Loving Me, Trusting You

by C. M. Stunich

  “You're such a dumb shit. You'll never learn your lesson, will you? That woman is trouble.” Beck grins, big and wide and sloppy. The tanned skin on his face pulls back tight and his lower lip cracks.

  “Yeah, but she's my trouble now. With Kent gone, you never know what might happen.” Without waiting for another insult from me, Beck whistles and swings his key ring around his finger, moving off towards the glass doors that frame a set of stairs up to the main lobby. By the time he rolls out of there, I'm all alone. With a sigh and a string of unspoken curse words, I move after him, arriving just in time to see Austin passing out room keys.

  Mireya gives me a look when I walk in.

  “Awfully warm welcome, don't you think?” I ask as I pause next to her and tuck my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. She lets her eyes slide off of me to trail around the weary-eyed group in front of us, our brothers and sisters in leather and ink. These are the folks that society cast out, but who weren't right to drift down to the underbelly neither. These are the people that don't fit in, but can't be left out. Good people, for the most part. If Kent had picked a different crowd, maybe things would've gone his way, but you can only push people like us so far before we fight back.

  “Kid behind the counter scored some weed off Diamond when we first got here. He had to be gently reminded of that fact.” Mireya sounds bored, but her eyes are anything but. They're full and whirling, spinning a million miles an hour to nowhere. “Stupid shit actually thinks we're gonna call the cops on him if he doesn't comply.” Mireya gives me a wan smile which I don't return.

  “Who are you rooming with?” I ask tentatively, and she shrugs.

  “You, I guess, since there's nobody else,” she says, taking a plastic key from Amy's outstretched hand, turning towards the bank of elevators on the right that are already filled to capacity with a bunch of Triple M'ers and a pair of old folks in Hawaiian shirts who, admittedly, look a little terrified.

  “And what if I don't want to room with you?” I call after her, feeling a little stir in my belly. Want isn't strong enough of a word when it comes to Mireya. I don't just want to room with her, I'm practically desperate for it. Already, I can feel my dick rising to the challenge, chasing after her tight ass as she sashays over to the metal doors, pauses, and then turns left towards the stairs. I start to move after her when she pauses again, fingers clutching the handle.

  I know that everyone's starin' at me, thinking I'm a damn a fool, a stupid ass who can't seem to get the fact that his love ain't mutual. But I can't help myself. I am head over heels and way too far gone to see straight anymore.

  “Oh, please, Kelley,” she says, making sure her voice echoes across the mostly empty lobby. Only Triple M's here to witness my mockery. I try not to look at Austin and Amy standing by my left shoulder or at Beck who's feelin' up the widowed Diamond. “We both know there's not a lick of truth in that question. Stop being an asshole and get us some extra towels.” Mireya yanks open the door and moves inside without waiting for an answer. That's her problem, and mine, too, maybe. She knows she doesn't have to wait for me because I'm always waiting around for her. Maybe I should show her that I'm not just going to sit here and rot, be her backup plan?

  But I know without even asking myself that I won't do that. She's the only thing I see in full color anymore. Everything else is just black and white.

  With a sigh, I move after her, finding her waiting at the next landing by the time I get there.

  “I figured you might have trouble finding the room,” is all she says before she takes off again. Her face looks ashen in the harsh, white lighting, drawn and tired, but with no hint of anything in particular. More like she's just tired of plain ol' living.

  “You alright there, babe?” I ask her, glad I'm behind her, so I can't see her scrunch up her face at the nickname. I know Sawyer doesn't like to be called anything but what the ink on her birth certificate says. She especially hates bein' called after food. Austin's sugar this and sugar that really pissed her off. I wonder if she misses it now or how she feels when she hears Austin calling Amy that?

  “Why wouldn't I be alright?” she snaps, kicking open the door to the third floor with a whole lot more force than necessary. “I mean, I lost my bike, faced down a group of people who used to be family and relived the pain they've scarred me with. I have to say, I'm feeling just plucky.” I hear her mutter something under her breath as I move to catch up and grab the room door before it swings closed behind her. I have a feeling she might not let me in if it does.

  “What I meant was, do you want to talk about it?” I ask her, trying not to get flustered. Getting pissed at Mireya doesn't help anything. All it does is reaffirm whatever it is she's thinking about you. Trust me, I know that from personal experience.

