what Sawyer thinks? She don't own your ass.

  Amy pushes through the doors in the back like she knows exactly where
she's going, leading us into a room with four pool tables and not much else. Once she's inside, she spins to face me, her beautiful hair sticking to her lips as it flows around her face.

  “How do I join?” she asks and it takes me a long, hot second to figure out what it is that she wants. I'm having a hard time thinking past the surges of excitement that are coursing through my body, begging me to grab the girl and throw her over the green felt, fuck her until these strange feelings inside of me are gone.

  “I don't know what you mean, babe?” I ask as Amy steps close, too close, and her heat envelopes me, teasing me with the soft scent of flowers and sex. This girl is ready whether she knows it or not.

  “Your gang – group – whatever. The people with the triple M's on the back of their jackets.” Ah. The girl wants to join my motorcycle club. I pause for a moment and rub my chin, trying to figure out what to say. She's not the first chick to ask, but she is the first to seem so serious about it, to look at me with eyes burning with fire and a voice quavering with need, like if I don't answer her, she'll shrivel up and die.

  “Believe me, Amy, when I tell you that you don't want to be a part of this.”

  “No,” she tells me, glancing up sharply. “I need to be.”

  And then she's stepping forward and running her hands up my chest, leaning forward on her toes so that the lace trim on the neckline of her top skims the fabric of my shirt, close but not close e-fucking-nough.

  “Help me,” she whispers, voice dropping so low that the last word barely reaches my ears. Or maybe my pulse is pumping too loud in my Goddamn head to hear anything at all; I realize that the buzz and the clink of glasses from the bar has gone silent. Whoever this girl is, I don't care. All I know is that I need her, now, right here, fucking fast and friggin' furious. But then I remind myself that she's a virgin and a small town lady who doesn't know shit about shit, and I just can't do that to her, not unless she asks.