  “No.”

  Just that, a single word. It's all I'm worth nowadays. She used to talk to me, tell me everything, but that was before I uttered those three stupid words. I love you. The girl won't even look at me straight anymore. I royally fucked it, spilt the blood of my heart before she was ready to see it and now I'm drownin' in it.

  Mireya slings the bag she's got over her shoulder onto the floor and drops to her knees, unzipping it with long, red nails. She tries to pretend that her hands aren't shaking, but I can see it, even from across the room. After her omission to Walker, I know the truth now: she took a man's life. I get it. Even if he deserved it, even if he hurt her so bad she couldn't sleep for months after. No matter what she shows on the outside, on the in, Mireya Sawyer's a good person and this isn't gonna be easy for her.

  “You comin' down to meet with Austin in the bar?” I ask when she starts gettin' out some lacy naughty nothings. Damn. I sure as shit hope she isn't planning on wearing those tonight.

  “No.”

  Again, just a single word. I narrow my eyes and move over to her, crouching down beside her and trying to play friend instead of interested lover. She likes me better that way.

  “Don't make me tell you the badger story again because I will. Austin wants us all down there, and if you disobey him again, you're gonna get yourself into trouble.” Mireya slams her fist into the bag and turns to glare at me. Our faces are inches apart. I don't miss that. Neither does she.

  “No man can own me, Gaine,” she growls. I can feel her hot breath against my dry lips. I want so desperately to reach out and take her in my arms, hold her and brush her hair back. I want to kiss her and show her the world's not all bad, that there are men out there who'd rather cut off their own dicks than abuse a lady in the ways she's been abused. I want to hold her and protect her, press my lips to her eyelids while she's falling asleep naked in my arms at night.

  Instead, I get to crouch there with loins burning and my fists clenched tight at my sides.

  “Austin isn't tryin' to own anybody. He's our Pres, Mireya, and he needs us behind him. We're his best damn fuckin' friends. The group needs to know that we support him, that we're with him one hundred percent.” A piece of ebony hair falls across her forehead and it takes every ounce of self-control inside of me not to reach out and brush it back behind her ear. Her red, red lips are moist and shiny with fresh lipstick, beckoning me, calling out to me in a language that's older than time. Shit, damn and God Bless America, I want to kiss this girl so bad it hurts.

  Mireya stays stone still, staring at me, taking me in. I don't know what she sees. A guy with a stubbly chin and a sunburned nose? A man who's only been with three other women in the past five years because he's been waiting on her ass? Who felt guilty after each and every one of them, like he betrayed her? I don't know. But whatever it is, it's not enough. She rises to her feet and starts towards the bathroom.

  I move after her, but I keep my distance. I don't want her to feel pressured by me, just supported. It's not an easy line to toe.

  “I'll tell you what,” I say as she steps onto the white tiled floor with a click of her boots. “You come downstairs with me, and I will beg, kiss and plead until Aus
tin promises to get you a new bike. How about that?”

  Mireya pauses for a moment with her hand on the light switch and her dark brows bunched. In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of her profile, her sculpted jaw, her ripe lips, her full breasts.

  “You already tired of sharing yours?” she asks, throwing her lacy panties on the counter. She turns around to face me and puts her hands on her hips. “What if he says no? Then what? You gonna let me drive? I need a guarantee here, Kelley.” I give her a look, raising a single eyebrow.

  “Life isn't about guarantees, Sawyer. It's all chance and circumstance, but I can promise you I'll do my best.”

  “Not good enough,” she says, and we stand there staring at each other for a long, slow moment. I know not much time is passing, but it feels like a lot with the heavy weight of her gaze on me, measuring me, testing me with a single look.

  “Okay,” I say finally. I might cringe while I'm doing it, but I say it and I mean it. “If you want to sit in front, I'll be your ol' lady.” Mireya smiles and this time, it's genuine.

  “Fine then, cowboy. You're on. I'll meet you downstairs in ten.”

  And then she slams the door in my face.

  When I get down to the bar, the boys are already there nursing beers and pissing off the man behind the counter who looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. Kimmi, the most masculine one of them all, raises her glass to the ceiling and salutes me.

  “We thought you weren't going to show,” she says with a smile. I keep a frown on my face. I want her to think I hate her. I don't know why, I just do. It makes things easier, I guess. The less people I have to worry about, that I have to consider when making decisions, the better things will be. And I don't ever want to end up in a situation where I believe in everyone and have no one, better I ration out my approval. Right now, I can't think of a single person who has it. Austin used to.

  I look at him looking straight back at me, dark eyes soft and sandy, blonde hair gleaming in the light. He's so fucking beautiful and now he's gone. Forever. I will never have those strong arms around me again, never taste those warm lips.

  With a sigh, I approach the bar and order up whatever it is that they're having.

  “Glad you could make it, sugar,” Austin says, but I ignore him, sliding my beer close and squeezing it between my hands. I have no desire to drink tonight. I'd rather just slide into bed and forget the world for awhile, but here I am and I'm going to make the most of it. I lift the bottle up to my lips and drink deep. “And I'm sorry about calling you out earlier, but I had to make an example.” I laugh so hard that I almost spit out my drink.

  “Right. You did real good there, boss. Thanks for chewing me out over the com.” I slam the last of my beer and order another. I overheard Beck say he was taking Mel out tonight. If that's the case, then I'm riding shotgun. What else am I supposed to do? Sit in a room alone with Gaine and watch him make puppy dog eyes at me? If he thinks it makes me feel better, he's wrong. I can't even look at his face anymore without drowning in need. I don't want him to need me. I don't want anyone to need me. I want to simply exist and be a part of the road and the wind. I need oil and chrome and burnt rubber, not kisses and sweet nothings. As shitty as it is, I can always buy a new bike, always fix one up, always start over with a new piece of metal, breathe life into it and run away. With love, you don't get a do over. It just happens the way it happens, and if it fucks you, so what? There's nothing you can do about it. Walker shoved that principle deep into my heart and the thorns have been cutting me ever since. And then there's little Amy Cross, Southern Bell Bitch Virgin from the middle of nowhere. I never expected her, thought I'd have at least a slice of Austin's life for the rest of mine.

  I down my next beer and pretend I don't feel Gaine watching me.

  “You know it wasn't personal, Mireya,” he says, and in his voice, I can tell he feels bad for me. That just pisses me off even more. I squeeze my fists tight and say nothing.

  “Can we move on, please? You invited us down here for a reason, right?”

  Austin sighs and shakes his head.

  “I did. Frankly, I'm a little overwhelmed. Everything just happened so damn fast, I don't know what to do with myself. We ain't got a lot left to be honest with y'all. The last few … ventures Kimmi and I undertook didn't exactly go over successfully.”

  “Well, what the shit does that mean?” Beck asks, slamming his drink on the counter and making the bartender jump. The man glowers at us, but with a green eyed glare from Beck, he finally moves away and focuses his attention on an old man that stumbles in and flops down on the seat farthest from us.

  “It means that after we finish doing what we need to do here, we go straight to Fort Walton, recharge with some fresh supplies and lay low on the coast, somewhere that doesn't belong to anybody else. I don't think we need a turf war layered on top of all this shit,” Kimmi says with a sigh, brushing some of her bright red curls back from her face. “But before we go, I think we should check with Broken Dallas, the MC that owns Fort Walton. I don't want to step on any toes. Let's just let 'em know that we'll be in and out, no questions asked. That way, if Bested wants to stop by and pay us a visit, they'll have to go through them first.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Beck says.

  “Of course it does,” I growl at him from across the counter. “You're a blundering idiot that doesn't think things through. You want to rob a bank?” I hiss. “You think that's a good idea right now? The cops are going to be looking for somebody to pin those murders on. You don't think we should be worried about that?”

  “I think,” Austin says, interrupting me before I can really get going. He doesn't want to hear what I have to say, that's for sure. Once I get started, I won't be able to stop. I think I'll just keep talking until the words turn to screams and then sobs. I've got a lot going on inside right now, most of which I don't understand. I feel conflicted and lost. I don't like it. I don't like it at all. “That the cops don't give a shit about some broken ass bikers. They'll call it a gang war and write it off like they always do. Nobody but us cares whether we live or die, and that's,” Austin says, rising to his feet as little Miss Perfect appears from the elevator and casts a shy smile his way. “Why I think avoiding Bested by Crows is more important than avoiding the cops. Let's just get to Fort Walton, get this money and have a little sand and surf.”

  “You asked us down here for our opinions, right?” I ask him, spinning around on the chair as he steps back and wets his lips. He wanted a 'meeting', so he's going to get one. I don't care that Miss Amy walked into the room all saccharine sweet, the white fabric of the dress she's just changed into swirling about her delicate ankles as she pauses by the elevator banks and tosses Austin a smile. To his credit, the man pauses and turns to look at me, tall and sweaty, dirty from a hard day's ride. I want to feel something for him, anything for him, but I don't. I feel nothing but emptiness. I stare Austin's dark eyes down. “Well, I think coming back here is a fucking mistake. We're, what, rescuing another poor, Southern belle from her daddy's hard hand? That's not what we're about, Austin. Triple M is counting on you to take care of them, not get them hauled into a police station for questioning. We need to ride fast and lay low. I say we get the hell out of here and don't look back.”

  Austin stares at me for a long moment and sighs, putting out a hand and squeezing my shoulder.

  “You've got good points, Sawyer, but I have to do this.”

  “For who?”

  He looks me straight in the eye when he answers.

  “For Amy.”

  I grit my teeth solid, but don't try to stop him as he walks away.

  “Why did he even call us down here, if he wasn't willing to listen?” I ask, grabbing my beer and draining it with one last eye roll towards the ceiling. Hombres. They think with their nuts first, their hearts second, and their brains never.

  “Well,” Kimmi says, ever the Austin advocate. He could advise us to ride to hell and back and that girl would stand b
y his side and toot his horn for all the world to hear. “We need to choose a new Road Captain, somebody to scout out the road ahead of us, decide where we're going to refuel, where we're going to sleep.” Kimmi nurses her beer for a moment and brushes some hair behind her ear, sending her bright, ruby red earring swinging like a pendulum. Her green eyes are vibrant, like fresh cut grass, and I can smell her perfume from here. Such a doll, but a badass, too. I really do like her, even if she pisses me off. “I was going to wait for Austin to come back because this sounds fucking pompous as shit, but … what do you think about me being the Vice President?” She looks up and casts her eyes down the counter, focusing her pinprick pupils on me.

  “What do I give a shit? You're the one that has to tell the group that you got cherry picked by their new leader.” Gaine coughs and opens his mouth to interject, but Kimmi's already pursed her pink lips and started in on me.

  “Who says we need a popular vote? He's the Pres. His word his law, and he wants me to be Vice. You have a problem with that, princess?” I order yet another beer, desperate for the alcohol to hit my system and do something to it. I've become immune to booze over the years. After all, we're bikers, we drink. That's what we do. Right now, I doubt anything less than a gallon of moonshine could knock me off this stool onto my ass.

  “We going to pretend to be a real MC now? Maybe we should vote in a Treasurer and a Sergeant-at-arms? Have 1% stitched onto our jackets? No, no, I know. Let's all sit around and watch Sons of Anarchy and then bitch about how we're not following all the rules set down by a fucking TV program?” The beer comes up and I close my lips around it, sucking down the bitter hops in a few controlled contractions of my throat. When it comes, I keep going. “Or maybe we should chase down Bested by Crows and ask what we're doing wrong?” I look Kimmi right in the face, letting the anger swirl around me like a dark cloud. I don't mean to be this way. Somewhere inside of myself, I get that I'm difficult, but I can't stop the outbursts. I feel like a little girl trapped inside a woman's body. I have the idea of how I should act, but feel like I have no control. My fists clench at my sides tight and my nails dig into my palms, drawing the slightest sting of blood. It drips down to my knuckle and rolls to the floor with a silent splash I swear everybody around me can hear. “Don't try to mimic them, Kimmi. Don't let Austin try to mimic them. We are what we are, and we're better than everybody else. In a 'real' MC, you wouldn't be Vice. You wouldn't even be a member. Remember that next time you guys decide to make plans. We should be fighting everything they are and showing people that it goes beyond the bullshit, beyond the jackets and the emblems.” I touch a hand to my chest, and I have no idea where all of this is coming from. Maybe it's just been bottled up inside for so long, I don't know what to do with it anymore? “It's about the wind and the road and the sound of a purring engine. It's about being free and owning yourself, doing what's right for you and nobody else. That's it.”